Another alarm-system control panel was on the wall beside the
connecting door to the garage. She punched in the deactivating code.
With Jack in the hospital for an unthinkably long convalescence,
herself out of work, and their financial future uncertain, Heather had
been hesitant to spend precious savings on a burglar alarm. She had
always assumed security systems were for mansions in Bel Air and
Beverly Hills, not for middle-class families like theirs. Then she'd
learned that six homes out of the sixteen on their block already relied
on high-tech protection.
Now the glowing green letters on the readout strip changed from SECURE
to the less comforting READY TO ARM.
She could have set off the alarm, summoning the police. But if she did
that, the creeps outside would run. By the time a patrol car arrived,
there would be no one to arrest. She was pretty sure she knew what
they were--though not who-and what mischief they were up to. She
wanted to surprise them and hold them at gunpoint until help arrived.
As she quietly disengaged the dead-bolt lock, opened the door--NOT
READY TO ARM, the system warned-- and stepped into the garage, she knew
she was out of control. Fear should have had her in its thrall. She
was afraid, yes, but fear was not what made her heart beat hard and
fast. Anger was the engine that drove her. She was infuriated by
repeated victimization and determined to make her tormentors pay
regardless of the risks.
The concrete floor of the garage was even colder than the kitchen
tiles.
She rounded the back end of the nearer car. Stopping between the
fenders of the two vehicles, she waited, listened.
The only light came through a series of six-inch-square windows high in
the double-wide garage doors: the sickly yellow glow of the
streetlamps. The deep shadows seemed contemptuous of it, refusing to
withdraw.
There. Whispering outside. Soft footfalls on the service walkway
along the south side of the house. Then the telltale hiss for which
she'd been waiting.
Bastards.
Heather walked quickly between the cars to the mansize door in the back
wall of the garage. The lock had a thumb-turn on the inside. She
twisted it slowly, easing the dead bolt out of the striker plate
without the clack that it made if opened unthinkingly. She turned the
knob, carefully pulled the door inward, and stepped onto the sidewalk
behind the house.
The May night was mild. The full moon, well on its westward course,
was mostly hidden by an overcast.
She was being irresponsible. She wasn't protecting
Toby. If anything, she was putting him in greater jeopardy. Over the
top. Out of control. She knew it. Couldn't help it. She'd had
enough. Couldn't take any more. Couldn't stop.
To her right lay the covered rear porch, the patio in front of it. The
backyard was lit only patchily by what moonlight penetrated the ragged
veil of clouds. Tall eucalyptuses, smaller benjaminas, and low shrubs
