"Good-night, Bright Raven!" He glanced back, but she was already serving some other customer.
Bert's house on Mars Street was set on a nearly vertical slope. It was just a one-story shoebox, but from below, perched on girders at the top of five zigzagging flights of wooden stairs, it looked more impressive than it was. Fifty-eight steps and five landings up, surrounded by trees and bushes. He'd bought it twenty-two years ago, after he'd divorced Fran and they'd sold the other house and divided the money. It had been cheap back then because it was nothing much to begin with, and the stairs made it hard to get to. With the hill so steep, there'd been only three other houses on the whole block, with lots of jungle between them. He'd bought the place because he'd needed the morning light coming in. That and the comparative isolation of it: It had seemed sufficiently far from the years of his marriage and the disasters that ended it. He'd never given the fifty-eight steps a thought. Good cardio conditioning, keep a macho guy in shape forever.
Now, though the slope and the green still kept it private, they'd built upscale houses on both sides and all down the street, gentrification putting siege to his little citadel. And the stairs were a pain, especially when you were bringing in groceries or, like tonight, carrying a bunch of case files.
He left the pool of streetlight and stumped up into deepening darkness. At the top, the motion-detector light came on, blinding him. He set down the bulging briefcase and put one hand on his Beretta before unlocking the door. When it swung open, he stopped dead still and listened to the dark house inside.
Eleven years ago, a psycho he'd been looking for, wanted in a double murder, had decided to turn the tables on him. John Abel Mayhew had somehow found out where Bert lived and had come in through the bedroom skylight and waited for him. When Bert came home, he leapt out of the shadows inside, slashing with a butcher knife. Bert would never forget the shock of that sudden, unexpected explosion of activity. In the end it was more of a comedy of errors, the guy missing Bert with big swings of the blade, Bert drawing his pistol and shooting in the dark and missing, missing, missing, shooting holes in his walls, ceiling, cabinets, windows. Both of them tumbling over the furniture. He'd seen the guy only in the muzzle flashes, a strobe that froze the image of the lunging screwball in midair. Bert had finally hit him in the ankle and incapacitated him, absolutely blew the ankle to pieces, it was amazing how many bones were in your ankle. Bert called for assistance as the guy flopped around shrieking like a redlined V-8 engine with its main bearing blown. Waiting for help to arrive, Bert had gotten so sick of the noise that he'd knelt on John Abel Mayhew's chest and with the gun shoved up into his nose told him to shut up or he'd shoot him where it would really hurt. A lesson in the art of persuasion: The guy actually had quieted down a bit.
The place had been shot to hell, but aside from bruises he got from tripping over furniture Bert had ended up without a scratch. The cops and EMTs who had responded bitched about having to run up so many steps. By the end, everybody was chuckling except John Abel Mayhew, whose ankle was all over the place and who ended up getting life without parole for the murders, plus B & E, attempted, lying in wait, assaulting an officer, the whole book.
Still, it had made its mark on Bert. The firearms incident counselor at Behavioral Sciences told him all about his amygdala, how trauma permanently branded your brain with a fear reflex. Bert could still feel it. The shock of coming home to the supposed security of your castle and getting jumped by somebody. The shaky breathlessness lasted only half a minute, but it happened every time.
Tonight he flipped on the lights and dropped the briefcase on the coffee table. He quickly checked through the house, then went to the
Bert's house on Mars Street was set on a nearly vertical slope. It was just a one-story shoebox, but from below, perched on girders at the top of five zigzagging flights of wooden stairs, it looked more impressive than it was. Fifty-eight steps and five landings up, surrounded by trees and bushes. He'd bought it twenty-two years ago, after he'd divorced Fran and they'd sold the other house and divided the money. It had been cheap back then because it was nothing much to begin with, and the stairs made it hard to get to. With the hill so steep, there'd been only three other houses on the whole block, with lots of jungle between them. He'd bought the place because he'd needed the morning light coming in. That and the comparative isolation of it: It had seemed sufficiently far from the years of his marriage and the disasters that ended it. He'd never given the fifty-eight steps a thought. Good cardio conditioning, keep a macho guy in shape forever.
Now, though the slope and the green still kept it private, they'd built upscale houses on both sides and all down the street, gentrification putting siege to his little citadel. And the stairs were a pain, especially when you were bringing in groceries or, like tonight, carrying a bunch of case files.
He left the pool of streetlight and stumped up into deepening darkness. At the top, the motion-detector light came on, blinding him. He set down the bulging briefcase and put one hand on his Beretta before unlocking the door. When it swung open, he stopped dead still and listened to the dark house inside.
Eleven years ago, a psycho he'd been looking for, wanted in a double murder, had decided to turn the tables on him. John Abel Mayhew had somehow found out where Bert lived and had come in through the bedroom skylight and waited for him. When Bert came home, he leapt out of the shadows inside, slashing with a butcher knife. Bert would never forget the shock of that sudden, unexpected explosion of activity. In the end it was more of a comedy of errors, the guy missing Bert with big swings of the blade, Bert drawing his pistol and shooting in the dark and missing, missing, missing, shooting holes in his walls, ceiling, cabinets, windows. Both of them tumbling over the furniture. He'd seen the guy only in the muzzle flashes, a strobe that froze the image of the lunging screwball in midair. Bert had finally hit him in the ankle and incapacitated him, absolutely blew the ankle to pieces, it was amazing how many bones were in your ankle. Bert called for assistance as the guy flopped around shrieking like a redlined V-8 engine with its main bearing blown. Waiting for help to arrive, Bert had gotten so sick of the noise that he'd knelt on John Abel Mayhew's chest and with the gun shoved up into his nose told him to shut up or he'd shoot him where it would really hurt. A lesson in the art of persuasion: The guy actually had quieted down a bit.
The place had been shot to hell, but aside from bruises he got from tripping over furniture Bert had ended up without a scratch. The cops and EMTs who had responded bitched about having to run up so many steps. By the end, everybody was chuckling except John Abel Mayhew, whose ankle was all over the place and who ended up getting life without parole for the murders, plus B & E, attempted, lying in wait, assaulting an officer, the whole book.
Still, it had made its mark on Bert. The firearms incident counselor at Behavioral Sciences told him all about his amygdala, how trauma permanently branded your brain with a fear reflex. Bert could still feel it. The shock of coming home to the supposed security of your castle and getting jumped by somebody. The shaky breathlessness lasted only half a minute, but it happened every time.
Tonight he flipped on the lights and dropped the briefcase on the coffee table. He quickly checked through the house, then went to the
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