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…things that are not there…

Then where was she to see the things that are not there? Jesus Christ, I got Alice in Wonderland in my head.

Bullshit. That’s a guy out there with a gun trying to break into the house.

She sat shaking, squeezing her head, arguing with herself. Just…gotta…slam the door on the widening crack of indecision; the whole black fucking pit of where she’d been.

Peeked again from the lower angle. The snow seemed thicker now; sticky, drifting on the deck. Nothing.

I see nothing.

Nothing with a Luger.

The patio door was solid soapsuds. The wind had accelerated to whiteout intensity. And this irrational voice raged in memory, shaking the Georgia pines; apoplectic southern white male, subset TAC sergeant, tested beyond all mortal patience: This ain’t the fuckin’ women’s studies program, Pryce; the only way you finish this course is DO YOUR JOB!’

Right. Thank you.

Nina bounded to her feet, grabbed the maul, and dashed for the living room, tore the hanging off the wall.

Took a half second to orient. Use the strong left arm to lift and swing, steady with the weaker right. In a fierce chopping motion she brought the heavy steel wedge down on the Yale lock on the cabinet doors. The lock spun, bitten, but still held. She raised the maul again, brought it down. Better-it shattered right through the stout door panels. The third hack splintered the hasp completely. She dropped the maul and tore open the ragged door.

Her hand went first to the.45, jamming in the magazine, jacking the slide, setting the safe. She stuck it in her waistband. Grabbed at the rifles. Ammo. Boxes of rounds and magazines scattered on the floor. Broker’s deer gun had an elastic bandolier around the stock with six rounds in it. She slung the rifle over her shoulder, moving now toward the kitchen, paused to tap a magazine for the AR-15 against the doorjamb, aligning the rounds, inserted it in the familiar black rifle, pulled the bolt, shot it home.

Now, let’s try this again, you fuckers.

Sighting down the assault rifle, she quick-stepped, hugging the wall, into the kitchen, urban warfare room- clearing mode. Thumb on the selector switch, finger on the trigger.

The kitchen door creaked opened. Shit, left it unlocked! She spun, felt the cushion of sweat between her finger pad and the trigger compress…

“Nina?” Broker gasped, filling the doorway, face turned to wax, staring into the barrel of the rifle.

She snapped the muzzle off target, held it at the ready, poised, eyes darting to the patio door. “Get in, quick, they’re out there, in back”-a hoarse iron whisper of command.

For another fraction of a second Broker stared at her. Kit stood behind him, eyes wide with incomprehension, not yet fear, holding her bunny and her school pack.

Seeing Kit’s expression, a corner of her vision collapsed, and she started to sink.

When her eyes moved off Broker toward the patio door, he was on her in a blur, knocking the rifle barrel up and away with his right hand, coming on through and shoving her chest hard, stepping in and tearing the pistol from her waistband. Stripping the slung rifle off her shoulder. One swift complete movement. The rifles clattered to the floor, the.45 secure in his right hand, he wrapped her in a bear hug. She heard his voice; high, uncertain, scared: “Kit. Stay in the garage. Shut the door.”

As the kitchen door swung shut, Nina pushed back at him. “Broker, man; I’m not kidding, two guys…she shouldn’t-”

“Calm down.” He was almost shouting.

“You calm down! Listen, goddammit!” Her eyes burned at him, but already the controlled fire was starting to sputter.

Broker dropped his arms, stepped back carefully, stuck the.45 into his belt and stooped quickly, snatching up the AR-15. Part of him was still reeling in shock, the other part, the street part, gauged her tense posture-the way she balanced on the balls of her feet, arms floating up. Personal overruled practical. He grabbed her arm and pushed her into the living room. Saw the splintered cabinet. The maul.

“Aw, Jesus, Nina,” he said, releasing her arm.

The way he said it caused more sinking.

As they panted, glaring at each other, his hands were busy, removing the magazine from the black rifle, clearing the action. The tidy lethal.223 round ejected with a brass twinkle and plinked to the floor. He popped the pin behind the trigger assembly, breaking it open, removing the bolt, stuck it in his back pocket. Locked the trigger housing back together, secured the pin. The loose operating handle rattled. His hands were shaking.

Practical again, he realized she was gathering herself, sizing him up. Heard Kit’s fists banging on the kitchen door, her voice muffled, urgent, “Mom, Dad; let me in.”

“There’s two of them,” Nina said patiently. “In winter camo, ski masks, pistols; like Serbs…in the woods…” Saying that, seeing his face react; she knew it was a bad choice of words…

Sounded nuts.

Nina bit her lip. Sounded crazy…how it must look to him. The doubt bounced back fast, ringing her vision with blackness, closing in.

“Serbs in the woods,” he repeated slowly. The words echoed in his mind-Where is it? In the woods. “Aw, Christ,” he said. His face working now, thinking out loud, saying, “Too soon. Got ahead of ourselves…”

The boiling snow outside the living room windows bloomed with headlights. Their eyes snapped on the motion. “Griffin,” Broker said, raising a hand, trying for calm amid the shattered wood, the lock and hasp, the scattered magazines on the floor. “We switched cars. He’s coming to pick up more wood. C’mon.” He reached for her arm again. She danced back in an instinctive fighting stance, and Broker wondered if it was finally coming down to a no-holds bare-knuckle fight between them. Practicality counseled him: No, her training was to kill. Go for the eyes, then the throat. She wouldn’t use that on him. Grappling and restraint was his expertise. And he was encouraged by the quiver of indecision now trembling in her eyes, spreading down her cheeks into her lips. Her eyes getting wider. “C’mon,” he said softly. “We’ll have Harry sit with Kit. Take this down the road, out of the house.”

But he still wasn’t willing to turn his back on her. He waited until she stepped into the kitchen. Then he crossed quickly to the door, opened it. Kit stood framed in the doorway, clutching her bunny.

“What going on?” she said, close to tears.

“We’re just having an argument,” Broker said, with an awful forced calm in his voice.

Kit swallowed and stared at the rifle in his hand, the pistol in his belt. “With guns?”

“Go out and get Uncle Harry,” Broker said. He left the door open. Then, keeping the island between himself and Nina, he picked the deer rifle off the floor, slid open the bolt. Empty. He leaned it against the wall, and his hand was still shaking, because the weapon slipped sideways and crashed to the floor. He ignored it, continued to the patio door, and studied the back deck. Two inches of swirling undisturbed fresh snow. Glanced at the shadowy tree line, indistinct in the horizontal blowing snow. He turned, placed the AR-15 on the table, and slid the wobbling operating handle in place. Put the magazine next to it.

Nina stood hugging herself, one thought recurring over and over, timed to a tick in her cheek: Seeing things that are not there…She watched Broker do his thing; being practical, cautious. Every methodical move he made, checking the deck, disabling the rifle, assuring Kit, sending for Harry, was an instant replay of the last three months.

She was losing light. Sinking. Hallucination was another way of saying “seeing things.”

She watched Harry Griffin enter the kitchen, snow on his shoulders and cap, one hand guiding Kit. Heard Broker say something about a little ‘domestic situation.’ Could he keep an eye on Kit while they took a break to talk.

They were all so carefully normal…

…in the presence of the sick person.