the intruder would likely be long gone by the time the cops arrived. Gripping the door handle, staring at my fist-battered dashboard, I fought with myself for several prolonged seconds, but my fury--and burning curiosity--won out.
I climbed out and jogged back. Cutting up the driveway, I slid along the fence, reaching the door to the garage. I paused for a silent twenty-second freak-out, my fists shoved against my head, and then I regained what composure I could muster, slipped my key into the door, and pushed it tentatively open. The garage's walls and ceiling seemed to amplify my rapid breathing. My eyes darted around, settling on the golf bag languishing beneath a veil of cobwebs, where it had lived since my then-agent bought it for me to celebrate the screenplay sale. My hand fussed across dusty club heads, upgrading from wedge to iron to driver.
The door leading into the dining nook had a creak. I knew this. I'd been meaning to WD-40 the hinges for months. I was in the garage; why not do it now? I found the blue-and-yellow can, sprayed the hinges until they dripped. Under the guidance of my white-knuckle grip, the door swung in, slowly, without complaint. I realized, too late, that it could have sounded the alarm, but the intruder had disarmed the system.
A bead of sweat held to the line of my jaw, tickling. I slipped inside, easing the door shut behind me. Setting down my feet as silently as I could, I led with the club, holding it upright, a yuppie samurai sword. I inched around the cabinets, my view of the kitchen opening up.
Across the room the back door finished a slow opening arc, stopping halfway.
I bounded over to it. At the far edge of the lawn, a large man in a ski mask and black zip-up jacket stood perfectly still, facing the house, arms at his sides.
Waiting on me.
I froze, my heart lurching, my throat seizing up.
His gloved hands floated at his sides like a mime's. He seemed to register me not with his dark irises but with the suspended crescents of white that held them.
He turned and ran almost silently through the sumac. Enraged, terrified, I followed. In the sane quadrant of my brain, I noted his bulk and almost military efficiency. And his black boots, which I would've bet were size-eleven-and-a-half Danner Acadias. He bounded from an upended terra-cotta pot to the roof of the greenhouse shed as if off a trampoline bounce, then whistled over the fence. I hurled the club at him, but it hit the wood and rebounded back at me. I slammed into the fence and hoisted myself onto it, shoes scrabbling for purchase. Hanging, the slat edges digging into my gut, I looked up the street, but he'd vanished. Into a yard, a house, around the corner.
I dropped back down with a grunt, fighting to catch my breath. Had I surprised him by altering my schedule, skipping the movies? If so, he sure hadn't seemed concerned. Judging by his build and adroitness, he could have dismantled me. So hurting me wasn't his aim. At least not yet.
I trudged back inside, collapsed into a chair, and sat, breathing. Just breathing.
After a time I rose and checked the kitchen drawer. Both new tubular keys to the alarm were there. Nothing appeared to have been touched. At the base of the stairs, I stopped to stare at the alarm pad as if it had something to say. I continued up, checked our bedroom and then my office. The cover had been removed from the DVD spindle and set beside it. A count confirmed that one more disc was missing. I went back downstairs and into the living room. The intruder had pulled the tripod clear of the lady palm and tugged the curtain closed. My camcorder's digital memory had been erased. I walked numbly into the family room.
The DVD player tray was open, a silver disc resting inside.
I thumbed the tray closed and sank into the couch. The popping of the TV turning on struck me as unusually loud. I kept getting a blank screen, so I fussed with the buttons, clicking "input select," "TV/video," and the other usual
I climbed out and jogged back. Cutting up the driveway, I slid along the fence, reaching the door to the garage. I paused for a silent twenty-second freak-out, my fists shoved against my head, and then I regained what composure I could muster, slipped my key into the door, and pushed it tentatively open. The garage's walls and ceiling seemed to amplify my rapid breathing. My eyes darted around, settling on the golf bag languishing beneath a veil of cobwebs, where it had lived since my then-agent bought it for me to celebrate the screenplay sale. My hand fussed across dusty club heads, upgrading from wedge to iron to driver.
The door leading into the dining nook had a creak. I knew this. I'd been meaning to WD-40 the hinges for months. I was in the garage; why not do it now? I found the blue-and-yellow can, sprayed the hinges until they dripped. Under the guidance of my white-knuckle grip, the door swung in, slowly, without complaint. I realized, too late, that it could have sounded the alarm, but the intruder had disarmed the system.
A bead of sweat held to the line of my jaw, tickling. I slipped inside, easing the door shut behind me. Setting down my feet as silently as I could, I led with the club, holding it upright, a yuppie samurai sword. I inched around the cabinets, my view of the kitchen opening up.
Across the room the back door finished a slow opening arc, stopping halfway.
I bounded over to it. At the far edge of the lawn, a large man in a ski mask and black zip-up jacket stood perfectly still, facing the house, arms at his sides.
Waiting on me.
I froze, my heart lurching, my throat seizing up.
His gloved hands floated at his sides like a mime's. He seemed to register me not with his dark irises but with the suspended crescents of white that held them.
He turned and ran almost silently through the sumac. Enraged, terrified, I followed. In the sane quadrant of my brain, I noted his bulk and almost military efficiency. And his black boots, which I would've bet were size-eleven-and-a-half Danner Acadias. He bounded from an upended terra-cotta pot to the roof of the greenhouse shed as if off a trampoline bounce, then whistled over the fence. I hurled the club at him, but it hit the wood and rebounded back at me. I slammed into the fence and hoisted myself onto it, shoes scrabbling for purchase. Hanging, the slat edges digging into my gut, I looked up the street, but he'd vanished. Into a yard, a house, around the corner.
I dropped back down with a grunt, fighting to catch my breath. Had I surprised him by altering my schedule, skipping the movies? If so, he sure hadn't seemed concerned. Judging by his build and adroitness, he could have dismantled me. So hurting me wasn't his aim. At least not yet.
I trudged back inside, collapsed into a chair, and sat, breathing. Just breathing.
After a time I rose and checked the kitchen drawer. Both new tubular keys to the alarm were there. Nothing appeared to have been touched. At the base of the stairs, I stopped to stare at the alarm pad as if it had something to say. I continued up, checked our bedroom and then my office. The cover had been removed from the DVD spindle and set beside it. A count confirmed that one more disc was missing. I went back downstairs and into the living room. The intruder had pulled the tripod clear of the lady palm and tugged the curtain closed. My camcorder's digital memory had been erased. I walked numbly into the family room.
The DVD player tray was open, a silver disc resting inside.
I thumbed the tray closed and sank into the couch. The popping of the TV turning on struck me as unusually loud. I kept getting a blank screen, so I fussed with the buttons, clicking "input select," "TV/video," and the other usual
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