Eric looked at her standing next to him, naked, mussed long hair hanging to her hips, a hunting knife clutched in her hand. She looked… formidable. He smiled. "I'm fine. Better see to the kids."

"Right," she nodded, heading for the door. As an afterthought she snagged her robe from the clothes tree and slipped it on.

"That was some little trick there," Eric said.

"What?"

"Throwing the blanket that way. Like a bullfighter or something."

She shrugged. "I forgot about the cord. It missed him by three feet."

"That was close enough."

"You weren't so bad yourself, tough guy," she grinned, her hand pressed against her chest. "My heart feels like it's going to jump out of my mouth. I'd better call the police."

"Not yet."

"Why?"

"Just get the kids tucked in first. Wait twenty minutes, then call them."

"Eric?" She sounded frightened.

"I want to ask him some questions first."

"What kind of questions, Eric? He's just a lousy burglar, for Christ's sake."

"Maybe."

She looked at him. "You're starting to scare me."

Eric stared at the kid writhing on the floor. "Get some of that Woolite rug cleaner. He's bleeding on the carpet."

She stepped into the hall, came back a few seconds later carrying a gun. She handed it to Eric. "Will you need this?"

He recognized it as a Ruger RST-4.22 with an AWC sound suppressor attached. "I might." He looked down at the kid. "It depends on him."

The kid stared back, the pain forgotten for a moment. Replaced by fear.

3.

The first thing Fisher noticed about Eric was the scar.

The way it snaked up out of the collar of his shirt like a thin, white vine, clung along the edge of his jaw a few inches, then bloomed into a sunburst pattern just below the right cheek. Like a dandelion ironed to the skin. It was almost pretty, Fisher thought. Almost.