CHAPTER 38: A CHANGE OF PACE
 

“I swear to God,” Victor said, glancing over at Jeremy in the passenger’s seat, “I am going to change the damned ringtone of your phone.”

Jeremy smiled apologetically and answered his ringing cell phone.

“Yes,” Jeremy said, “this is he.”

A frown creased the older man’s brow as he said, “No, no I wasn’t expecting any guests. Yes, of course, I’ll let you know if anything is missing. No, all of the dresser drawers were closed.”

Jeremy closed his eyes and sighed. “Is it the top drawer? Well, I had around a thousand dollars hidden in a sock, which, evidently, was not well hidden at all. Alright, thank you very much, officer. I do appreciate it.”

A look of concern flashed over Jeremy’s face. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Yes, well, I certainly will, sir.”

When Jeremy ended the call, Victor asked, “The house was robbed?”

“Apparently,” Jeremy replied, opening his eyes. “But the only thing stolen seems to be some money. The detective sounded disappointed when I stated that no one was supposed to be there.”

“Do you think someone stole one of the pieces?” Victor asked.

Jeremy shook his head. “He didn’t mention that any of the cabinet doors had been forced, and they’re all locked. Something else is going on. An officer was found dead outside of our home. Foul play has been ruled out, although the detective feels as though someone scared the officer to death.”

Victor looked sharply at Jeremy. “Do you have any idea as to how the officer might have died?”

“Unfortunately, I do not,” Jeremy said.

“We’ll have to look into it later,” Victor said, “we’re here.”

Victor signaled and turned left onto Chestnut Street in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. They followed the road to the end, parked in front of 174 Chestnut, and looked at 176 as the sounds of traffic on US-119 filtered through the closed windows.

“What do you think?” Victor asked after several minutes of silence.

“I think,” Jeremy answered, “that I am still rather gun shy about any property owned by Mr. Stefan Korzh. Our wounds have not healed sufficiently for us to go blithely into danger.”

Victor nodded his agreement, reflecting upon his own foolishness when he entered the destroyed property, and was confronted by Ivan Korzh.

“Well,” Victor said, after a moment, “whether we’re ready or not, we need to at least rule it out.”

“I suppose,” Jeremy said, and the two men exited the vehicle.

Victor waited until the older man limped around to the front of the car, his cane thumping on the asphalt. Together they advanced on the house, Victor’s eyes darting from window to window, down to the door, and back again. It was a small cape that looked out of place amongst the well-kept houses on the same street. Like the other buildings Korzh owned, the one before them had seen far better days. The paint had peeled in long, ragged strips from the wood siding, and more than a few of the faded, decorative blue shutters had fallen from the windows to lay in the tall, unkempt grass.

A chipped set of brick stairs led up to the front door, the screen in the storm door torn and ragged. The main door was a dull gray, streaked with rust near the hinges. To the right of the house a driveway, narrow and grass choked, led into the back of the property. The house was the victim of benign neglect, and Victor doubted they would find any trace of Stefan within.

Jeremy seemed to feel differently. As they came to a stop at the driveway, the older man’s eyes narrowed. “Let us go around back, shall we?”

Victor shrugged and nodded his assent. Jeremy took the lead, and Victor remained half a step behind. They approached a side door, an old white and black aluminum awning hanging haphazardly over it. These steps, like those at the front of the house, were of brick and seemed eager to crumble underfoot. Ignoring the danger, Jeremy limped his way up to the door and tried the handle, Victor watching as it turned easily.

Jeremy hesitated and glanced at Victor.

Nodding, Victor said, “I’ll go first.”

A small smile of relief flickered over the other man’s face, and Victor stepped aside so Jeremy could return to the driveway. When the way was clear, Victor ascended to the top, opened the door, and entered the kitchen. The room stank of mold and rodent urine, a foul mixture that caused his eyes to water. He noticed a thick line of salt spread across the threshold, and iron nails hammered into the floor, the heads bent over one another to form a solid barrier against the dead.

Victor stepped over the iron and salt barrier to make room for Jeremy.

While the older man made his way into the kitchen, Victor looked around. A large thimble, roughly the size of a tumbler, caught his eye and he stepped closer to peer at it. The old metal was dull, the crossed thatches engraved into it blurred from age. Words had been etched into it as well, and Victor reached out to pick it up to read them.

“Stop!” Jeremy snapped, and Victor stopped, his hand inches from the over-sized thimble.

“Take your hand back, Victor,” Jeremy said. “Before someone takes it for you.”