Free Cruel World by Joe Hart Page B

of the stairs. Squeeze the trigger, never jerk it, otherwise you’ll miss every time. His father’s voice spoke within his mind, calm, assuring. His finger tightened on the trigger as he heard one of the men speak.
    “Check upstairs; I’ll look around the garage.”
    Quinn’s vision teared up, and he blinked as his eyes landed on the linen closet door beside him. Without a sound, he stood and turned the knob, slipping inside and closing the door as he heard the man climb onto the landing and move into his father’s bedroom.
    In the utter darkness of the linen closet, he ran his hands over the wide shelving. Rags and cleaning supplies on the lowest shelf, sheets and bedding next, extra towels and pillows near the ceiling. Quinn tucked the handgun into his pocket and found the rear of the closet and began to climb. In the hallway, the man cursed the smell and moved closer, blasting Teresa’s door open with a kick. Quinn gripped the topmost shelf and blindly began to shove stacks of towels to either side. With a heave, he flattened himself onto the shelf, pulling his legs up and over a column of pillows. The gun scraped against the board beneath him and he winced, listening. Footsteps crossed the hallway outside the door and entered his room. His breathing the loudest sound in the world, he rearranged the pillows and towels before him, trying to straighten them the best he could in the dark. He laid with his back against the wall, his legs straight out, stiffening as his bed was overturned in the next room. With a final movement, he picked up a towel and flung it toward his feet, feeling it cover part of his legs, but stopping short of his toes.
    The closet door opened, flooding light inside as he drew the gun out of his pocket. Between two stacks of towels, he saw the man with the bandanna step inside and flip the switch on. The light bulb directly in front of where Quinn lay remained dark, and the intruder laughed quietly behind the handkerchief before stepping inside. The man’s head and shoulders were all he could see from the angle of the top shelf. Bandanna moved closer, and Quinn lost him from view completely. The man rummaged the shelves below, knocking cleaning supplies to the floor as he turned in a half-circle.
    Quinn pushed the handgun through the small gap in the towels, steadying it so the grip wouldn’t rattle against the shelf as his hand shook. Bandanna moved back into view holding a large comforter under one arm. He paused and turned his head to the side, his profile dark against the light streaming in from the hallway. He stood there, a statue in the doorway, listening. Quinn opened his mouth, trying to breathe as quietly as he could. His arm was beginning to ache from holding it at the odd angle before him. The sights of the gun jounced across Bandanna’s skull. His finger tightened on the trigger.
    “Hey Rick.”
    The voice came from the base of the stairs. The man turned and stepped into the hallway.
    “Yeah?”
    “There’s a nice Tahoe in the garage. Wanna take it?”
    “No, the truck’ll do better on the back roads. You find anything else?”
    “Nope. Didn’t see any sign of anyone either. You sure someone was here?”
    “The milk in that glass is still wet down there. Someone was here this morning.”
    “Well, they’re not here now.”
    Rick shot a glance into the closet once more, his eyes running over Quinn’s hiding place before he began to swing the door shut.
    Quinn’s thumb touched the flashlight switch and a blade of light sprung between the towels and hit the closing door. He jerked his thumb away from the grip and the light disappeared.
    The door stopped closing and then slowly re-opened.
    Rick stepped back inside the closet, examining the place on the door where the flashlight beam had landed. He scanned the space once more, searching the darkness where Quinn lay.
    “Rick?” The other man’s voice was closer now.
    Rick cradled his shotgun, the blanket he was carrying