Mrs. Seiden blew the strands of hair out of her face. She started toward him. Damn. He hadn’t wanted to involve anyone else. She opened her mouth to say something, but Myron silenced her with a finger to his lips.
She saw the look on his face and stopped. He gestured for her to get in the house. She gave a slight nod and moved toward it. She opened the back door.
Someone shouted, “Where the hell did he go?”
Myron waited for Mrs. Seiden to disappear from view. But she didn’t go inside.
Their eyes met. Now it was Mrs. Seiden’s turn to gesture. She motioned for him to come inside too. He shook his head. Too dangerous.
Mrs. Seiden stood there, her back rigid.
She would not move.
A sound came from the brush. Myron snapped his head toward it. It stopped. Could have been a squirrel. No way they could have found him already. But Win had called them “very bad” meaning, of course, very good at what they did. Win was never one for overstatement. If he said these guys were very bad…
Myron listened. No sound now. That scared him more than noise.
He did not want to put Mrs. Seiden in further danger. He shook his head one more time. She just stood there, holding the door open.
There was no sense in arguing. There are few creatures more stubborn than Livingston mothers.
Keeping low, he sprinted across the yard and through the open door, dragging her in with him.
She closed the door.
“Stay down.”
“The phone,” Mrs. Seiden said, “is over there.”
It was a kitchen wall unit. He dialed Win.
“I’m eight miles away from your house,” Win said.
“I’m not there,” Myron said. “I’m on Ridge Road.” He looked back at Mrs. Seiden for more information.
“Seventy-eight,” she said. “And it’s Ridge Drive, not Road.”
Myron repeated what she’d said. He told Win there were three of them, including Dominick Rochester.
“Are you armed?” Win asked.
“No.”
Win didn’t lecture him, but Myron knew that he wanted to. “The other two are good and sadistic,” Win said. “Stay hidden until I get there.”
“We’re not moving,” Myron said.
And that was when the back door burst open.
Myron turned in time to see Hippy Art Teacher fly through it.
“Run!” Myron shouted at Mrs. Seiden. But he didn’t wait to see if she obeyed. Art Teacher was still off balance. Myron leapt toward him.
But Art Teacher was fast.
He sidestepped Myron’s lunge. Myron saw that he was going to miss. He stuck out his left arm, clothesline style, hoping to get under Art’s chin. The blow touched down on the back of Art’s head, cushioned by the ponytail. Art staggered. He turned and hit Myron a short shot to the rib cage.
The man was very fast.
Everything slowed down again. In the distance, Myron could hear footsteps. Mrs. Seiden making a run for it. Art Teacher smiled at Myron, breathing hard. The speed of that punch told Myron that he probably shouldn’t stand and trade blows. Myron had the size advantage. And that meant taking him to the floor.
Art Teacher revved up to throw another punch. Myron crowded in. It was tougher to hit someone hard, especially someone bigger, when you crowded in. Myron grabbed Art Teacher’s shirt by the shoulders. He twisted to take him down, raising a forearm at the same time.
Myron hoped to put the forearm against the man’s nose. Myron weighed two hundred fifteen pounds. That kind of size, you land full force with your forearm resting on someone’s nose, the nose is going to snap like a dried-out bird’s nest.
But again Art Teacher was good. He saw what Myron intended to do. He tucked down just a little. The forearm was now resting on the rose-tinted glasses. Art Teacher closed his eyes and pulled them both down harder. He also raised a knee up to Myron’s midsection. Myron had to curve in his belly to protect himself. That took a good part of the power away from his forearm blow.
When they landed, the wire-framed glasses bent, but there was no serious power behind the shot. Art Teacher had the momentum now. He shifted his weight. His knee hadn’t landed with much force either because of the way Myron had rounded his back. But the knee was still there. And the momentum.
He threw Myron over his head. Myron took it with a roll. In less than a second they were both on their feet.
The two men faced each other.
Here was what they don’t tell you about fighting: You always feel crippling, paralyzing fear. The first few times, when Myron felt that stress-induced tingle in his legs, the kind that got so bad you wondered if you’d be able to stay on your feet, he felt like the worst sort of coward. Men who only get into a scrape or two, who get that leg tingle when they argue with a drunk lout at a bar, feel awash with shame. They shouldn’t. It is not cowardice. It is a natural biological reaction. Everyone feels that way.
The question is, what do you do with that? What you learn with experience is that it can be controlled, harnessed even. You need to breathe. You need to relax. If you get hit when you’re tensed up, it’ll cause more damage.
The man threw off his bent glasses. He met Myron’s eye. This was part of the game. The staring down. The guy was good. Win had said so.
But so was Myron.
Mrs. Seiden screamed.
To both men’s credit, neither of them turned away at the sound. But Myron knew that he had to get to her. He faked a charge, just enough so that Art would back up, and then he darted toward the front of the house, where the scream had originated.
The front door was open. Mrs. Seiden was standing there. And next to her, with his fingers digging into her upper arm, was the other man who’d chased him from the car. This guy was a few years older than Art Teacher and wore an ascot. An ascot, for crying out loud. He looked like Roger Healey from the old I Dream of Jeannie show.
No time.
Art Teacher was behind him. Myron slid to the side and threw a roundhouse right. Art Teacher ducked it, but Myron was ready. He stopped mid-punch and looped his arm around the man’s neck.
Myron had him in a headlock.
But now, with a grotesque rebel yell, Ascot leapt toward Myron.
Tightening his grip on the neck, Myron aimed a mule kick. Ascot let it land on his chest. He made his body soft and rolled with the blow, holding on to Myron’s leg.
Myron lost his balance.
Art Teacher managed to free himself then. He threw a knife hand, aiming for Myron’s throat. Myron tucked so that the blow hit his chin. It rattled his teeth.
Ascot held on to Myron’s leg. Myron tried to kick him off. Art Teacher was laughing now. The front door burst open again. Myron prayed it was Win.
It wasn’t.
Dominick Rochester arrived. He was out of breath.
Myron wanted to call out a warning to Mrs. Seiden, but that was when a pain unlike any other he had felt ripped through him. Myron let loose a blood-curdling howl. He looked down at his leg. Ascot had his head lowered.
He was biting Myron’s leg.
Myron screamed again, the sound mixing in with the laughter and cheers coming from Art Teacher.
“Go, Jeb! Woo-hoo!”
Myron kept kicking, but Ascot dug in deeper, holding on, growling like a terrier.
The pain was excruciating, all-encompassing.
Panic filled Myron. He stamped down with his free leg. Ascot held on with his teeth. Myron kicked harder, finally landing a kick on top of the man’s head. He pushed hard. His flesh ripped off as he finally pried himself free. Ascot sat up and spit something out of his mouth. Myron realized with horror that it was a meaty chunk of leg.
Then they were on him. All three. Piled on.
Myron ducked his head and started swinging. He connected with somebody’s chin. There was a grunt and a curse. But someone else hit him in the stomach.