by Jason Pinter
“Um, Mom?” Eric said. “Why is there a man with a gun standing outside our living room window? Is he . . . trying to get in?”
Before Rachel could answer, a gunshot rang out, and the window shattered. Eric screamed. Then a man with a gun climbed through the broken window and into their home.
CHAPTER 13
Rachel heard three things simultaneously:
The sound of glass crunching on linoleum. Meaning the gunman was in the kitchen.
The sound of Eric screaming beside her.
The home alarm system blaring.
The alarm was hardwired to notify the local monitoring station. They would then call Rachel’s cell phone and, if she didn’t pick up, immediately dial out to 911. The gunshot had definitely come from a 9 mm handgun. But she didn’t know if that was the intruder’s only weapon.
“Stay right here!” Rachel shouted to Eric. She sprinted toward Megan’s room just as her cell phone began to ring. She pressed accept.
“This is Rachel Marin. We have an armed intruder in our home. Dial 911 immediately.”
She hung up. Response time would be anywhere from three to six minutes, depending on the proximity of the nearest law enforcement officers. Rachel heard the sound of crunching glass on wood.
He was in the dining room.
Three minutes would be an eternity. Six might be too long.
Rachel flung open the door to Megan’s room and found her daughter huddled under her desk, whimpering.
“What’s happening?” she asked, eyes wide, terrified.
“Just come with me, baby.” Rachel took Megan’s hand and led her down the hall toward Eric’s room.
“Mom?” Eric said. He was breathing fast, eyes wide with terror. Rachel brought Megan over to Eric. Megan took her brother’s hand.
“You two stay together,” she whispered. “Take your shoes off, Eric.”
“But the broken glass downstairs . . .”
“You’re not going downstairs. Follow me. And stay quiet.”
Eric removed his shoes. Rachel took his hand, and they tiptoed down the hallway. Rachel could hear footsteps on the first floor and the sounds of someone mumbling imperceptibly. She’d bought the two story in part for this very reason. In case of an intruder, the perpetrator wouldn’t be on the same floor as the children’s bedrooms.
Rachel had only one option. They couldn’t flee via the roof. They’d be sitting ducks, and she still didn’t know what other weapons the gunman might have. There was one way to definitively keep her children safe. She’d have to answer a lot of questions after it was over. But at least they would be safe, and at least there would definitely be an after for them.
Rachel led Eric and Megan to a door at the end of the second floor hallway. It was locked by a keypad. Rachel typed in the numbers 824703. The red light turned green.
She’d paid a great deal of money to build a staircase that led to the basement from the second floor. She’d done it hoping a moment like this would never come.
“Go downstairs,” Rachel said softly but urgently. “Stay there. Nobody will be able to hear you, and nobody will be able to get down there. The police will be here soon. There’s a phone down there. It goes to an outside line. If for any reason I don’t come down to get you in eight minutes, use that phone to dial 911. Tell them you’re in the basement. Tell them the man inside our house is armed with a nine millimeter handgun and possibly more.”
Eric looked confused. “I thought you said the basement was locked because of asbestos. That we couldn’t go down there or we’d get sick.”
“I lied,” Rachel said. “I’ll explain later. The code for the door at the bottom of the stairs is your father’s birthday. It’s six digits: year, then month, then day. Eric, do you remember his birthday?”
Eric nodded.
“Once I close the door behind you, the light will come on. Do not come back upstairs until either I come get you or the police arrive. Promise me. Promise me.”
“We promise,” both children said in unison.
She opened the doorway, revealing a carpeted staircase. A single recessed overhead light flickered on. Eric and Megan hesitated. Rachel leaned down and kissed them both.
“It’ll be OK. Now go!”
“Why aren’t you coming with us?” Megan said, eyes wide. She was scared but trying to be strong. Eric was shaking, holding back a scream. She recognized the look of terror on his face. She’d seen it before, seven years ago, on their front porch.
“Because I don’t want this one getting away.”
