Double Take

No, I’m not in Hartford, I’m here in San Francisco, at home, in bed. It was the dream, the dream again.

It was a dream she’d had many times over the years, so maybe what she’d heard was simply some new threads woven into the fabric of the dream. Maybe she hadn’t really heard anything— But she heard them again, slow, soft footfalls—Dear God, someone was here in her house, someone was coming toward her bedroom, coming to kill her. Like he killed Linc. No, he didn’t kill Linc, that was a stupid accident that shouldn’t have happened. But someone killed August and he wanted to kill her too. This time he came to do it right, he’d—

Her terror froze her brain, paralyzed her for a moment. She’d been helpless Thursday night—dear God, only two nights ago— she’d been so surprised by the sudden attack that she’d have died before she understood what was happening. But she wasn’t so surprised this time. And she was ready. She’d rehearsed her movements a dozen times in her mind until her body obeyed without her mind coaching her. She scooted to the side of the bed, quietly slid the side table drawer out, and picked up her pistol, its nitron finish glacier cold, and a second magazine. She’d practiced with it yesterday until it felt perfect in her hand, worked with it until her finger knew exactly how much pressure to put on the trigger. Her heart pounded, but the terror transformed itself into a huge hit of adrenaline that made her shake and feel incredibly powerful.

Her SIG P239 couldn’t stop a dream that kept running at night in her brain, it couldn’t stop a charging rhino, but all she needed from it now was to protect her from a single man. She pulled the covers over a king-sized pillow as she heard another footfall, closer, nearly to her door.

It was very dark in her bedroom; she’d closed the draperies against the bright moonlight. Julia’s bare feet made no sound on her run to the opposite side of the bedroom door. Good, she didn’t want him to hear her. To make it harder for him, she kneeled down, her back pressed against the wall. And waited. She could hear her own heart, pumping fast, but she held steady, slowed her breathing. Another soft footfall, then nothing. He was here, right outside the door, his ear probably against it, listening for any sound. She pictured what would happen, what she would do.

Was it the same man who’d tried to kill her at Pier 39? The man with his glasses, his Burberry coat, and his lovely smile?

The doorknob turned very slowly. He was coming in to kill her, shoot her in her bed, shoot her dead in her sleep, the bastard. Fierce anger punched up her adrenaline again, enough to make her shake, but it didn’t matter. She was ready.

Come on, you creep. I’m not helpless this time. I know my way around in the darkness, and you don’t. Come on in, come on in. The door opened. She saw a gloved hand first, holding a gun. She eased down to her stomach and held perfectly still as he walked slowly into her bedroom. He moved gracefully, all his attention focused on her bed. She could make out the faint glint of his glasses, the outline of his dark jacket and dark pants.

When he was not more than four feet in front of her, slightly off to her right, he raised his gun. He shot once, twice, two more times into the pillow, the low thumping sounds of a silencer, she realized. He paused, then shot again where her head would have been. He lowered the gun, took a step toward the bed.

“Drop that gun right now or I’ll blow your head off.”

The man jerked around, fast, and fired at the same moment Julia did. Her bullet smashed into his arm, and he jerked back.

His shot was too high, slamming the wall right where her heart would have been if she’d been standing. He yelled and cursed as he fired again, six more times, the bullets striking the wall above her head. Had she been on her knees, he would have killed her.

But she wasn’t, she was flat on her belly.

She fired again, but the shot went wide, into her bedside lamp, smashing it to the floor. He tried to pull the trigger again but his clip was empty. She fired again, heard the bullet strike the wall behind him, and fired two more limes as he bolted in a zigzag out of her bedroom. She heard his boots on the long corridor. She hadn’t hit him again, dammit.

Julia leaped to her feel and ran after him, fired several more times as he bounded down the stairs. He was moving too fast, dodging from left to right. He suddenly whirled to face her, went into a crouch, paused a moment to aim. No, he wasn’t aiming, he was trying to shove in another clip.

She went down on her knees, pulled back behind the railing, shoved a new clip in the SIG and fired again, missed him by inches, but knocked off a chunk of a newel post, sending wood shards flying. Small pieces flew like darts into his face and neck. He grunted in pain, his hand jerking up to cover his face. She continued to fire as she ran down the stairs right at him and he turned and ran. She realized her second clip was nearly empty. She didn’t want to run out of bullets. But she couldn’t prevent herself from firing one more time. The bullet struck a tile next to his right foot, and she heard him curse. He jerked the front door open as she fired once more, and he was gone. There was no screaming wail. There was no sound at all. He’d disarmed her security system.