He lifted the electric blanket, the first item they'd charged at Sears immediately after they were married. Annie had insisted a joint credit card was more binding than any wedding vows. A gust of cool night air swept against his legs, rustling the dark hair on his body. Annie murmured a sleepy protest, wiggled her backside, but didn't wake. Eric slid his legs over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Carefully he eased himself to his feet, not wanting to awaken Annie. Or alert the intruder.

Maybe it's just one of the kids, he reasoned. Timmy stealing some Sara Lee cheesecake and Hawaiian Punch, which Eric bought for the kids over Annie's nutritional protests. Or maybe it was Jennifer, hunting quietly through the cupboards and closets, anxiously searching for the birthday present Eric had hidden for her party next week. He always bought two: one she could eventually find, and a second with which to surprise her. A father-daughter game that he looked forward to each year, almost more than she did.

But no. It wasn't the kids. He recognized the type of movement, the sinister intent. He should. He'd used it often enough himself, taught how many others to do the same thing. The way Hopi chief Big Bill Tenderwolf had taught him. Cat dancing, Big Bill had called it with his great booming laugh. That's what Eric remembered most about his years with the Hopis, how much they laughed, how little they had to laugh about.

Somebody was coming closer and closer, trying hard not to be heard. Ordinarily he wouldn't have been. The distant creak wouldn't have been noticed, or would have been shrugged off as the house settling. A soft brush of shoe against carpet? Only the wind sifting through eucalyptus trees. All quite innocent.

Except Eric was expecting them. He hadn't realized that until just this moment. But, yes, he'd been expecting them for quite some time now. For twelve years, since the court-martial. It was inevitable. Like nightmares.