Life Expectancy

in the alarm system, purchased small aerosol cans of pepper spray and secreted them throughout the house in places high enough to be beyond the children's reach, purchased four tasers and distributed them in similar fashion. We added second deadbolts to the front door, the back door, and the door between the kitchen and the garage.
        Because Grandpa Josef had not mentioned January 12, 1998, in his predictions-the night that Beezo had attempted to kidnap Lorrie, deliver our first child himself, and abscond with the baby-but had cited only January 19, when our house had been burned down, we could only assume that he might have also failed to warn us of another bad day closely associated with the upcoming third date on his list. For at least two weeks prior, we would need to work ourselves into a state of judicious paranoia.
        We had enjoyed nearly four years of peace, of normalcy. Now, as the third of the five dates approached-Monday, December 23, 2002-we felt a long shadow falling across us, a shadow out of time, with its origins in August 9, 1974. am a fool for Christmas and a cherished customer of every purveyor of seasonal tinsel and festoonery.
        From the day after Thanksgiving until early January, on our roof a life-size spotlighted Santa stands with his bag of gifts at chimney side waving to passersby.
        The chimney, eaves, windows, and porch posts of our house are outlined with so many strings of multicolored lights that we are no doubt visible to astronauts in orbit.
        In the front yard, to one side of the walk, stands an elaborate nativity scene with the holy family, wise men, angels, camels. One ox, one donkey, two cows. One dog, five doves, nine mice.
        To the other side of the walk stand elves, reindeer, snowmen, carolers.
        They are all mechanical, motorized, in motion, producing a hushed symphony of ticking clockworks and humming transformers.
        On our front door hangs a wreath that might be heavier than the door itself. Evergreen boughs twined with holly, decorated with pine cones, walnuts, silver bells, gold beads, baubles, bangles, spangles.
        Inside, for those six weeks, I cannot tolerate an unornamented surface or a drab corner. From every door header and ceiling-mounted light fixture dangles mistletoe.
        Although the eve of Christmas Eve, December 23, was supposed to be a day to dread that year, the decorations were unpacked, polished, hung, strung, and activated.
        Life is too short, and Christmas comes but once a year. We were not going to allow the likes of Konrad Beezo to take the shine off our celebration.
        On the evening of December 22, we intended to have Mom and Dad and Grandma to our house for dinner at nine o'clock. They would stay through the night, helping us stand watch after midnight, when the clock brought us to the third day in Grandpa Josef's list.
        By seven o'clock, the table was set with Christmas china, emerald green cut-crystal goblets, gleaming silverware, and candles in glass chimneys shaped like chubby snowmen. In the center were miniature poinsettias tucked among clusters of white chrysanthemums.
        At 7:20, the telephone rang. I answered it in the kitchen, where Lorrie and I were preparing dinner.
        "Jimmy," said Huey Foster, "we've just got some good news about Konrad Beezo you'll want to hear."
        "This isn't much in the yuletide spirit," I told the chief, "but I hope the bozo turned up dead somewhere."
        "The news isn't quite that cheerful, but almost. I'm here in my office with an FBI agent name of Porter Carson, out of their Denver division.
        He needs to speak with you and Lorrie as soon as possible, and I know you'll want to hear what he's got."
        "Bring him around right now," I said.
        "Can't bring him but I'll send him," Huey said. "Tonight's the department Christmas party. The eggnog's nonalcoholic, but as chief, I've got the authority to spike it, and then I pass out year-end bonuses. I gave Porter directions, but he won't even need 'em if he just follows the glow of your Christmas display."
        When I hung up, Lorrie was frowning at me. "Beezo?"
        I told her what Huey had said.
        "Better hustle the kids a little farther out of the way," she suggested. "We don't want them overhearing this."
        Our three elves were in the living room, sprawled on the floor with boxes of crayons and a six-foot