“Yes,” he said. “But I’m not working tonight.” He put his grocery bags on the floor and began to load the perishable food into the refrigerator. A moment later, Zoe appeared in the doorway, and a few feet behind her was a girl about twenty-three years old with long, blond hair, but bright blue eyes like Zoe’s. Zoe said, “Peter, this is my daughter, Sarah.”
Caldwell looked at her, and noted that she was the girl in the photographs, only a little older, and that she was more like her mother in person. Her movements and posture were the same. “Hi,” she said.
He smiled as sincerely as he could. “Hello, Sarah,” he said. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“I know. You’ve heard so much about me,” Sarah said.
“Not that much, really,” said Peter. “I got the impression that your mother is very proud of you, and has been looking forward to seeing you. Both are good things. And she said you were in school.”
“Law school,” she said. “At UCLA. Second year. This is my spring break.”
“Great,” he said. “I hope you’ll enjoy it. The weather has been unseasonably good for this time of year, so it’s good timing.”
“What? No lawyer jokes?”
He shook his head. “Not for a second-year student. You will have heard all of mine during your first year. Have you met the dogs?”
“Yes. My mother introduced us. They’re lovely.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I hope you’re not allergic or anything.”
“No,” she said.
Zoe said, “Okay, Peter. We’ll leave you alone now and let you put away your food.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll just finish this and then take Carol and Dave out for a bit. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sarah.”
The two women went back to the living room, and the dogs appeared in the kitchen just as he put the last of the cans into the pantry and closed the door. He took the leashes off the hook, snapped them on the dogs’ collars, and took them out the kitchen door and down the back stairs.
They walked the neighborhood for a few blocks, feeling a night chill that reminded him that spring hadn’t quite closed the door on winter yet. A late snow was a possibility that didn’t seem as remote tonight.
The man simply came into existence forty feet behind him. When Caldwell had last looked no one had been there, but now he heard the footsteps. The dogs took notice too; their ears turned backward to listen. The footsteps quickened and the dogs wheeled around to face the man, so Caldwell turned too.
The man was only a silhouette at first, striding toward Caldwell. The shape was young—slim, supple, and fast. When Caldwell saw him coming, he stepped off the sidewalk and pulled back on the leashes to prepare to let the man pass. But as he did, he saw the man reach into his jacket pocket and grasp something. As the man walked straight toward Peter his hand emerged from his pocket. He passed through a splash of light from a streetlamp and Caldwell saw the gleam on the finish of the revolver.
Peter said, “Fassen.” Then he let go of both leashes. The two dogs dashed and then leapt at once, just as the young man began to lift his hand.
Peter charged at him, but the dogs were much faster. They jumped high, baring their teeth at the man’s neck. The man stopped and leaned his body back to avoid being bitten, but that put him off balance. The weight of their bodies pushed him backward.
Peter reached him, struck the young man’s forearm down, lifted a knee to his groin, and then landed a combination of quick punches to his face and throat. The light was dim, but Peter could see his skin was black.
The man reeled and Peter clutched his wrist and brought his forearm down over his knee to make him drop the pistol, then retained his grip to jerk the man’s arm and bring his unprotected face forward to meet a hard punch. He used the back of his calf and swept the man off his feet onto the pavement, where he landed on his back and hit the back of his head. The dogs clamped their jaws on his arms and held him there.
The army had trained Caldwell as a hand-to-hand fighter and he had continued his training through his adult life, but he knew that he never would have prevailed against this opponent if the dogs hadn’t done most of the fighting. The man was too fast, too young, and too strong.
Caldwell snatched the gun off the ground and aimed it as the man began to recover his wind and his consciousness. Caldwell used the opportunity to get a close look at the man’s face. His attacker was younger than he’d thought. He looked about eighteen. Was this a gang attack or something? Caldwell allowed himself a half second to look up the sidewalk for others, then back at the young man, and then over his shoulder, but there were no signs of other attackers. Caldwell said, “Listen carefully. You get one chance at each question. What’s your name?”
The boy looked at his arm and the gun. “James Harriman.”
“Give me your wallet.”