Fuzzy Navel

9:28 P.M.
JACK

IF KARMA IS REAL, I must have done something unspeakable in a previous life.

“This has to be some kind of mistake,” I say to my mother. I may have actually been pleading a little. “He doesn’t look anything like you.”

“He looks like his father.”

Harry makes puppy dog eyes and says, “Mom? Tell me about Dad.”

I don’t have time for this. Latham is bleeding and we’re surrounded by snipers. I need to kill the lights and grab the gun.

I poke my head into the hallway, on the opposite side of the fridge. While FMJs can shoot through it, the snipers can’t see through it. That means I can run to the laundry room and hit the circuit breaker without being spotted.

“He was a sailor,” Mom says. “I never knew his last name.”

“I’m going for the fuse box,” I say.

“What was his first name, Mom?”

Mom pats Harry on the head. “His name was Ralph.” She used the same soothing voice on me when I was younger and sick with the flu. “You have his eyes.”

“I’m going now,” I announce. “I hope I make it.”

“Did you love him?” Harry ask.

Mom says, “For about three hours.”

“Wow,” Harry says. “Three hours.”

“Latham!” I call out to my fiancé. “I’m going for the circuit breaker!”

I hoped for a be careful. Instead I got: “Is that creepy private eye really your brother?”

I rub my eyes.

“Ralph had a lot of body hair too,” Mom says. “All over.”

That’s my cue. I duck low, suck in a breath, then hustle out the door and down the rest of the hallway, skidding into the laundry room. No one shoots me. The circuit breaker is on the wall, next to the dryer. I hook a finger through the metal ring on the door and tug. It’s stubborn, and doesn’t want to open. The panel isn’t broken, it has a strong spring inside that makes sure it’s always closed. I pull really hard, my finger aching, and then it finally gives. I squint at the rows of breakers, and press the large black button that reads MAIN .

The house goes dark, and the panel door slams back into place. I don’t hesitate, scrambling back into the hall, using memory and feel to find my bedroom. I take four steps inside before bumping into the bed. Then I spread my hands out over the top, seeking the ammo bag. My fingers brush the carrying strap, and I jerk the bag to me. I work the zipper, stick my hand inside, and yank out my competition pistol, a Kimber Eclipse II.45 ACP. I flip the safety and jack a round into the chamber. I feel around for extra clips, find three. They’re all empty. Bullets have been on my shopping list for a while.

There’s also a nylon holster in the bag. I shrug that onto my shoulder, the straps getting twisted in the dark but still doing the job.

Then I head for the window to sneak outside and round up the bad guys.