Free The Strategist by John Hardy Bell

casing the block, all he could do was pray that his wasn’t the hous e they targeted.
    Dale finished his second cup of coffee, then as was customary, especially on mild mornings when the rain or snow was kind enough not to interfere, he slipped on a pair of sweatpants, grabbed his wooden walking stick, and set out for a quiet stroll around the neighborhood. It was the absolute perfect time to go. Mo st of his neighbors were still asleep, so he didn’t have to put on the tired act of being interested in them.
    He whistled Bob Seger’s Turn the Page as he walked to the front door. But before he could make it outside he heard an unfortunate noise from upstairs that stopped him cold in his tracks.
    Trinket started barking.
    Dale rolled his eyes. Once that dog started, she didn’t stop. He knew what was coming next. Unfortunately, he didn’t have to wait long to hear it.
    “Dale? Sweetie, are you awake?”
    Maggie knew damn well he was awake, but he refused to answer her. The dog started barking even louder and now he could hear her paws scratching against the hardwood floor.
    “Dale honey? Are you here?”
    Dale grunted and walked to the base of the staircase. “Yes I’m here! What is it?”
    “Would you do me a favor and take Trinket out? She’s really agitated and I think she needs to relief herself!”
    “Come on, Maggie! You know that dog always gives me grief when I take it out!” Dale used the same argument every morning. It had yet to work.
    “Please? It’ll only take a minute!”
    Dale grunted again. It would have been easy for him to just walk out the door without saying anything, but he didn’t. A willing accomplice to my own misery , he thought as he braced himself for what he was about to say next. “Bring her down!”
    Dale stood on the front porch holding a flashlight while the dog did her business in the bushes. He had learned to bring a flashlight along because Trinket had the most annoying habit of running away whenever she grew tired of sniffing the rose bushes or digging up his grass; and finding a black Pomeranian in the pitch dark of early morning is next to impossible without the assistance of a heavy duty Mag-lite.
    Less than thirty seconds into her bathroom break, Trinket held true to form. Before Dale could take a step to try and stop her, she had bolted off the lawn and down the sidewalk.
    Dale gave chase as fast as his artifi cial knees would take him.
    “Trinket what are you doing? Get back here!”
    The dog briefly stopped to look at Dale, then ran up the steep, grassy hill of the house two doors down.
    “If you think I’m climbing these stairs to get you, you’re out of your mind,” Dale snapped in between labored breaths.
    When he reached the house he saw Trinket standing on the front porch. She was making that incessant ‘yip’ sound that was her version of barking. And it was about three octaves louder than usual.
    “Trinket! Shu t up and get back down here!”
    The dog briefly stopped look in his direction then redirected her attention to the house. The yipping continued.
    Dale mumbled a string of curse words as he slowly made his way up the stairs leading to the porch. “I don’t know what you’re barking at, but if you don’t stop right this minute…”
    When he reached the top of the stairs he saw exactly what Trinket was barking at.
    The entire house was cast in a deep shadow of black. There was no porch light, no lights on in the house, even the street lamp in front of the house was out.
    Yet, the front door was wide open.
    Dale felt his blood run cold. He called out to the dog. “Trinket, get away from there.” But this time his voice lacked anything resembling authority.
    He vaguely knew the woman who lived here. From what he had gathered, she wasn’t particularly social, not with him at least. She was just another one of the young, upwardly mobile types who were taking over the neighborhood; a neighborhood that they saw as nothing more than a place to lay