Behind Closed Doors

Her stomach dropped. “What’s wrong?”

Following her into the garage, he opened her truck door, his expression intent. “Just worried about you.”

“Oh.” Laura reached up to touch his cheek. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called.”

She’d been preoccupied with getting out to her truck while there was still someone to walk with her, locking herself in and spending every second she was stopped at every light watching, ready to gun the gas if anyone approached her vehicle.

“I was testing for levels of Opuntia Streptacantha sap, but had to wait until midafternoon to harvest because of the acid levels in the pads….”

Nodding, grinning, the lines on his face smoothing, Harry pulled her out of her little Ford Ranger and into his arms.

“I love you, sweetie.” His words were muffled against her neck.

Only a few days ago Laura would have fallen naturally into Harry’s embrace; now she had to force herself to lean against him. And couldn’t stay there long.

Releasing her immediately, Harry didn’t seem to notice.

She wasn’t afforded the same luxury. For the rest of the evening, Laura struggled with unwelcome thoughts—bizarre notions about Harry’s hands being dirty. About his touch being abhorrent.

Feeling trapped.

Fighting the need to run away and the fear of facing reality.

And making herself sick with guilt.

Someone was out back.

“Get in the other room,” Harry commanded, jumping up from his seat at the table Wednesday evening.

Hearing her leave, Harry flattened himself against the wall next to the sliding glass door so he could see out without being seen.

“Harry? What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t know how many there were. Or how close one of them might be.

So far, he couldn’t see anything other than the pool, deck chairs, grill and bougainvillea growing up the privacy wall enclosing the yard.

There. He saw it again. Leaves moving along the back wall.

Was that how they’d gotten in the last time? From the neighbor’s yard behind them?

What if the rape had only been their first warning? What if someone was out to get Laura away from him, to make them an example for other couples who might be considering mixed race marriages? To make a statement like those the Ku Klux Klan had been making for decades?

Hooded extremists attacking homes in the dark of night.

“Harry?” Laura came out.

“Get back!” He hadn’t meant to shout, but he’d do it again if he had to. “Call 911.”

He heard her pick up the phone in the living room.

And quietly unlocked the door leading from the kitchen to the garage. He could lock it from the outside—and gain access to the backyard from a side door.

He needed a weapon. Didn’t have time to get the gun.

Grabbing a screwdriver from his workbench, Harry moved quickly, stealthily, toward the garage access door. Thank God he’d oiled the damn thing a couple of weeks before. He made it out to the yard with almost no sound.

Perusing around the corner of the house, he could see the entire expanse of the backyard. At first glance, he couldn’t see anyone. Had he scared them off?

Harry hoped not. He was going to get these bastards, and if they were lucky, hold them until the cops arrived.

He’d like to annihilate them.

There! It came again. The rustle in the leaves. Someone was in the bushes at the back of the yard.

Crossing quickly to the wall, Harry crept along the bushes until he was only a few yards away.

And then he saw the shoes. One pair. Tennis. Male. Not quite as big as Harry’s ten and a half.

The smaller guy, then.

Searching the rest of the wall, he determined, to the best of his ability that the intruder was alone.

Spying?

Planning the next invasion?

Harry thought, very briefly, of waiting for the cops. But what if the guy decided to leave before they showed up? What if he knew Harry was standing there? Maybe the intruder planned to jump him….

Harry lunged. Ignoring last week’s injuries, he hurled himself under the bush like a baseball player sliding into home base. He grabbed the man around the ankles and yanked, pulling him off-balance.

“What the—”

Dragging the body out by the feet, he dove on top of it, planning to hold the man down until the cops arrived.

He had one of them.

And because of that they’d damn well catch the other.

“Get off me!”

It took Harry a full thirty seconds to realize that the voice was female, and so was the body beneath his.

Careful to hold on to the intruder’s wrists, he rolled off her.

“Who are you?”

“Maggie Boucher. I live on the other side of the wall. I moved in a couple of weeks ago.”