Holding in the fear that threatened to overpower him, he peered in through the shards of glass that lined the window’s edge. A pile of snow had formed on the kitchen table and along the wall, and more was blowing in every second.

In the center of the drift on the floor was a footprint of a man’s boot.

He thrust himself over the window sill and into the room, ignoring the sharp pain in his hands as he landed with a heavy thud on the hardwood floor. It was almost as cold inside as it was out in the storm. He stood and looked around frantically for a weapon, finally settling on the few lonely pieces of firewood next to the stove. He grabbed a heavy piece, holding it with both hands out in front of him, his whole body shaking with adrenaline. The kitchen and living room were empty, and there was no sound except for the wind whipping through the broken window.

Chuckie Howard spoke up in his head again. The man’s an Army veteran, the voice said. He’s been trained for this kind of stuff. The most you’ve done is taken three classes of karate when you were twelve, and I remember those. You got your ass kicked, as I recall.

He moved forward as quietly as possible and climbed the stairs. The door to their bedroom was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open the rest of the way with the end of the log, every nerve in his body alive and screaming. Several boxes from the move still sat against the far wall, and the bedsheets were crumpled at the end of the mattress.

The room was empty.

He stepped into it cautiously, holding the wood out like a baseball bat, and moved quickly over to the walkin closet. The door was battered and cracked, as if someone had beaten on it with a heavy instrument. He felt the pulse pounding in his temples, and the shake in his arms, and he pushed open that door too with the log and saw the smeared handprint on the wall and the deep red pool of blood on the floor.

They had fought it out in here.

A broom handle lay broken on the floor, one end of it stained red and sprouting bits of thick, coarse hair. The bastard had suffered at least one good blow before he took them.

Feeling sick and frantic, David Pierce called 911 from his cell. The dispatcher told him to sit tight and they would be out there as soon as they could make it through the snow. He screamed at them to hurry. Then he searched the rest of the house as quickly as he could. The rooms were empty and there were no other signs of a struggle.