Eric slipped over to the window, looked down to see if there was a backup squad outside. The full moon glinted off his long thin scar, made it look like a lightning bolt flashing down his cheek and neck. He ducked back into the shadows, studied his unkempt yard for movement. It was the only lawn in the neighborhood that always needed cutting, because Eric was the only one in the neighborhood who refused to either hire a gardener or buy a mower. Gary Thompson, the dentist next door, had pleaded to send his own gardener over at no cost, but Eric had refused, claiming that long grass kept the dogs from shitting in his yard. "Long grass tickles their ass," he'd recite deadpan. Whenever Eric thought the lawn was out of hand, he packed up Annie and the kids and took them away for the weekend. When they came back, their lawn was always clipped, the bushes trimmed, the weeds pulled.

He couldn't see anyone down there, but that didn't mean anything. Dirk Fallows could have hidden a dozen fully equipped men in a single tree for a week and no one would have seen them.

Another creak on the stairs. Barely audible. Like a grasshopper being snapped in half. The intruder was halfway up now, taking it slowly, carefully. A few more moments and he'd be on the second floor. But would he go for the children's room first, or would Fallows be satisfied just killing Eric?

A weapon. Eric glanced furiously around the room, evaluating and dismissing various objects, studying each for its potential to cripple or kill. The old instincts rushing back. Certainly whoever was creeping up the stairs this moment had a weapon, something sophisticated. That was Fallows' style. Only the best would do. And he could get it too, from any where in the world. The newest, the deadliest.

But Eric had long ago made a house rule, a command really, that no weapons would be brought into his home.