He heard something, faint and seeming to come from a distance. He could not make out what the noise was; it sounded almost like a cat scratching at a door to be let out.
Cat?
John tried to remember whether his father had a cat. As far as he could remember, there had not been one in the house since they had been forced to put Calico to sleep.
Mice? Or something else?
The sound did not immediately repeat, although he was certain that he did not imagine having heard it. He once again began moving toward the stairs, continually turning his head back toward the other rooms to check for any signs—sights or sounds—that someone might be in them.
He reached the top of the stairs, preparing to make his way down them, when a new sound echoed through the quiet. It was the sudden, sharp sound of something falling and then stopping abruptly. John was certain that it had come from the garage—or at least the area outside near it.
Before he realized it, he was leaping down the stairs, clearing two of them at a time. He reached the door that led to the garage in moments, throwing it open without hesitation. His taser, raised like a pistol, led his way.
The garage was dark. Not entirely dark, as light filtered in through the small windows mounted near the top of its large door that opened to the driveway. The air contained the same unventilated, musty feel that it was always had, except during rainy weather. If someone had passed through it lately, or been working on there, John could not tell by any change in its ambient aroma.
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