Deep Freeze (West Coast 1)

Carter held his breath as the footsteps clomped up the steps to the back porch, paused for a second, then walked inside, the floorboards groaning directly above Carter’s head.

Go on in, Wes, turn on the news…check your e-mail…or go on up to bed…sleep it off.

But the footsteps overhead stopped in the kitchen.

No sound at all came from the house.

As if Wes had felt something in the air. Had sensed someone had been in his house.

Carter heard another soft scrape. The sound of a drawer opening? Oh, crap, was Wes intending to visit his private viewing room?

Carter still had the key ring on him. If Wes was looking for his keys…oh, shit. He couldn’t panic. Had to figure a way out of his. Wes shuffled a bit, swore. Searching for keys that were missing?

If you don’t do something, he’s going to come down here and you’ll be trapped.

Slowly, Carter extracted his cell phone from his pocket. Sweating despite the freezing temperature, he turned the phone on and muted it. He pressed BJ’s number.

She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Call Wes Allen,” Carter whispered.

“What?”

“It’s Carter. Call Wes Allen at home. Tell him you saw someone lurking around his shop in town. He needs to get down there. Pronto. You’ve called me, and I’m going to meet him there. You have another emergency you have to cover.”

“Carter? What the hell are you talking about?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

The floorboards were creaking overhead. “What the fuck?” Wes growled.

“Just do it. Now!” Carter whispered harshly into his cell, then rattled off Wes Allen’s number.

“Can’t you?” she demanded, then said, “Fine…but you owe me.” BJ sounded miffed.

Carter snapped off his phone. Hardly dared breathe in the damp, frigid basement. He could have put in the call to Wes himself, but it wouldn’t have allowed him enough time to beat Wes to the shop. Someone else had to have made the call—that someone was BJ. This way, if Wes took the bait, everyone’s ass was covered.

Overhead, Wes walked out the door again, his boots ringing on the floorboards of the porch.

Come on…come on…call, damn it…

Wes was getting closer.

For God’s sake, BJ, call!

The footsteps were near the cellar door; any minute, Wes would notice the lock was open.

Rrrriiinnnnggg!

Carter waited, listening hard. Nothing.

Again the phone rang. The footsteps stopped dead in their tracks.

Answer the phone, Wes. Answer the damned phone.

“Jesus.” Wes began running, over the snow, up the steps. The back door opened as the phone jangled again. Carter, standing just below the floorboards, heard it all.

“Hello!” Wes’s voice was irritated as the door slammed shut behind him. “What?…Who is this? My shop?…The alarm didn’t go off…isn’t that your job? Oh, hell. Yeah…thanks. I’ll check it out.” Wes hung up, swore, and flew out the door. Carter heard him running to his rig, the door of his truck opening and closing, and the engine finally firing.

Carter sagged against the wall and reminded himself to send BJ flowers or take her to a ball game or something.