I bit back an irritated retort; I probably had more first responder training than the paramedics answering my call. “Okay,” I said. “I”ll be careful.”

I knelt next to the bed, held Lauren’s hand, and kept her talking. Perhaps three minutes later I heard sirens coming down the street. I went outside, flagged them down, and then showed them where to find Lauren. I will never forget the looks on their faces when they saw the bullet-riddled corpses of the intruders.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” one of them said, a big Hispanic guy. His nametag read Ortez. “You did all this?”

I nodded.

Ortez went to look over Lauren while his partner, a pretty blonde woman with brown eyes and strong, useful looking arms checked the corpses for signs of life. When she finished, she stepped in front of me and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. Despite her outward calm, she positioned her feet like a fighter and there was a touch of wariness in her eyes.

“Can you wait downstairs for the police to get here, please?” she said. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of your mom.”

I thought about correcting her that Lauren was my stepmother, but decided against it. I simply nodded and went outside to wait.

Sitting there on the front porch, I thought about that hole in the drywall next to my head, and remembered something my dad once told me about marksmanship and ballistics. I think I was maybe eight or nine at the time. We were eating kabobs at an outdoor picnic table at a bar-b-que place near downtown.

“Here’s something you need to understand about shooting, son,” he said as he slid the meat and vegetables off a kabob and pointed it at the sky. “Here’s where you are when you’re shooting.” He pointed at the bottom of the kabob. “And here’s the bullet.” His finger touched the tip. “Any little movement on this side here at the bottom translates to a much larger movement here at the end.” He pivoted the kabob from left to right like the striker on a metronome. Looking at it that way, I understood the concept. A fraction of an inch of movement at the bottom of the kabob became several inches of movement at the pointy end.

“See what I’m saying, son?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think so. If I move just a little bit when I’m shooting, it doesn’t look like much, but the bullet is going to travel for hundreds of yards. That little movement of the barrel makes a big difference as to where the bullet ends up.”

Dad smiled. “That’s right.”

The guy who shot at me as maybe ten feet away when he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the wall about ten inches to my left, and to hit at that angle, it must have traveled over and across my face from the right. Judging by where it punctured the wall, I figured it missed me by no more than three inches. If the intruder had aimed the barrel just a bit lower, or had the presence of mind to make a follow up shot, I would be the one dead and not him. And God only knows what would have happened to Lauren.

As the sirens grew louder and my hands began to shake, I remembered that commercial again, the one with the coach giving a speech to his team. The old fellow had it right.

Life really is a game of inches.

EIGHT

Hollow Rock, Tennessee

A few minutes after midnight, Caleb stood up and returned to the kitchen for another drink. He felt Miranda’s eyes on him as he poured it and leaned against the counter.

“The cops found their car a few blocks down,” he said. “Said it was full of stolen property. Jewelry, mostly. Some old coins, cash, a few laptops, prescription drugs, that kind of stuff. Things they could fence easily and carry out in briefcases to avoid rousing suspicion.”

Miranda shook her head sadly. “Clever. Devious, but clever.”

Caleb nodded. “When they searched the bodies, they found a set of lock picks on the guy who shot at me. They’d been breaking into houses all day. Never hit more than one house on any block. Mine was the only one where someone was home.”

Miranda’s pale eyebrows pinched together. “If they were just petty thieves, why did they attack Lauren? Seems like a big jump from breaking and entering to sexual assault.”

“From what the cops told me, they had done that kind of thing before. Departments in four different states were investigating similar crimes. With the DNA and fingerprints they got off the guys I shot, they were able to wrap up all but one of them.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I doubt he had anything to do with it.”

Caleb returned to the living room and sat down. Miranda scooted closer to him and rubbed a hand across his chest. “So what happened when your dad got home?”

“He wasn’t very happy, as you can imagine. He made sure I was okay, then rode in the ambulance with Lauren. I met them at the hospital.”

“Was she okay?”

“Yeah. Had a concussion, bumps and bruises. They kept her overnight, then released her the next morning. The real damage was emotional.”

Miranda’s face darkened. “I can imagine.”

He looked down at her and remembered the night she was rescued, and what she and the other former sex slaves had looked like. Not all of them survived their injuries. Some had diseases, while others buckled under the pain and took their own lives. Of all of them, Miranda seemed to be making the best recovery.

Caleb tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I guess you can.”

“I’m tired, Caleb. I think I’ll go to bed. You staying up for a while?”

He nodded. “Not sure I can sleep right now.”

She kissed him softly. “Don’t forget to set your alarm clock.”

“I won’t.”

He watched her walk into the bedroom, silhouetted against the window, and thought how much she looked like another girl he had loved. She had been gone only a little over two years, but it felt like a lifetime.

He managed two more glasses of grain liquor before he passed out on the couch.

*****

Morning. Bright sunlight through the window.

The piercing rattle of Caleb’s wind-up alarm clock ricocheted behind his eyes like a swarm of angry hornets. He checked the time—0700—and had a moment of panic thinking he was late for duty. Then he remembered it was Sunday, and he didn’t have to be at the VFW hall until 0800.

With a groan, he stood up from the couch and stumbled into Miranda’s bedroom. She lay on her side, pillow clutched to her chest, snoring softly. As quietly as he could, he peeled off his sweat-soaked uniform, folded it neatly, then stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. After brushing his teeth, he turned the shower knob and stepped into the narrow stall.

The water was surprisingly warm. Caleb guessed the bright sun shining on the water tower across town must have heated it. He relished in the balmy flow as he grabbed bar of soap and a washcloth and began scrubbing away old sweat and dead skin. Beyond the frosted glass of the shower stall, the bathroom door opened and Miranda’s distorted, flesh-colored shape stepped in. Caleb listened to the sound of water running, her toothbrush going to work, and then she opened the door to the shower.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

Caleb took in the sight of her bare alabaster skin in the morning light, soft blonde hair spilling down delicate shoulders, amorous cheekbones, bottomless sapphire eyes, the mobile, graceful curve of sensuous mouth, heavy breasts, rigid stomach muscles, broad flare of womanly hips, strong, supple planes of muscular thighs. His heart pounded in his chest as he stepped back to allow her inside.

The shower was small, but Miranda was very flexible. When they stepped out a short while later, spent and smiling, Caleb decided it was a good start to the morning.

*****

The sun was well into the sky by 0900.

Caleb sat on the front porch of the Hollow Rock General Store, his back against an awning post, waiting patiently for the arrival of Delta Squad and Sanchez’s militiamen. The store was open but had yet to see its first customer of the day. Miranda was inside updating the inventory logs, straightening merchandise on the shelves, and deciding what items to discount for the day.