See previous posts for my Synopsis of the Novel, and for the fromer Chapter 1, which has been moved to 2.

The Retriever

I. Taken

Shadows danced across the wall as light from a nearby streetlamp snuck in a second floor window. The window shade bounced in the wind, with each gust the shade rose, only to fall back to its starting point with a soft, slap, slapgustslap, slap. As the shade rose, the wallpaper, covered with images of baseballs, bats, and gloves, illuminated, and just as quickly disappeared with the recurring slap, slap, as the shade returned to its effective position. In this position, the shade blocked nearly all incoming light, and left the boy sleeping in darkness.
Only two months ago, Timothy had declared that nine years old was old enough to dispatch with his batman nightlight. Tim, as he now demanded others address him, was proud of the bold move. It was a big step for a young boy looking forward to middle school. He had gloated to his Mother, went on about how he slept in the dark, and how he, Wasnt even scared.
Tims bedroom was standard for a nine year old boy. The room was scattered with toys and figurines. Sports were the predominant theme, enveloping the space in a arena like atmosphere. The flavor of choice was Red Sox memorabilia and collectibles that had grown in cult-like popularity following the teams curse crushing 2004 World Series victory. Something with red socks on it could be found in nearly every inch of the room.
Tim's bed was a small twin, of course sporting a blue Red Sox comforter. Under that comforter, a small round lump that resembled a boys human form slept curled in a tight ball. Within that rigid form, a sleeping boys tiny hands clutched a baseball glove, pulling it tightly to his chest.

An elongated shadow set still in the darkness far below an open second floor window. The figure moved slowly, deliberately, along the west side of a middle-class cape. It traveled with purpose, exposed only to the dark confines a private, fenced in back yard. The figure moved left to right, upright but stealthy, carefully covering ground as his legs crossed one another laterally, before uncrossing and extending out again. With each step, the lean powerful legs silently carried the figure four feet in consistent intervals along the side of the house. At each window, an arm would slowly reach up, resting a gloved hand firmly upon the glass pane of the window, and exert a gripping upright force. As each window resisted, the figure quickly gave up, again extending his right leg four feet to the right, planting, and pulling his left leg silently across his body, all the while dragging his hands softly along the dusty vinyl siding of the home.
The dark figure moved towards the right edge of the western wall of the home to the final first floor window facing the backyard. It begged the figures attention, called to him, told him, this was the way. The figure looked in through the glass, pointlessly, as he knew from his prior scouting visit to the home that afternoon that the opening led directly into the dining room. He peered around the right side of the home to the south wall, which ran perpendicular to the road. A set of lights lit up the road, and he quickly ducked back into the safe confines of the isolated backyard. A cop car drove past, and the figures body responded with stinging pleasure at the excitement of risk, threat of capture; it stimulated him, his stomach dropped and danced slightly. Thoughts of his ultimate goal, his prize, created a soft stinging in his loins. It was a feeling he had once paid his freedom for, and a feeling he had once tried to suppress, but things, much like feelings, can and had changed.