difficult cesareanâher energy level had been nil. Unfortunately her bladder had also been compromised by the incision, and she knew if she didnât get up right now and go to the bathroom she would wet the bed.
At last she climbed out of bed, then trundled across the room and out the door.
Â
When Grove, now dressed in his pants but still barefoot, reached the master bedroom on the second floor, he took a deep breath before pushing open the door. He knew that Maura was a light sleeper. The slightest creak would wake her. But he also knew that time was of the essence. The man he saw only moments ago, emerging from the woods behind the house, had been moving slowly yet steadily toward the two-story with obvious malice. It had been too dark to make out the manâs features, or to see much of what he was wearing, but the object cradled in his arms was unmistakable: either a cut-down shotgun or some hot, filed-down assault rifle.
On one level, it seemed preposterous to Grove that somebody would be sneaking up on him in this fashion, guerrilla-style, in the dark of night. Burglars donât operate like that. Burglars will case a place, and then look for a windowâboth of opportunity and of egressâthrough which to slip in and out unnoticed. Veteran burglars, in fact, usually donât even carry firearms. In the state of Virginia, breaking and entering is a fairly mild class 3 felonyâ¦unless the perpetrator is armed with a deadly weapon, which bumps the penalty up to a class 2. This man coming toward Groveâs house was definitely not a burglar. Just exactly what he was, would remain undetermined for the next few critical minutes.
The reality of this situation, though, was that Grove did not have the luxury or the time to ruminate on the intruderâs nature or motives. Too much was at stake. The clock was ticking. It is not only you who are in danger this time, Uly.
He pushed the door open and glanced around the dark bedroom and stopped cold. The bed was empty. The baby monitor was off. Maura was gone, the blankets tossed and shoved toward the foot of the bed. Grove stared, momentarily paralyzed. His heart raced. For some reason, right at that moment, it didnât occur to him that she could be in the bathroom. Perhaps it was the adrenaline humming in his system. Or maybe it was the urgent need to get to the closet.
For a brief moment he considered calling out for her, but nixed the idea when he realized it would cause more problems than it solved. It would not only wake the rest of the household but also alert the intruder.
Grove had two guns. One of themâa Charter Arms .357 Magnum Tracker with a 6-inch barrelâwas at his office at Quantico, quaintly locked up in an antique glass case behind his credenza. His coworkers in the Behavioral Science Unit often teased him about that, calling him Barney Fife, claiming that locking up his gun like that looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. But they didnât know what the gun meant to Grove. It had been a gift from his late partner, Terry Zorn. Grove owed his life to that gun. He had cornered Richard Ackerman on the summit of Mount Cairn with that gun. The speed-loader had frozen that day, and in a desperate gambit Grove had literally hurled the weapon at his adversary.
Later, the CSI unit had retrieved the handgun from a rocky buttress and eventually returned it to Grove.
The second gun in Groveâs collection was safely locked away in his bedroom closet. It lay in a storage case, unloaded, oiled, and disassembled.
Grove padded across the dark bedroom and threw open the pocket door, revealing the spacious closet full of tailored finery. He and Maura shared the large walk-in space, and Grove had to reach up and push aside the hatboxes and the Pendaflex files of old letters to get to the black vinyl briefcase pushed against the back wall.
The gun was inside, broken down into pieces, each metal component nestled
At last she climbed out of bed, then trundled across the room and out the door.
Â
When Grove, now dressed in his pants but still barefoot, reached the master bedroom on the second floor, he took a deep breath before pushing open the door. He knew that Maura was a light sleeper. The slightest creak would wake her. But he also knew that time was of the essence. The man he saw only moments ago, emerging from the woods behind the house, had been moving slowly yet steadily toward the two-story with obvious malice. It had been too dark to make out the manâs features, or to see much of what he was wearing, but the object cradled in his arms was unmistakable: either a cut-down shotgun or some hot, filed-down assault rifle.
On one level, it seemed preposterous to Grove that somebody would be sneaking up on him in this fashion, guerrilla-style, in the dark of night. Burglars donât operate like that. Burglars will case a place, and then look for a windowâboth of opportunity and of egressâthrough which to slip in and out unnoticed. Veteran burglars, in fact, usually donât even carry firearms. In the state of Virginia, breaking and entering is a fairly mild class 3 felonyâ¦unless the perpetrator is armed with a deadly weapon, which bumps the penalty up to a class 2. This man coming toward Groveâs house was definitely not a burglar. Just exactly what he was, would remain undetermined for the next few critical minutes.
The reality of this situation, though, was that Grove did not have the luxury or the time to ruminate on the intruderâs nature or motives. Too much was at stake. The clock was ticking. It is not only you who are in danger this time, Uly.
He pushed the door open and glanced around the dark bedroom and stopped cold. The bed was empty. The baby monitor was off. Maura was gone, the blankets tossed and shoved toward the foot of the bed. Grove stared, momentarily paralyzed. His heart raced. For some reason, right at that moment, it didnât occur to him that she could be in the bathroom. Perhaps it was the adrenaline humming in his system. Or maybe it was the urgent need to get to the closet.
For a brief moment he considered calling out for her, but nixed the idea when he realized it would cause more problems than it solved. It would not only wake the rest of the household but also alert the intruder.
Grove had two guns. One of themâa Charter Arms .357 Magnum Tracker with a 6-inch barrelâwas at his office at Quantico, quaintly locked up in an antique glass case behind his credenza. His coworkers in the Behavioral Science Unit often teased him about that, calling him Barney Fife, claiming that locking up his gun like that looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. But they didnât know what the gun meant to Grove. It had been a gift from his late partner, Terry Zorn. Grove owed his life to that gun. He had cornered Richard Ackerman on the summit of Mount Cairn with that gun. The speed-loader had frozen that day, and in a desperate gambit Grove had literally hurled the weapon at his adversary.
Later, the CSI unit had retrieved the handgun from a rocky buttress and eventually returned it to Grove.
The second gun in Groveâs collection was safely locked away in his bedroom closet. It lay in a storage case, unloaded, oiled, and disassembled.
Grove padded across the dark bedroom and threw open the pocket door, revealing the spacious closet full of tailored finery. He and Maura shared the large walk-in space, and Grove had to reach up and push aside the hatboxes and the Pendaflex files of old letters to get to the black vinyl briefcase pushed against the back wall.
The gun was inside, broken down into pieces, each metal component nestled
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