“Like Harwood Greene,” Eric said. Rachel kissed her son’s forehead.
“Like Harwood Greene.”
He nodded. “Go get him, Mom.”
Rachel gathered them both together, hugged them quickly, and then pushed them toward the open door.
The children crept downstairs, the carpet muffling their steps.
She gently closed the door behind them.
Rachel was alone with whoever was inside her house.
She walked swiftly to her bedroom, opened the closet, and pushed aside several hanging dresses to reveal the metal safe. Rachel plugged in the code. The lock slid open. She opened the thick metal door, removed her Mossberg 500 shotgun, and poured half a dozen extra buckshot shells into her pocket.
Rachel then went to the hallway and opened the metal box containing the circuit breakers. She pulled each breaker switch up. Immediately, the house was shrouded in darkness. She’d cut the power. The basement circuits were separate from the main domicile, so Eric and Megan would still be able to see.
She switched on the gun’s flashlight mount and moved to the bedroom door. She pressed her back against the wall and listened.
The house was pitch black except for the soda can–thick beam of light emanating from the shotgun. Rachel heard a crash downstairs and stopped moving. The gunman was muttering something indecipherable under his breath.
Bizarre. Whoever was inside their home was clearly an amateur. They weren’t even trying to remain stealthy. But they’d have to know that the initial gunshot would have raised an alarm. Neighbors would call 911. His carelessness worried Rachel. The intruder was clearly not of sound mind, which made him unpredictable. Thieves were predictable. Get in, get out. This man wasn’t a thief. The realization made her blood run cold. It meant he was there for her.
Rachel removed her shoes and slowly moved to the top of the stairs. She switched the gun light off, not wanting to give away her position. Then she listened. She heard footsteps.
Crouching, she eased down the stairs one step at a time, stopping on each one to listen. The noises stopped. Rachel waited.
Then she heard a voice. He was in the living room.
“I’m not gonna let you!” The man’s voice was high pitched, unstable, and . . . scared?
Not gonna let me what?
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Rachel turned the gun light back on. She knew the layout of the house in the dark. The intruder did not. The foyer off the stairs split off into two paths: the dining room to Rachel’s left and the living room to the right. The living room flowed into the kitchen, which was connected to the laundry room, which then circled around back to the dining room. The man was somewhere in this circle. Rachel didn’t hear any sirens. It had been, by her estimate, just under two minutes since the initial gunshot.
She turned right and crept into the living room. She looked at the TV, hoping to catch a reflection. Nothing.
She heard a crunching sound and wheeled around. Her right hand was tight on the shotgun’s forearm, the stock nestled into her shoulder. She swept the gun light over the room. Nothing.
Rachel stayed low. She was sweating, blood pounding in her temples. She duck-walked into the kitchen. Empty. As was the laundry room.
Then she heard a creaking noise that was unmistakably the sound of someone going up a flight of stairs. He’d circled around behind her and was heading up toward the bedrooms.
Rache
l turned the gun light off, inched back to the stairs, and raised the shotgun.
“Freeze!” she yelled, turning the gun light back on.
The light illuminated a man standing halfway up the staircase. His back was to her. He held a SIG Sauer P226 in his right hand. The hilt of a large hunting knife protruded from a leather sheath clipped to his waist. Rachel aimed the shotgun at the center of the man’s back. She flicked the gun’s safety button off. No way she’d miss.
“Put the gun down!” The man remained still. He was wearing a black sweatshirt. A balaclava was pulled over his head. She couldn’t make out his face, hair, or features.
Rachel heard sirens. The man flinched. The gun remained at his side.
“Please,” she said, her finger on the trigger. Her breathing was even. “Put it down. The police will be here in seconds. Nobody has to get hurt.”
“I can’t let you,” the man said. She thought she heard him weeping.
“I promise you this can be worked out.”
He shook his head. “It can’t.”
