More likely the men had forced their way into the house and they had left the door open, but why?
Why even go into the house? The men might have been mad at me for throwing a rock at their car but they knew I wasn’t inside the house. Were they waiting for me to return?
The nearest police station was five miles away. The nearest house, three miles away. What would the men do to my family if I tried to run to get help? I doubted I could do much good in the house. My family’s best bet would be for me to get help.
We had two Volvos in the garage but the Porsche blocked the driveway. Maybe I didn’t need to get into my car if I could start the Porsche.
Woods lined both sides of my driveway. Using the thick pine trees for cover, I crept along the ground, staying close to the old stone fence as I inched toward the sports car.
Every few minutes, I checked the door.
With no sign of the men in the yard or on the porch, I made my way to where a large forsythia blocked the view of the driveway. Taking care to stay out of the sightline from the house, I dashed in front of the car, then walked half-bent-over around to the driver’s side.
I tried to open the door latch. The men might have left my front door open but they had locked their car.
I decided the smart thing to do would be to walk up the street in hopes of finding a car to flag down. Then I could use someone’s cell to call the police. The plan seemed the best course of action even though part of me wanted to charge inside the house, but what good would that do? I might even get my family killed.
The plan made sense. I might even have followed it if I hadn’t heard my baby crying.
And my husband shouting.
And the single shot.
I started to run for the house, not caring if anyone saw me or not.
There was more shouting.
Then I heard Jim’s voice.
He was alive.
I needed to keep him that way.
It was the gunfire that sent me running toward the backyard gate. My husband had used a bike lock to keep the gate shut. I put both hands on the gate’s top bar, jumped and pulled my legs over, landing on my feet.
The shed was new and built to look like a mini-version of our house. I didn’t have the key but I decided I would smash the door down if I had to. There were tools inside. Tools I needed if I were to try to save Jim.
The double doors for driving the John Deere riding lawn mower were padlocked but we never locked the side door. I slipped inside and searched for a weapon. Something not too heavy to carry. Something that could kill.
Something I could handle.
The axe was too heavy and not terribly accurate. I went for my fishing knife. The seven-inch, serrated blade would make a nasty cut. A short bungee cord served as a belt. I pushed one end through the knife-sheaf belt loop and tied the cord around my waist. My long work shirttail just covered the knife sheaf.
I still had my old softball bat but the men might be able to get that away from me. An old can of wasp spray would be more effective. Jim and I never owned a gun — except for a cordless nail gun, heavy as hell. At least it was loaded with a tape of nails. I just prayed it still worked.
Then I went to try and save my husband and my child.
From the shed, I could see the large copper clock on our raised deck that overlooked the backyard. An hour had passed since I first saw the dog running down the street. The sun shone overhead, a harsh glare.
The large windows in our sunroom provided a clear view inside. Both the sunroom and kitchen appeared empty. Two entrances led into the house from the back: a cellar door into the basement or the deck slider. I chose the slider.
When I was halfway across the yard I heard the familiar sound of the slider opening. Caught in a no-man’s-land without any cover, I charged forward, lugging the nailer. I ran to hide below the raised deck.
I dived underneath the planks, lying facedown on the stone pebble base.
A single set of footsteps on the deck above told me someone had come outside alone. There had been two men in the Porsche, but if I could get rid of one of them, then the odds might be a little better for rescuing my husband and daughter.
I needed to keep whoever was above me in the yard, separate from his buddy. I grabbed a nearby pebble and threw it into the woods on the edge of the lawn.
I heard footsteps going toward the house.
Jim’s cry kept going off in my head. I had to do something and soon.
“Hey!” I stayed hidden by the side of the deck, fighting the pounding in my head and the voice screaming that I had just made a huge mistake.
Convinced surprise might be my only hope, I knelt on the ground, holding the wasp spray at my side, and set the nailer on the ground beside me.
The footsteps stopped. They changed direction, walking toward the stairs leading to the lawn rather than back toward the house.
I could hear someone on the stairs.
A teenage boy with long hair and a NY JETS cap peeked around the edge of the deck. He was a small, skinny kid. He spotted me, breaking into a wide smile that showed his braces. Up until that moment I hadn’t gotten a good look at either of the guys.
Why did he have to be so damn young?
“Well, well, well... What are you doing out here? We’ve been looking for you. That Porsche you wrecked, that’s Matt’s daddy’s car. Matt loves that car. He isn’t very happy with you right now.” The boy laughed. “Nope, not happy at all.” He brushed a lock of long greasy brown hair out of his eyes. He didn’t look cruel. He looked young. Young and stupid.
Except he was cruel, I reminded myself. He had a gun tucked in his pants’ waistband. A gun he had used to shoot at the dog and me.
I had no choice but to rise to my feet. I aimed the wasp spray at him and squeezed the button. My attack came so unexpectedly I caught him full in the face. It must have hurt like hell by the sound of his screams.
Above us the slider squeaked open. “Dave? You okay, man?”
Dave wiped his eyes with his hand, then pulled out his gun. His arm swiped in every direction as if frantic to find me. In his wild swatting, he struck my arm with his free hand, then brought the gun around.
I dropped to the ground and balanced the nailer on the concrete deck footing. A bullet whizzed by my head.
There’s a good chance I had my eyes closed when I pulled the trigger. I only knew I shot off three nails. When I opened my eyes I found only one of the three-inch nails had hit the boy.
Right in the middle of his forehead.
As he fell, his gun went off, breaking the window in the door to the garage.
On television, you hear stories of people who survive getting a nail in their head. I debated if I should fire again. I couldn’t take a chance he might attack another time. His eyes stared at the sky. He didn’t blink.
I didn’t feel anything for him. All I felt was desperation to save my family.
“Shit! What did you do? What did you fucking do? Dave?” A second teenager, about the same age as the first, rounded the edge of the deck. This one looked more athletic than the other kid. He wore a muscle shirt and he had muscles to show off.
I raised the wasp spray again but nothing came out. The boy picked up his friend’s gun. Insanely, I didn’t freeze this time. Instead I thought, if he shoots me I can’t save Jim.
I dropped the heavy nail gun and the empty wasp-spray can. I ran as fast as I could away from him toward the far end of the house.
The fence wrapped around the entire yard. I was trapped but I ran anyway.
I had no plan.
The gun went off again. Something whished past my right ear, but I ran harder and started to zigzag my way across the yard. Once a television reporter had said running in a zigzag pattern could make you a harder target to hit.
At the edge of the house, I decided to try and leap the picket fence again. I slowed down. If I didn’t clear the fence and had to hang for a moment at the top and hoist myself over, I would make an easy target.