were dappled with lunar silver.
She was on the west side of the house. She moved to her left along the
walkway, toward the south.
At the corner she halted, listening. Because there was no wind, she
could clearly hear the vicious hissing, a sound that only stoked her
anger.
Murmurs of conversation. Couldn't catch the words.
Stealthy footsteps hurrying toward the back of the house. A low,
suppressed laugh, almost a giggle. Having such a good time at their
game.
Judging the moment of his appearance by the sound of his swiftly
approaching footsteps, intending to scare the living hell out of him,
Heather moved forward. With perfect timing, she met him at the turn in
the sidewalk.
She was surprised to see he was taller than she was. She had expected
them to be ten years old, eleven, twelve at the oldest.
The prowler let out a faint
'Ah!' of alarm.
Putting the fear of God into them was going to be a harder proposition
than if they'd been younger. And no retreating now. They'd drag her
down. And then . .
She kept moving, collided with him, rammed him backward across the
eight-foot-wide setback and into the ivy-covered concrete-block wall
that marked the southern property line.
The can of spray paint flew out of his hand, clattered against the
sidewalk.
The impact knocked the wind out of him. His mouth sagged open, and he
gasped for breath.
Footsteps. The second one. Running toward her.
Pressed against the first boy, face-to-face, even in the darkness, she
saw that he was sixteen or seventeen, maybe older. Plenty old enough
to know better.
She rammed her right knee up between his spread legs and turned away
from him as he fell, wheezing and retching, into the flower bed along
the wall.
The second boy was coming at her fast. He didn't see the gun, and she
didn't have time to stop him with a threat.
She stepped toward him instead of away, spun on her left foot, and
kicked him in the crotch with her right. Because she'd moved into him,
it was a deep kick, she caught him with her ankle and the upper part of
the bridge of her foot instead of with her toes.
He crashed past her, slammed into the sidewalk, and rolled against the
first boy, afflicted by an identical fit of retching.
A third one was coming at her along the sidewalk from the front of the
house, but he skidded to a halt fifteen feet away and started to back
up.
'Stop right there,' she said. 'I've got a gun.' Though she raised the
Korth, holding it in a two-hand grip, she did not raise her voice, and
her calm control made the order more menacing than if she had shouted
