property. In an instant I go from annoyed to scared, because I know that there is no way Tara would consider a blown circuit breaker a reason to bark.
On a gut instinct level, I know what is going on.
Darrin Hobbs.
I make my way to the phone, but I'm not surprised to discover it has been shut off along with the power. My cell phone is in my car, and I don't think my chances of getting to it are very good.
I hear Tara come into the room, moving toward the other side of the house. I can use her in this fashion as a sentry, but I know that Hobbs would not hesitate to shoot her.
'Here, girl. Come here,' I whisper.
She comes to me, and I grab her collar and half coax, half drag her to the closet. I open the closet door and push her inside, closing the door as quietly as I can behind her. She starts barking again, but it's muffled, and she's relatively out of harm's way.
Now it's just Hobbs and me. A Special Forces killing machine head-to-head with an out-of-shape, chickenshit attorney. I'm not thinking about winning; I'm thinking about escaping … about surviving.
I inch out of the room, trying to make it to the back door of the house. It's very difficult in the darkness, and with the need to be perfectly quiet.
'It's show time, asshole.'
It's Hobbs's voice in the darkness, but suddenly it's not completely dark anymore. There is the beam of a flashlight, moving back and forth slowly across the inside of the house. I duck down behind a couch as the beam approaches, but I'm very aware that eventually I will be found. And if I am found, I will be killed.
I am more physically afraid than I have ever been in my life, but for some reason it is not a debilitating fear. My mind is totally alert, my senses exquisitely tuned, as I try to come up with a strategy for staying alive.
And then I realize that silence is not my ally … it's his. I need noise, disruption, anything that will attract attention and cause him to move faster and with less caution. If he is free to take his time and methodically hunt me down, he will.
I peer out and follow the beam of the flashlight. It helps me see where the window is, and I pick up a vase and throw it toward the window. I'm right on the mark, and it crashes through.
Hobbs turns toward the noise, and I pick up a paperweight and throw it against a lamp, knocking it over and shattering it. All of this is making a racket, but not enough. I start screaming, 'Help! Call the police!' at the top of my lungs, all the time moving from hiding place to hiding place.
The beam of light glances on me once, while I'm on the move, and Hobbs fires his weapon, though the sound is muffled by what must be a silencer. The bullet misses me, but breaks another window. Good.
I'm near the entrance to the hallway when an opportunity presents itself. I throw a plate down the hall, and Hobbs moves toward the entrance, not knowing that I'm there. Ironically, the flashlight allows me to see him, even though he can't see me. As he nears me, I leap for the light, crashing into it and Hobbs as hard as I can.
I land on top of him and can hear him swear. The flashlight falls to the ground, casting a reflected aura on us as we fight.
Fight is probably not the right word for it. I turn into a maniac, desperately trying to hang on to him, trying to rain blows on him, while all he wants to do is separate himself from me so he can take me apart. Or shoot me, if he is still holding the gun.
We knock over a table, but he manages to back off for a moment and deliver a stinging blow to my forehead. I rush forward again, winding up and blindly throwing as hard a punch as I can. It connects, sending shooting pains through my hand as I land on him and we tumble into a cabinet filled with china and glassware, sending it crashing to the ground with a noise that may be louder than any I have ever heard.
I feel like I hit him hard. My hand is aching and wet from what feels like blood, either his or my own. I summon the strength to try to do it again, while readying myself for his return barrage. But he's not retaliating, not attacking, not moving, and I realize that I've knocked him unconscious.
Suddenly, the flashlight moves, rises on its own power, bewildering me, since Hobbs is lying at my feet.
'Andy, are you okay?' is what Laurie says, as beautifully crafted a sentence as any I've ever heard.
'I think so. It's Hobbs. I knocked him out.'
I can almost see her grin in the darkness. 'So I shouldn't have shot him?'
She points the light on Hobbs's face, and there is a neat little hole in his forehead, which I don't think was made by my fist.
'No, you did fine … but it wasn't necessary. I used my right cross. It's the punch against which there is no known defense.'
I go to her and we hug, though I can feel that she is still holding the gun in her hand, just in case. 'How did you know to come here?' I ask.
'Pete called to tell me that they went to arrest Hobbs, but he had taken off. Pete tried to call you, but your phone wasn't working. I was worried, so here I am.'
'And you didn't think I could handle it?' I say with mock offense.
Suddenly, the house is washed in light, streaming in from police cars outside. 'Apparently, Pete had some doubts as well,' she says.
I let Tara out of the closet while Laurie goes outside to bring Pete and the other officers in. That gives me about sixty seconds to figure out a way to spin this so I seem heroic.
It's not enough time.
IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE HOW MUCH PROGRESS Willie and I have made in just seven weeks. The renovation of the building is almost complete, we've hired two permanent staff members, and we've arranged for veterinarian care. Willie has been amazingly focused and driven, and I thought he was going to cry when I told him I wanted him to be president of the Tara Foundation.
Laurie is doing great. Her saving my life sort of evened the emotional score, enabling her to stop gushing her gratitude for my keeping her out of prison. I've decided not to belabor the point: that her intervention was not necessary and that neither Hobbs nor anyone else could have survived that right cross.
Cousin Fred is in the office more than I am, counseling Edna and Kevin on their investments. Laurie is no longer thrilled to have to use her share of the Willie Miller settlement to pay for my legal work, and she's been quibbling over the bills.
I've told her that the bills are justified, and I thought she had backed off, but she's just presented me with bills of her own. At first glance they seem unfair. Twenty thousand for a pancake seems high, but I could live with it if she weren't charging me for Kevin's.
And you don't want to know her price for basil.
More David Rosenfelt!
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AS SOON AS I WALK IN, THE WOMAN GIVES ME THE eye.
This is not quite as promising a situation as it sounds. First of all, I'm in a Laundromat. The actual name is the Law-dromat, owned by my associate Kevin Randall. Kevin uses this business to emotionally, as well as literally, cleanse himself of the rather grimy things we're exposed to in our criminal law practice. In the process he dispenses free legal advice to customers along with detergent and bleach.
Also, the woman giving me this particular eye is not exactly a supermodel. She's maybe four feet eleven inches tall, rather round, and wearing a coat so bulky she could be hiding a four-gallon jug of Tide under it. Her hair is stringy and most likely not squeaky clean to the touch.
Truth be told, even if we were in a nightclub and the woman looked more like Halle than Boysen Berry, I doubt I could accurately gauge the situation. I'm no better than average-looking myself and thus have almost no experience with women giving me the eye. In fact, though I'm not in the habit of counting offered body parts, it's safe to say that over the years I've gotten the finger more than the eye. And I've probably gotten the boot more than both of them combined.
To totally close off any romantic possibilities in this encounter, I remain in love with, and totally faithful to,