The man swung around and raised his gun. Rachel tilted her shotgun slightly up and to the left, breathed out, and squeezed the trigger.
The sound was deafening, a rocket blast that made Rachel’s ears ring. The gun recoiled sharply into her right shoulder, pain shooting down her body. But she kept the gun in place and fed another shell.
The blast hit the man in the right shoulder and knocked him backward onto the steps. The SIG Sauer flew from his grasp as he let loose a howl of pain. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rachel sprinted up the steps and grabbed his gun. She noticed that the hammer was back, and the safety was off. The gun was ready to fire. He was here to hurt someone. She released the hammer and tucked the gun into her waistband.
The man writhed on the staircase, hand on his wounded shoulder, blood oozing between his fingers. The sirens outside were growing louder as they neared. Rachel squatted over the man, knelt down, took the knife from his pants, and tossed it down the steps. She searched him quickly and couldn’t find any other weapons.
“I told you it didn’t have to go like this,” she said. She pressed the shotgun barrel against his neck.
Rachel could see the man’s eyes. They were hazel, bloodshot. His pupils were dilated. He was on something. She reached down, gripped the balaclava from underneath his neck, and slid it off.
“Oh bloody hell,” Rachel said.
Staring up at her, bleeding all over her staircase, was Christopher Robles.
CHAPTER 14
Five Years Ago
The sign on the door read “Slugfest Boxing” in faded red lettering painted on heavily rusted aluminum. The dot over the i in “Boxing” was a ring bell. She took the wadded-up napkin from her purse and double-checked the address in southwest Torrington. She was in the right place. She still didn’t have the faintest idea what she was doing here . . . only knew that she needed to be.
Her son had woken up screaming again last night, a bloodcurdling howl that had had her running to his bedroom before the neighbors could call 911. She’d gathered him up in her arms, felt a sense of utter helplessness as his tears spilled onto her skin, his cries of terror tearing her heart to pieces.
I saw it again.
She’d rocked him and told him it would be all right. She would take care of him. Protect him. But she was barely holding on herself.
Her children could lean on her, but she had only herself. With no support, her only option was to strengthen her resolve, her mind, her body. She’d unpacked all the books, spent hours after the children went down, churning through them. For the first time in years, she’d felt invigorated, challenged. But God, what it had taken to get there . . .
They couldn’t stay in Connecticut. The memories covered their lives like moss. Eventually they would have to move. Far away. Start over. Uprooting the children would cause even more chaos, but it was necessary to move on.
Jim Franklin had told her about the secret classes at Slugfest. A client had gone there after leaving her abusive husband. It was a haven for those hurting, he’d said. A dojo for the damned.
The front door took two hands and a grunt to budge. The scent of perspiration and chemical cleanser wafted out.
She slid inside, her heels sinking deep into the rolled rubber floor. Poor choice of footwear, she thought. She looked around. Heavy bags were chained to the ceiling, speed bags mounted to wooden beams. The walls were covered in posters and illustrations of boxers, none of whom she recognized save Muhammad Ali and Rocky Balboa, the latter of whom, to the best of her recollection, was not a real person.
“Hey, Blondie! Over here!”
She turned around. A group of twenty or so people of varying ages, shapes, and sizes sat on rows of bleachers facing an empty boxing ring. A woman stood in front of the bleachers, looking at her impatiently.
The woman—the instructor, she presumed—was about five ten, with long red hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked to be in her early thirties, wearing a tight gray tank top and black leggings. She was pure muscle from the thighs to the shoulders and looked like she could pick the bleachers up and carry them around without breaking a sweat.
“Over here,” the instructor shouted. She walked over to the group. She was nervous, and it showed. A gym bag was slung over her shoulder, filled with a change of clothes, a water bottle, baby wipes, feminine hygiene products, lipstick, ChapStick, deodorant, and a protein bar. She climbed into the stands and sat down next to a timid-looking man in his midforties with a terrible comb-over and an awful case of halitosis.
