Private Heat by Robert E. Bailey

played the innocent, but in her eyes—mischief.
    â€œTurn off all the lights in the house except the light in the master bathroom,” I said, “and turn on the hot tub.” I put my sport coat back on, locked the front door, and closed the window I had opened to air the room out.
    We sat in darkened silence, her on the sofa and me on the chair. In less than an hour my eyes adjusted and familiar shapes climbed out of the gloom.
    At a quarter after eleven Ron fired up the radio. “You’re getting cruised,” he said. “Same Ford Escort, but this time I think there’s a back seat passenger.”
    I walked up to the door. The red Ford passed slowly from the north. The shotgun rider rubbernecked the house. “That’s a four on the car. I can’t make the back seat.”
    About three houses past, the Escort showed brake lights and stopped. Someone got out. “Heads up,” Ron said. “It’s showtime.” The radio went silent for what seemed like far too long, then he said, “You’re definitely getting prowled.”
    I heard someone go over the chain-link fence on the south side of the house. “Give us a nine-one-one call,” I said.
    â€œThat’s a four,” Ron answered.
    Our prowler tried the windows and doors on the back of the house. I heard the outside garage door open and picked up the telephone in the kitchen—dead. I took Karen by the arm, led her to the master bedroom, and locked the door behind us. I covered my right eye with my hand, to save my night vision, took two pillows off the bed, threw them into the Jacuzzi, and covered them with red striped towels from the towel rack. I locked the door and pulled it shut. Light peeked under the door.
    The door from the garage to the kitchen splintered. I pushed a dresser in front of the bedroom door. Karen helped me T-bone it with the vanity. I led her to the wall next to the slider and put our backs against the wall with Karen farthest from the door. I drew my sidearm and thumbed the hammer. Karen’s body made a jolt like she was shaking off a chill. With my left hand I gave her a reassuring pat on the forearm, then reached across my body and unlocked the slider. I pushed it open about two feet, turned back to the wall, and waited. Nobody came in.
    I listened for the rustle of a nylon jacket, heavy breathing, whispered plans—all the mistakes of amateurs—but heard only the drone of crickets in the back yard. Inside the house I could hear heavy but cautious footfalls approaching the bedroom door from the hallway, and then Randal Talon was pounding and cursing at the bedroom door.
    I crouched, snapped up the safety, and dived, low, out of the sliding door with my weapon in both hands. Lying on the deck, I thumbed the safety off and rolled, covering first the south end of the house, then the north. I was alone. Two shots exploded in the hallway. Karen screamed. I scrambled to my feet, reached through the door, and hauled her out by the arm. Police Officer Randal Talon attacked the bedroom door like a tackling sled. I pulled the curtain closed and eased the slider shut.
    Karen made stiff-legged zombie steps, and I had to tug hard to hustle her along the back of the house as I walked backward toward the north end of the house with my pistol pointed at the door we’d just exited. Karen held her hand over her mouth. Her eyes gaped all whites but for little dots in the middle. She didn’t seem to be leaking, and I didn’t smell any blood.
    At the back wall of the garage I steered Karen down the wooden steps of the deck and into the yard. We cut the north corner wide so that I could cover the back of the house and still be sure that we didn’t walk into a surpriseparty lurking out of sight along the north wall of the residence.
    The distance to the sidewalk amounted to only about thirty or forty feet, but walking backward and Karen’s halting gait made the trip longer