He didn't mind the kids playing cowboys or cops or Robin Hood with their toy guns and bows, but no real weapons. He didn't like the tension they caused, the constant feeling of being under siege their mere presence evoked. He'd lived with that feeling long enough. He wanted to trust for a change. Trust his neighborhood, his town, his community. He'd destroyed his own guns, the relics of his past life. The knives, daggers, bayonets, throwing stars, garrotes, razor-edged belt buckles-all melted down. The holsters and military webbing he'd given to his brother-in-law, who handled costumes for the local community playhouse. The last time he'd seen his precious.45 holster, it was inappropriately strapped to a sailor in their production of Mister Roberts.

Only his longbow survived, a sentimental gift from Big Bill Tenderwolf. He'd had it for almost twenty years now, though it had been at least two since he'd actually shot it. He didn't even think of it as a weapon anymore. It was more. Much more. But it was hanging in the garage, right next to the fishing rods and tennis racquets and ping-pong paddles.

Now he had nothing. Not even a pocket knife.

He glanced at the doorknob. Watched it slowly turning. Turning.

2.

Ten seconds from death.

That's how long Eric figured it would take the intruder to finish quietly turning the knob. Once open he would lift gently on the knob, tilting the door upwards to avoid any squeaks from the hinges, then ease himself into the bedroom. The gun, probably a small automatic fitted with a sound suppressor, would suddenly swing around and start spraying the bed with a hailstorm of silenced bullets. They'd make light popping sounds, like a dropped soap bar echoing in a shower stall. Annie's body would jerk and flop as the bullets punched out hunks of soft flesh, still smelling of Oil of Olay, her nightly ritual to ward off this year's big crisis: her thirty-fifth birthday.