The instructor pulled a cell phone from her bra and then looked from the phone to the stands, counting.
“Looks like that’s everyone,” she said. “So let’s get started. My name is Myra. That’s not my real name, but that’s what you’re going to call me. We don’t use real names here because even though I’m going to kick your ass into the next century, I want you all to feel safe. Protected. You’re all here because you’ve been through some shit. Bad shit. Shit that would make weaker people lie down and die. But not you, right? You’re here because you’ve already been through the worst of it. You’re here to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Right?”
The bleacher crowd murmured.
“Right?”
The murmuring grew louder.
“All right. Better. We’ll get there. My classes are free. Your effort is not. When I point to you, give me a name. Not your real name. A name. This is the name we’re going to call you here from now on. Pick a stupid name like Carrie Bradshaw, and I will boot your ass out the door before you can say Cosmo.”
A heavyset woman wearing too much foundation and too little clothing raised her hand. Myra rolled her eyes.
“You have a question.”
The heavyset woman stood up. “I didn’t know we had to pick names. I’m not ready.”
“I’m going to throw a whooooole bunch of things at you that you won’t be ready for. This is an easy one. If you can’t handle this one, then you’re screwed right out of the gate. Everyone ready? Then let’s go.”
Myra pointed at the short bald man at the end.
“Um, Pedro,” he said.
“Fine. Next.”
“Audrey.”
“Nice to meet you, Audrey. Next.”
Myra went down the line. The heavyset woman became Starla. Comb-over guy became Earl.
“Earl. Next.”
Myra pointed at her. Without thinking, she blurted out, “Rachel.”
“Rachel. In the future, leave your stripper heels at home, Rachel. Next.”
“Rachel” slipped her shoes off, her face having turned a bright shade of red, and put on a pair of ASICS.
When they were finished, Myra climbed into the boxing ring.
“All right. Everyone, take your jewelry and watches off. Next time, you’re better off leaving it at home.” She pointed and said, “Earl. Get your ass out here.”
Earl stood up and looked around,
perhaps expecting one of the others to go up in his place.
“Don’t make me come get you.” She said it in such a way that had Earl clambering down the bleachers and sliding into the ring. Earl stood ten feet away from Myra, body tucked in concavely, hands folded across his abdomen in an X. He reminded Rachel of a snail.
“Come closer.”
Earl took a step forward.
“Closer. Until I can smell your breath,” Myra said. Earl did so. “Christ, why didn’t you warn me about your breath?”
Earl breathed into his hand, smelled it, and recoiled.
“Go ahead, Earl. Hit me.”
Earl looked back to the bleachers, as though awaiting further instruction or clarification. He turned back to Myra.
“Sorry?”
“I said hit me.”
“Hit you?”
“Good. We’ve confirmed that you speak English. Now, hit me.”
“Um . . . where?”
“Anywhere. Face. Stomach. Arm. Tit. Just make contact.”
“You’re going to sue me if I hit you.”
Myra let out a full-bellied laugh.
“If I cross my heart and hope to die, Earl, will you believe me that I won’t sue you?”
Earl turned back to the bleachers. “You all heard her. She asked me to hit her and promised not to sue me if I did.”
Rachel nodded, along with the others. She watched intently, curious to see if Earl would actually hit Myra and even more curious to see what would happen if he did.
Finally, after thirty seconds of gathering up his courage, Earl reared back and brought his palm forward in a wide, looping arc, whereupon Myra swatted it out of the air like a bothersome gnat.
“Ow!” Earl said, grabbing his hand.
“Openhanded? Really, Earl? You were going to hit me openhanded?”
“I . . . I’ve never hit anybody before.”
“Try again.”
This time Earl swung a closed fist at Myra. She brought up her arm in an L shape and blocked the blow.
“Try again. Hit me.”
Earl swung again, and once again Myra blocked it. One more time, and Myra caught his bicep, twisted his arm behind his back, and pushed him away like she might a pesky younger brother.