Watchers

misshapen face of the jack-in-the-box loomed over him, its eyes radiantly yellow, and Teel screamed again, flailed, and more stilettos sank through the soft tissue of his throat— Ken Dimes was four steps from the front doors when he heard Tee! scream.
    A cry of surprise, fear, pain.
    “Shit.”
    They were double doors, stained oak. The one on the right was secured to the sill and header by sliding bolts, while the one on the left was the active door—and unlocked. Ken rushed inside, caution briefly forgotten, then halted in the gloomy foyer.
    Already, the screaming had stopped.
    He switched on his flashlight. Empty living room to the right. Empty den to the left. A staircase leading up to the second floor. No one anywhere in sight.
    Silence. Perfect silence. As in a vacuum.
    For a moment Ken hesitated to call out to Teel, for fear he would be revealing his position to the killer. Then he realized that the flashlight, without which he could not proceed, was enough to give him away; it did not matter if he made noise.
    “Teel!”
    The name echoed through the vacant rooms.
    “Teel, where are you?”
    No reply.
    Teel must be dead. Jesus. He would respond if he was alive.
    Or he might just be injured and unconscious, wounded and dying. In that case, perhaps it would be best to go back to the patrol car and call for an ambulance.
    No. No, if his partner was in desperate shape, Ken had to find him fast and administer first aid. Tee! might die in the time it took to call an ambulance. Delaying that long was too great a risk.
    Besides, the killer had to be dealt with.
    Only the vaguest smoky-red light penetrated the windows now, for the day was being swallowed by the night. Ken had to rely entirely on the flashlight, which was not ideal because, each time the beam moved, shadows leaped and swooped, creating illusory assailants. Those false attackers might distract him from real danger.
    Leaving the front door wide open, he crept along the narrow hall that led to the back of the house. He stayed close to the wall. The sole of one of his shoes squeaked with nearly every step he took. He held the gun out in front of him, not aimed at the floor or ceiling, because for the moment, at least, he didn’t give a damn about safe weapons procedure.
    On the right, a door stood open. A closet. Empty.
    The stink of his own perspiration grew greater than the lime and wood-stain odors of the house.
    He came to a powder room on his left. A quick sweep of the light revealed nothing out of the ordinary, though his own frightened face, reflected in the mirror, startled him.
    The rear of the house—family room, breakfast area, kitchen—was directly ahead, and on his left was another door, standing open. In the beam of the flashlight, which suddenly began to quiver violently in his hand, Ken saw Teel’s body on the floor of a laundry room, and so much blood that there could be no doubt he was dead.
    Beneath the waves of fear that washed across the surface of his mind, there were undercurrents of grief, rage, hatred, and a fierce desire for vengeance.
    Behind Ken, something thumped.
    He cried out and turned to face the threat.
    But the hall to the right and the breakfast area to the left were both deserted.
    The sound had come from the front of the house. Even as the echo of it died away, he knew what he’d heard: the front door being closed.
    Another sound broke the stillness, not as loud as the first but more unnerving: the clack of the door’s dead bolt being engaged.
    Had the killer departed and locked the door from the outside, with a key? But where would he get a key? Off the foreman that he had murdered? And Why would he pause to lock up?
    More likely, he had locked the door from inside, not merely to delay Ken’s escape but to let him know the hunt was still under way.
    Ken considered dousing the flashlight because it pinpointed him for the enemy, but by now the twilight glow at the windows was purple-gray and did not reach into the house at all. Without the flashlight, he would be blind.
    How the hell was the killer finding his way in this steadily deepening darkness? Was it possible that a PCP junkie’s night vision improved when he was high, just as his strength increased to that of ten men as a side effect of the angel dust?
    The house was quiet.
    He stood with his back to the hallway wall.
    He could smell Teel’s blood. A vaguely metallic odor.
    Click, click, click.
    Ken stiffened and listened intently, but he heard