Blindside

felt stuffed with flowers.
    They paused, listening. They’d watched him jimmy the window into the dining room, not more than twenty feet away from where they were crouched over in deep shadows by the front door. It was lucky he hadn’t tried to go right in through a bedroom window. That, they couldn’t have allowed. They walked lightly, pressing themselves against the wall in the hallway, listening to him try to get through the window. How he could get in without awakening Ms. Barton neither of them could imagine.
    They heard him land hard on the dining room floor.
    “That’s it,” Savich said and ran lightly into the dining room.
    Savich said, quietly but clearly, “You can stop now, Troy. It’s all over.”
    Troy Ward’s head jerked up. He recognized Savich’s voice even though he couldn’t see him clearly.
    He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Get away!”
    As his voice echoed off the dining room walls, they heard a woman yell loud enough to make the crystals on the chandelier over the dining room table dance. “You little creep! How dare you come in here to rape me! Just look at you, all dressed in black like some sort of gangster, sneaking into my house, landing like a brick on my dining room floor! How’s this, you nasty little pervert!”

    There was enough light coming through the window to see Ms. Aquine Barton bring a huge old iron skillet down on Troy Ward’s head. Troy’s finger jerked the trigger on his gun in reflex, and a bullet slammed into the lamp on Ms. Barton’s sideboard. It exploded, sending shards of glass flying all over the room.
    “Get down, kids!” Aquine Barton yelled even though there were no kids around. “Look what you did, you little creep! That was my mama’s lamp.” She leaned over Troy Ward’s still bulk and kicked him in the ribs with her bare foot. Then she looked up, saw two more shadows, heard them breathing hard, and flipped on the light, skillet raised high. “Two more of you?” She waved that skillet toward them. “You just come here and I’ll lay you flat, too.”
    “Ms. Barton? Please don’t hurt us. I’m Agent Savich and this is Agent Sherlock. We’re with the FBI. Please don’t slam us with that skillet.” He pulled out his shield and flipped it open.
    She looked them both up and down, then checked out his FBI shield. “A woman’s got to protect herself. Had this skillet under the bed for a good fifteen years now. First time I had to use it. Who is this nasty fat little man anyway?” She waved the skillet very close to Troy Ward’s head. “What is all this about? What are you doing in my house at midnight? I have school tomorrow, you know.”
    “The man you just flattened, Ms. Barton, is the math teacher killer,” Sherlock said. “And you brought him down all by yourself. Thank you very much.”
    Ms. Barton stood there, staring down at Troy Ward, then back at Savich. “I know who you are now. This man was one of the widowers, standing behind you, Agent Savich, on that podium. I remember thinking he really needed to go to the gym, maybe even sleep there, no food. When was that press conference? A couple of weeks ago?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Savich said. “You’ve got a very good memory.”

    “But his wife was the first one killed. Oh, I see. It was him all along, the scummy little jerk.” She kicked him with her bare foot. “But why was he here?” Her dark eyes widened and she whispered, “Oh my goodness, he was here to kill me, to make me his next victim, wasn’t he?”
    “We wouldn’t have allowed that, Ms. Barton,” Sherlock said. “We were right with him all the way. We just had to wait until the moment he stepped into your house. Then we were prepared to arrest him. By catching him here, we’ve left no way for a lawyer to get him off. There was never any danger to you. I was looking forward to taking him in myself, but you didn’t give me a chance, you just bonked him on the head and laid him right out.”
    Bless Sherlock, Savich thought. She was excellent at distraction.
    “I see now. You boobs set me up.” Ms. Barton crossed her arms over her chest, still holding the skillet.
    A schoolteacher who had obviously heard better excuses than Sherlock’s.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Sherlock said. “But you’re a heroine, ma’am. You’ve made things safe for math teachers again.”
    “Well, yes, I suppose I have,” said Ms. Barton as she fussed over her knee-length nightgown.
    Dane appeared in the doorway, out of