While he diddled around? As adrenalin coursing through his body gave him the power of a jackhammer, Merrill thrust the heel of his hand upward to the man’s chin. The man flopped over the railing, shrieking. He grabbed at the railing, but too late: he kept falling, his eyes huge, going empty of everything but his terror. Merrill turned to the other two as the man falling crashed onto something that set off more screaming down below. The eyes and mouths of the two in the room were wide open. They had not expected anything like this. The room was filled with a frightening roar. It was Merrill himself, he realized, still screaming.

The two backed up. He ran toward them. The one near the television set turned for the door as Merrill reached him, arms extended. Merrill pushed, hard. The man tripped over his own feet and crashed headfirst into the flat screen television. Now the last man was yelling, groping at the handle of a revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants. Merrill lunged for it and squeezed the man’s trigger finger with both hands. The gun went off. The man’s eyes grew wider and he got heavier against Merrill’s hands, causing the gun to go off again. The man released his grip on the gun and fell back on the carpet.

“What are you doing here?”

The man looked away as if he wanted to cry. A red stain as big as a pie plate spread over the front of his pants. Gun in hand, Merrill hustled to the balcony. Two of the three downstairs were wrestling Amy out of the pool, while one was gathering up her shirt. Merrill thought he might have a shot at him, but people were still hurrying past, and Merrill was no kind of marksman. The man Merrill had pushed from the balcony lay twisted like a swastika on the crushed-eggshell remains of a poolside table.

“Hey! Stop them! They’re kidnapping my wife!”

One of the men pointed at Merrill. Amy screamed as Merrill heard the gunshot and the bullet shattered the glass behind him. He ducked inside. Did he hear the water running?