Judged by E. H. Reinhard Page A

dining-room window facing the driveway of the property. He kept his head low and glanced out. The white Aston Martin rolled toward the garage door.
    “Shit. What the hell is he doing here already?” Tim had watched the man for months, and he never returned home immediately after work. He remembered leaving the lights on upstairs, and the lights were on in the kitchen and dining-room area. He heard the garage door open and realized he wouldn’t have time to gather his things and get back upstairs to his hiding spot.
    He rushed back to the table, grabbed both jab sticks, and ran to the wall just beside the door that led in from the garage. He held both three-foot sticks against his chest, syringes up. The door opened inward and would block him upon Jensen’s entry.
    Tim felt the vibration of the wall and heard the engine rumbling as the car pulled into the garage space. He took a couple of deep breaths, readying himself. The Aston Martin’s motor went silent, and a car door closed—and then another. He heard the doctor’s voice followed by a woman responding.
    Tim cursed to himself—quietly. He wore no mask. The woman would surely see his face and be able to identify him if he didn’t hit her with the jab stick immediately upon her entry. Even then, a chance remained that she’d be able to identify him. Tim’s eyes went to the door handle leading in, and he held his breath, waiting for the knob to twist. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. He set one of the sticks down in the corner and pulled his pistol from his waistline. Jensen’s voice grew louder, and the door handle turned. Tim heard the overhead garage door lowering.
    From the brief bit of conversation, it sounded as though Jensen was explaining his multi-million-dollar renovation plans for the home. The door pushed open toward him. Tim glued himself as close as he could to the wall behind the door to stay out of sight. Half of Jensen’s body was visible, but the door blocked any view of the doctor’s face. The woman, dressed in a red cocktail dress, entered, and Jensen closed the door. Tim’s cover was gone. He turned the pistol in his hand and held it barrel first. The pair put their backs to him and walked toward the kitchen, Jensen leading.
    “The construction guys must have left the lights on,” Jensen said. “Looks like they left a bag too.”
    Tim took a step and raised the pistol, keeping the jab-stick syringe up in his left hand. He swung as hard as he could, connecting the butt of the firearm to the back of the woman’s head. She went down facefirst into the old tile floor. Tim quickly jabbed her in the back with the stick and dropped it. He switched hands with the pistol and held it out at the doctor.
    The sounds of the woman’s head cracking off the flooring and the jab stick clanking across the tile spun Jensen around. The doctor glanced down at the woman and then up at Tim. He froze.
    Tim held the pistol out at Jensen. “Don’t even think about moving,” he said.
    Jensen, dark haired and a bit over six foot, held up his hands at Tim and took a step backward.
    “I said don’t move, asshole! What are you, deaf?”
    “Wait,” Jensen said. “I know you. We had a session a few months back. Timothy, right?”
    “Correct, and we’re about to have us another little session.” Tim took a step backward and grabbed the other jab stick.
    “Whatever this is, we can work it out, Timothy. Just tell me what I can do. We’ll figure it out.”
    “Shut up. Walk your ass to the living room. Backward. You make a sudden move, and I shoot.”
    “Okay, okay.” The doctor kept his hands up and followed instructions. Not a word came from his mouth mentioning the well-being of his lady friend lying on the ground. The doctor placed one designer-shoe-covered foot behind the next and curled around the kitchen while Tim followed. “I won’t call the police.”
    “Yeah, I know you won’t,” Tim said.
    “Let’s just talk about whatever the