bar echoing in a shower stall. Annie's body would jerk and flop as the bullets punched out hunks of soft flesh, still smelling of Oil of Olay, her nightly ritual to ward off this year's big crisis: her thirty-fifth birthday. The mattress, which they'd been talking about replacing for months, would be shredded, and the sheets, factory seconds bought at the local swap meet, would be splattered with warm blood, bits of sticky organs still twitching. Afterwards, the gunman would probably pay a similar visit to the children's room before slipping out again to report everything to Dirk Fallows. Subjects neutralized. Mission completed. And Fallows would slap the man on the back, run a hand through his prematurely white hair, and grin like a new buzz saw hungry for more wood.
Eric stood in the middle of the room, his naked body frozen in place. He stared vacantly at the turning doorknob as if in a trance. For once he understood what paralyzed the field mouse as it watched the cobra hunching over it. Not fear really, but fascination. Curiosity. The temptation to be a willing participant in your own death. To observe it even as you experienced it. No more nightmares. No more waiting for Fallows.
But that wasn't Eric's way. He loved life too much, and not just his own, but Annie's and the kids'. Everything was finally coming together for them. The job as assistant professor of history at the university, something far removed from the savage life he used to lead. Annie's classes at law school, just two months short of graduation. And they'd made lots of friends since moving to southern California. Sailing with the Carmichaels. Their monthly poker game, in which Annie usually won more than he did. Good schools. Some indication that twelve-year-old Timmy may be a chess prodigy. Fourteen-year-old Jennifer's braces almost ready to come off, boys' names etched carefully on her notebook.
They deserved better than having their lives stolen by Dirk Fallows.
Eric felt his lean muscles tighten, almost ripple with concentration as he quickly found what he'd been looking for. Back against the wall was his set of barbells, a Father's Day gift from the kids bought with money they'd actually saved, the first time they hadn't asked for a six-month advance on their allowance. If for no other reason than that, the gift was special. When he'd unwrapped it, he'd looked at Annie first, who'd laughed her whooping crane laugh and shrugged elaborately.
'Just what are you trying to tell me, guys?'
'Well, Daddy,' Jennifer had said, 'you have been getting a little pot belly lately.'
'Yeah, Dad,' Timmy had nodded. 'You're starting to pork out. What happened to all your muscles?'
In fact, Eric Ravensmith was practically solid muscle. His arms were long and sinewy, his legs bronzed bulges, his chest lanky but hard. True, his stomach, once flat and rippled, like the top of a six-pack, had begun to puff a little lately, the ridges slightly less defined. But Eric was pleased about that. He was purposely cultivating a little pouch, which he hoped would someday bloom into fleshy love handles around his waist. Not real fat, just a hint of the easy middle-class life of his neighbors. No more need to stay hard and alert.
Quietly, but with sharp easy movements, Eric bent over, twirled loose the setscrews on each end of the bar, and slid off the weights he'd used only twice, both times under the stern supervision of his children. He hefted the black bar to waist level, balancing its fifteen pounds of solid metal. It would do.
The doorknob had stopped turning. The door was opening.
Eric moved lightly across the floor, dodging around the corner of the small entranceway that boxed the door. If the intruder was properly trained, and there was every indication he was, he was pressed against the wall outside the door, his right hand holding the gun next to his face, his left hand turning the knob. That way if the intended victim saw the door opening and started blasting away, the intruder was still protected. There'd only be a second or two when the intruder would be exposed on the other side of the door. Eric waited, sniffed the faint sour smell of fresh gun oil.
The door opened further, slowly creeping wider. Six inches. Eight. A foot.
Then it stopped.
Eric jumped out from behind the corner, swung the six-foot-long bar straight back as far as he could, then thrust it forward like a battering ram with all his 175 pounds behind it. It exploded through the cheap plywood door, through one side and out the other, spraying splinters and chips of white paint. Then it hit something solid.
'Ooomph!'
And the sickening sound of bones cracking. Ribs, from the sound of them, Eric thought, shoving the metal bar even harder. Twisting it roughly.
Annie leaped out of bed, staggered a moment as the blood rushed dizzily to her head. 'Christ, Eric! What are you doing?' She snapped on the bedside lamp, knuckling her eyes. 'This is a hell of a time to lift weights.'
Eric yanked the bar back through the shattered door and flung it to the carpet where it landed with a heavy thud before clanging up against the dresser. Reaching around the door, he grabbed a handful of curly, greasy hair and jerked the injured man into the bedroom.
Surprised, in pain, and off-balance, the man tumbled into the room, his gun still out in the hall where he'd dropped it. He was dressed in jeans, black high-top sneakers, plaid flannel shirt, and black windbreaker. Twenty- three at most.
The windbreaker and shirt were torn where the bar had crushed the ribs, and some blood was oozing out. The kid was breathing heavily, but with a raspy echo, as if the air was leaking out somewhere. He was on one knee now, easing the long hunting knife from under his pant leg,
'Mom?' Jennifer's sleepy voice drifted down the hall.
'Eric?' Annie said, standing naked and unembarrassed next to the bed.
'Go see to the kids,' Eric said. 'I'll handle this.'
'Don't move, lady,' the kid said, shuffling forward in a crouch. The knife waved back and forth in front of him.
Eric crouched too, his hands open, constantly moving.
The kid jabbed tentatively and Eric danced out of the way. 'Pretty good,' the kid grinned, a film of sweat glistening on his upper lip. 'But they said you would be.' The kid chuckled, started coughing a racking cough, doubled over. Eric, hoping to take advantage, rushed closer.
Suddenly the kid straightened up and lunged at Eric, the heavy knife slicing air with a menacing whistle. Eric pulled back too quickly, almost falling. His arms windmilled a couple times before he regained enough balance to sidestep another thrust. The kid had suckered him with a fake coughing spell, and he'd bought it. Almost permanently.
The kid looked annoyed with himself for having expended so much precious energy and missing. He winced at the pain in his chest, pressed a bloody hand against the wound. More blood seeped between his fingers. He sighed, which sounded as if something loose was rattling inside of him.
'Mom,' Timmy called from somewhere in the hall. 'What's all the noise?'
'Timmy,' Annie shouted, 'you stay right there! Don't come any closer!'
'Get out of here,' Eric snapped at her. 'Take the kids and run.'
'Like hell,' she said and, grabbing two fistfuls of blanket, jerked it off the bed and tried to fling it over the kid with the knife.
However, the electric cord attached to the blanket kept it from going very far, and it collapsed in a deflated heap over the edge of the bed.
But the distraction was enough. When the kid turned at Annie's movements, Eric managed to snap his heel into the kid's knee, felt the kneecap buckle, the fragile bone crunching as it disintegrated. As the kid sagged, Eric drove his elbow into the kid's temple, at the same time grabbing his wrist and twisting until the knife plopped to the carpet. Afterwards he gave an extra twist until the wrist snapped too.
Annie ran forward and snatched the knife from the floor, ready to plunge it into the kid's heart should Eric need any help. 'You okay?'
Eric looked at her standing next to him, naked, mussed long hair hanging to her hips, a hunting knife clutched in her hand. She looked… formidable. He smiled. 'I'm fine. Better see to the kids.'
'Right,' she nodded, heading for the door. As an afterthought she snagged her robe from the clothes tree and slipped it on.
'That was some little trick there,' Eric said.
'What?'
'Throwing the blanket that way. Like a bullfighter or something.'
She shrugged. 'I forgot about the cord. It missed him by three feet.'
