Middle Of Nowhere

   He climbed out of the car, accidentally kicking an empty Starbucks cup into the driveway. As he bent to retrieve it, the driver's door window blew out above his head cascading down as a thousand cubes of tempered glass.

   His detective's mind immediately registered that he'd been shot at—an intended chest shot. A kill shot. His next coherent thought was Flek!

   He edged beneath the car instinctively, defenseless but partially protected and less vulnerable. He waited for the second shot, hoping there wasn't enough of him exposed to take a bullet. His heart raced out of control and he wondered if a heart attack might kill him instead. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. . . .

   The shot had not made any noise. Even the window shattering had sounded like little more than a hand clap and pebbles spilling onto pavement. He didn't want Liz alerted, didn't want to bring her to the door for any reason. One Boldt as a target was enough. A long shot, Boldt thought, recalling the rifle Manny Wong had sold Flek. Probably from on a roof or up in a tree, and at a long distance, which might explain why he had not heard any report from the weapon. Not even a trailing echo. Maybe Wong had saved his life by resighting that scope.

   He stayed there under the car, collecting himself, wondering if a German sniper sight was searching the edge of the car, looking for enough flesh to sink a bullet into.

   He heard tapping on a window. He couldn't see, but he knew it was Liz, inside the house, wondering where he was. She'd seen his car. Perhaps she had heard the dull pop of the driver's door glass. His kids would be getting ready for bed. Maybe already in bed. The rest of the world was going about its business.

   It took him a moment to extricate his right arm and ease himself out from under the car. He didn't want Liz to come looking for him. She'd come home without consulting him. For a moment a husband's anger boiled inside him. Maybe his sniper was doing him a favor. Could he tell his wife he'd just been shot at? In his own driveway?

   Did he have any choice?

   He squeezed himself out from under the car and ran, crouched low, to the back of the house. He entered through the kitchen door, sat Liz down and explained that he'd just been shot at. He wasn't going to tell her to take the kids and leave. That would be left for her to decide. They embraced. Boldt felt himself swell with tears—the fear of the last few minutes wanting an outlet.

   Boldt groaned.

   "Who?" she asked.

   "Daphne," he answered, believing her still questioning the kiss.

   "The gun shot," she corrected, tension steeling. "Who shot at you, and what are you going to do about it?"

   He leaned back, drew his weapon from its holster, and checked it as he spoke to her. She didn't like that. A tension settled between them. "I'm going to check the park. I think the shot came from there. If I'm lucky, I find a shell casing. Doubtful, but worth a try." He hurried so that she wouldn't interrupt. "After that, I'm going to go out there and look for the bullet, which is probably the only chance we have for evidence."

   "You're going to report it," she stated with no uncertainty.

   "All they'd do is look for a slug and a shell casing. Believe me, I know how this works. And when we find the slug or the shell casing, it'll be from a Chinese manufacture long-barrel assault rifle."

   "You do know who it is," she said.

   "A pretty good idea is all," he admitted. "But that doesn't win convictions."

   They met eyes—hers filled with concern. Then she softened and said, "Lou, if you'd kissed some waitress at a bachelor party . . ." surprising him. "But this isn't the same thing. Not even close. I've changed over these last couple of years, I know that. I'm not so sure you have. Which is fine. Let me just say this: if you don't want me, I don't want you. But for the sake of the kids, I'd do anything not to break us up. Not now. Not so young anyway. I'm angry with you. Not so much for what you did, but for allowing it to happen. I've got my faith to keep me strong. What do you have?" She stepped back and crossed her arms defiantly. "Go find your slug. Tonight, I'll sleep with Miles. For their sake, we're loving and cheerful in the morning."

   "Maybe I'll wait 'til morning to look," he suggested, hoping they might still talk it through.

   "You?" she asked. "Do you know yourself at all?"

   "Maybe not," he answered.

   "Maybe not," she agreed. "You're a cop. Once and forever." Her eyes sparked, a thought clearly filling her head. That look on her face grew with intensity. "You're a cop! Meaning our phone is unpublished, and always has been. Your name—our address—is not in any phone book, any listing, anywhere. So how did this guy know which house to watch? Right? I mean, that's the point of the privacy, of all the secrecy. Right?"

   "The Internet?" he wondered aloud. "I don't know,"

he answered, somewhat lifelessly. Her reasoning bored into him deeper the more he thought about it. Who was the cop in the family now?