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Detective Rustin Cohle (
2017-04-12 02:37 am (UTC)
sprinkle on a little more
It's a quarter mile trek from where Rust parked his truck -- can't risk being spotted, not now. Not when he's sure he's found Will.
It helps that daylight is dying, casting an opaque darkness under a canopy of clouds that builds with every minute. Near a broken down car-sized mower, Rust has been sitting low in the dry, brittle waist-high grass for two hours, watching. Waiting. The whole thing goes fucked if he's wrong -- though he doubts he is -- or if he gets noticed too soon.
Tens of minutes go by at a time with little to no commotion in the small house, before little things break the bare silence of wind and grass softly sighing. Doors shutting. Belongings being shifted. Lights going on or off, which can hardly be seen in most windows.
Until someone steps out onto the porch. Marcus Wray looks nearly identical to the mugshot on his record, only his hair has gotten a little longer, and a bit straggly. But it's him. Rust watches, attentive as a cat hunting an insect, as Wray brings something out from his house in a cardboard box to sit on the wooden deck. He studies his build, how he moves, looks in the man's face for wincing or strain as he goes about his task, desperate to spot a weakness. Easy.
What's trickier is ducking around behind the mower and staying hidden when he peeks out again from the other side, waiting for Wray to return back into his house -- keeping sights while staying hidden. The man stays and rummages for an achingly long half minute -- Rust's thighs and ankles burn as he crouches, not having moved much in two fucking hours.
Rust finds his window of opportunity soon, in the moment when Wray is stepping back into the house, on the sigh of his screen door being pulled back into the door frame. Rust bolts, low and quick, toward the house, as the rattling of doors and footsteps covers the sound of him darting through the grass and into the clearing around the home.
Thankfully the windows are mostly boarded, giving Rust ample cover to press himself flush against the exterior. Still, can't risk that Wray doesn't have any means of seeing his surroundings... He slides down the west-facing side going north, toward the back of the house, looking for a back door, or basement hatch. He finds the former, a door leading into a small and dirty kitchen, but pauses long enough to get to his phone.
Rust would have had to do a surprising amount of searching for Jack Crawford's personal cell phone number, if Will's cell phone wasn't left behind in his car. He doesn't have time to send a drawn out message, so Rust types only what he can afford in a few seconds of his compromised attention:
Graham @ Marcus Wray residence
Wray had been a person of interest in their current case. If Crawford is as reliable as Will has always made it appear, Crawford won't blow this off.
Rust trades his phone for his standard-issue handgun, pointing it upright and parallel to his face as he twists the door knob, which rolls with ease. He nudges the door open slightly -- he expects it to groan or squeak, but it somehow doesn't make a sound -- and peers within. Waits for movement, or a sound.
Nothing, no warning to heed. Rust swallows firmly and, still crouched, moves quietly past the threshold.
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