Biting into his sandwich, Julian pondered what his next move should be. He thought he might—
A knock on the dining room window made him jump.
Looking up, he saw a man with a knife standing in the side yard and peering into the house.
Julian jerked back from his chair as though he’d been sitting on hot coals. The man staring in at him was dressed in torn jeans and a faded Willie Nelson T-shirt, wearing a yellow baseball cap with the brim anachronistically pointed in the wrong direction. He was frowning, and under his furrowed brow, his eyes were darting back and forth, taking in everything. The long knife in his hand glinted in the midday sun.
The windows were all closed to keep the coolness in, luckily, and Julian ran to the kitchen door to make sure it was locked, then ran to the front door to do the same. He grabbed the phone to call 911.
The crazy man was still at the window. The look on his face was one of dumb fascination, like Frankenstein watching a domestic scene that he didn’t understand, but at least he wasn’t trying to break into the house.
“I’m calling the police!” Julian announced loudly, and just at that moment, a dispatcher came on the line. Julian quickly gave his name and address, and before the woman could ask what was wrong, he told her that there was a lunatic with a knife standing in his yard and spying on him through a window. The dispatcher asked him to stay on the line, but Julian ignored her. He put the phone faceup on a table so she could hear what was going on, then ran back into the kitchen, where he opened the knife drawer, trying to find his own weapon, just in case. None of their knives were big enough to ensure victory in a fight, however, and he changed his mind, hurrying over to the broom closet, where he took out both a broom and a mop. Each of them had a long handle, and while he doubted that either of them would be able to deal any lethal blows, he could use them to bat the knife out of the man’s hand, hit his head or even spear into his stomach.
Broom in his left hand, mop in his right, both of them held backward, sticks out, he hurried back into the dining room, where the man was—
Gone!
No. He had merely moved over to the other pane. He was still standing at the window. “Let me in!” he called, and his voice was neither as demanding as the request would seem to require nor as flat as the expression on his face would indicate. Indeed, the voice did not seem to match the person, and that dichotomy made the situation seem even more threatening and unnerving.
Julian remained in place, both makeshift weapons held tight.
The police arrived moments later. They came in two cars, sirens wailing, tires screeching, but nothing scared the man off. He was still there when Julian ran out the front door to meet the officers and tell them where the intruder was, and although the man did not run away, he also did not comply when a policeman, gun drawn, ordered him to drop the knife. He was still holding the weapon and staring in the window as he was subdued and the knife taken from him.
Julian had never had a reason to call the police before, and his preconceptions came entirely from movies and television shows. Although he’d expected either arrogance or hostility, he encountered neither, and he was impressed by not only the officers’ levelheaded competence but the experienced efficiency with which they handled the situation.
The intruder, who refused to give his name, was handcuffed, arrested and driven away by two of the officers, while two others remained behind to take Julian’s statement.
“How long is he going to stay in jail?” Julian asked. “You’re not just going to book him and then let him out on bail, are you? Because I’m afraid he’d come right back here. And if my wife and kids were home …” He left the thought unfinished.
“He was captured during the commission of a crime,” said the lead officer, George Rodriguez, a stocky young man with a thick black mustache. “So no, that’s not going to happen. He might get bail, but by the looks of him, I doubt if he could make it. He also seems more than a little disturbed, so we’re going to recommend a psych evaluation, which will keep him locked up for a minimum of seventy-two hours.”
“Seventy-two hours? That’s all? And after that … ?”
“My guess is that he’ll fail the psych test,” Rodriguez said reassuringly. “And we have him dead to rights on trespassing and threatening an officer. He’s not getting out anytime soon. Don’t worry about that.”
Julian nodded, answering the rest of the questions he was asked. But he did worry, and after they were gone, after he was given a business card and a case number and told that he could pick up a copy of the report at the police station tomorrow, he stood in the front yard, looking at the house, trying to assess how secure it was against intruders, wondering whether he should keep some type of weapon handy. He wasn’t a gun guy, but having a baseball bat next to his bed or beside the front door couldn’t hurt.
Thank God Claire and the kids weren’t here.
Still, he wasn’t sure how he could keep this from them, or whether he should, and, instinctively, he glanced around. Had anyone else on the street noticed? If any of their neighbors were home, they certainly had. But it was the middle of the day and most people were at work, and the sirens and police cars hadn’t drawn any attention. He was most likely safe. Besides, after last night’s entertainment, the neighbors with whom they would have been likely to socialize were probably planning to keep a safe distance from his family and their house.
Julian walked back inside, his eyes drawn to the dining room window. Eventually, he decided, he would tell Claire. But not right away, not after what had happened last night. She needed some breathing room, some time to adjust. A one-two punch like this would just knock her flat.
He was too jittery and wound up to stay seated in front of a computer for the rest of the afternoon, and he scarfed down his sandwich, gulped down his Coke, then called Claire and told her he would be out for the next few hours, running errands. He wanted to tell her not to come home, to stay away, some primitive part of his brain believing that even with the would-be attacker arrested and in jail, their house was still not safe. But he said nothing to her about it, just said good-bye and hung up.
He actually had no errands to run, no place to go, nothing to do, so he drove over to Rick’s print shop. As he’d hoped, his friend was between jobs, sitting in the office watching TV and waiting for customers, and he looked up when the buzzer sounded over the door and Julian walked in. “Dude!”
“Hey,” Julian said, already wondering whether he’d made a mistake in coming here.
“Want me to print up some flyers for an exorcist? Friend’s discount.” He laughed, but there was an uneasiness in the laughter, and it was all Julian could do to force a smile.
Rick stood, shutting off the TV. “Seriously, is that why you’re here? Because of what happened last night?”
“No. Because of what happened today.”
Rick’s eyes widened. “Are you shittin’ me?”
Julian looked at him. “Yes. Yes, I am. I’m shitting you. You are emerging from my asshole even as we speak.”
“You know what I mean.”
“That’s such a stupid phrase.”
“Give me a break. I just wanted to know if you were bullshitting me. Is that better?”
“It is, actually.” Julian allowed himself a small smile, but it faded fast. He took a deep breath. “A guy with a knife tried to break into my house at lunch.”