Overthinking such things usually leads to trouble. This time proved no different. My foot struck two of the pickets. Rather than go over the fence I fell down on the lawn, landing in front of the boy with the gun.
He stood over me, his hand steady. His finger on the trigger. “Get on your feet.” The order didn’t sound like it came from a teenager.
This time I had no choice. He had me.
I raised my hands in defeat. “Okay.”
He motioned with the gun in the direction of the deck. “We just wanted to scare you. Just hurt you a little bit for breaking the window. You didn’t need to kill Dave, you bitch.”
Maybe talking to him could save my family. Worth a try, anyway. “Windows can be paid for. I’ll pay for the window. Shooting a dog is a minor offense. Shooting a person is murder.”
“Yes, I know. You can tell that to the judge.”
Then he had no plans to kill me. The little bit of hope helped. If he wasn’t going to kill me, he wasn’t planning on killing my family.
We went onto the deck and into the silent house. Everything in the kitchen and sunroom looked the way I had left things before I went out to do a bit of gardening.
“Where’s the baby?” My daughter would be hungry by now. She should be crying but I heard nothing. “Jim?”
From the upstairs my husband called out, “Sarah?”
The boy pushed me forward. “Into the living room. “
I yelled, “Is the baby all right?”
The boy leveled the gun at me. “Shut up.”
He wasn’t able to stop my husband’s answer. “We are both okay. Just... just I’m tied up.”
I feared the worst as I entered the living room but the basket of white laundry I had left beside our brown leather sectional was still there. The CDs remained in place in the bookcase beside the collection of piano music my husband stored in the bookcase.
The boy walked over to my husband’s grand piano. “Yours?”
“No.”
He ran his index finger over the polished top of Jim’s beloved Kawai. “You don’t play?”
“No.”
The boy didn’t say anything. He just stared at me until I felt I had to offer him something. “I play the guitar.”
My Martin hung from the wall. The boy smiled and walked over to admire the instrument. He took a step back, raised the gun, fired into the guitar, sending Madagascar Rosewood splinters into the air. Steel wires flew across the room like shrapnel.
“That Porsche you wrecked. That’s my father’s car. He’s going to be plenty mad when he sees what you did to it.”
So this was his game. “I told you I’ll pay for the window.”
“Good, you can start tonight.” The boy cocked his head to one side. “Any other instruments you play?”
“No.”
“Nice house you have here.” He took his time walking around the room, then motioned toward the hall. “Why don’t you take me on a tour?”
I led the way down the hall, stopping at the bathroom. Not much he could destroy there. “Toilet, shower.”
“Let’s take a look.”
When I renovated the bathroom I added a handcrafted sink.
He pointed at the two oil paintings with his gun. “Tell me about the pictures.”
The matched set of my niece’s worthless art-camp work gave me a chance to divert attention from the sink. “They are originals. A gift from my mother who passed away last year. Please... don’t destroy them.”
“Ah, okay.” With a step back into the hallway he turned and fired into the sink.
“No!” I lunged forward toward the sink, but there was no way to repair the damage.
A large chunk of porcelain cracked and fell to the tile.
The boy laughed. “Fancy sink, isn’t it? Worth much more than a couple of kids’ paintings.” He pointed at my forehead. “Looks like you got cut.”
Sure enough, a look into the vanity mirror showed a cut above my left eye. Blood had started to drip down my cheek. I wiped it with my hand, smearing it along my face.
I tried to hide my anger.
In an attempt to distract him I asked, “Why were you chasing the dog?”
He didn’t seem to hear me at first. Something seemed to distract him. Then he directed his attention at me again. “What?”
“The dog you were chasing down the street. Why were you chasing it and trying to shoot it?”
The boy ran his palm over the peach fuzz on his chin. “Damn thing barked at my car when I came to a stoplight. We fired a warning shot and he just stood in the middle of the road barking his head off. Wouldn’t get out of the way. I tried to run him down but he took off. What is it to you?”
“I just wondered. Maybe he thought he was protecting his territory.”
“He was just a crazy dog.”
“Who made you mad.” I regretted the mistake as soon as I spoke.
The boy’s face reddened. “Not as mad as you made me.” He spoke in a calm tone, without emotion but I could hear the threat.
I had something more valuable than a sink to protect. Maybe if he destroyed enough of my possessions he would leave my family alone.
He grabbed my arm and pushed me forward. “Show me the rest of the house.”
At the end of the hall, we entered my office. Here he would think he had found a gold mine of possessions to destroy.
“Nice monitor.”
My thirty-four-inch Ultra Apple Monitor dominated my desk. Nabbed on eBay, I did love that monitor. Beside the monitor sat my scanner and an antique Waterford lamp with a large brass base, my first Brimfield Antique Show buy. The Hooker mahogany desk would be another alluring target. Behind the desk, placed against the wall, sat my curled cherry, hand-carved grand upright piano my mother and I had restored over a summer when I was fifteen. On the wall I had a handmade German windup clock with a big pendulum that rang a single chime with a deep, rich sound.
The boy took his time examining each piece. “Your husband has two pianos?”
“No,” I admitted. “This one is mine.”
He fired into the elaborately carved fern in the middle of the piano. “I knew you played. You look like a piano teacher.”
“I don’t play. I was saving the piano for my daughter.”
The boy laughed. “Oops!” He turned and fired into the clock, severing the metal spring. Small metal disks clanged as the internal parts broke apart.
He shot into the desk, then the monitor glass, laughing each time he destroyed something. He seemed to be having such a good time. When he ran out of bullets he reached inside his jeans’ pocket and pulled out a packet. He started to load the magazine without even bothering to watch me.
I might not get another chance to try to escape and I had to escape before we went upstairs in search of my best-loved possessions.
I didn’t have much time. I grabbed the lamp. The thing weighed almost ten pounds but it wasn’t too heavy for me to lift. Without trying to unplug it I swung the big brass base at the boy’s head like a baseball bat.
I missed his head but hit the hand holding the gun and he dropped it onto the desk.
The boy ducked, covering his head with his hands as I took another swing and missed again. I picked up the empty gun and ran toward the front door. He followed.
I thought he would catch me, but as I got to the door I remembered he and his friend had left the door open.
He chased me outside. Standing on the porch he screamed, “Come back or I’ll kill your family.”
I knew better. To punish me, he needed me. That was my advantage. If I escaped, he would have to chase me and capture me. His game was to make me watch him destroy the things I loved. Without me to watch, he wouldn’t kill my family. He had already proved that by waiting for me to return to the house.