Watchers

you’ll live forever.”
     
     
    Travis took the first tray of cookies out of the oven and put them on a rack to cool.
    Einstein came sniffing around, and Travis said, “They’re too hot yet.”
    The dog returned to the living room to look out the front window at the rain.
     
     
    Just before Nora turned off the Coast Highway, Vince slid down on the seat, below the window level, out of sight. He kept the gun on her. “I’ll blow that baby right out of your belly if you make the slightest wrong move.”
    She believed him.
    Turning onto the dirt lane, which was muddy and slippery, Nora drove up
    the hill toward the house. The overhanging trees shielded the road from the worst of the rain but collected the water on their branches and sent it to the ground in fatter droplets or rivulets.
    She saw Einstein at a front window, and she tried to come up with some signal that would mean “trouble,” that the dog would instantly understand. She couldn’t think of anything.
    Looking up at her, Vince said, “Don’t go all the way to the barn. Stop right beside the house.”
    His plan was obvious. The corner of the house where the pantry and cellar stairs were located had no windows. Travis and Einstein would not be able to see the man getting out of the truck with her. Vince could hustle her around the corner, onto the back porch, and inside before Travis realized something was wrong.
    Maybe Einstein’s canine senses would detect danger. Maybe. But . . . Einstein had been so ill.
     
     
    Einstein padded into the kitchen, excited.
    Travis said, “Was that Nora’s truck?”
    Yes.
    The retriever went to the back door and did a dance of impatience—then stood still, cocked his head.
     
     
    Nora’s stroke of luck came when she least expected it.
    When she parked alongside the house, engaged the hand brake, and switched off the engine, Vince grabbed her and dragged her across the seat, out of his side of the truck because that was the side against the back end of the house and most difficult to see from windows at the front corner of the structure. Climbing from the pickup, pulling her by one hand, he was looking around to be sure Travis was not nearby; distracted, he couldn’t keep his revolver on Nora as closely as before. As she slid across the seat, past the glove box, she popped open the door and snatched up the .38 pistol. Vince must have heard or sensed something because he swung toward her, but he was too late. She jammed the .38 into his belly and, before he could raise his gun and blow her head off, she squeezed the trigger three times.
    With a look of shock, he slammed back against the house, which was only three feet behind him.
    She was amazed by her own cold-bloodedness. Crazily, she thought that no one was so dangerous as a mother protecting her children, even if one child was unborn and the other was a dog. She fired once more, point-blank, at his chest.
    Vince went down hard, face-first on the wet ground.
    She turned from him and ran. At the corner of the house she almost collided
    with Travis, who vaulted over the porch railing and landed in a crouch in front of her, holding the Uzi carbine.
    “I killed him,” she said, hearing hysteria in her voice, fighting to control it. “I shot him four times, I killed him, my God.”
    Travis rose from a crouch, bewildered. Nora threw her arms around him and put her head against his chest. As chilling rain beat upon them, she reveled in the living warmth of him.
    “Who—” Travis began.
    Behind Nora, Vince issued a shrill breathless cry and, rolling onto his back, fired at them. The bullet struck Travis high in the shoulder and knocked him backward. If it had been two inches to the right, it would have hit Nora in the head.
    She was almost pulled off her feet when Travis fell because she was holding him. But she let go fast enough and went to the left, in front of the truck, out of the line of fire. She got only a quick look at Vince, who was holding his revolver in one hand and clutching his stomach with the other, trying to get off the ground.
    In that glimpse before she cowered down in front of the pickup, she had not seen any blood on the man.
    What was happening here? He could not possibly have survived three rounds in the stomach and one in the chest. Not unless he actually was immortal.
    Even as Nora scrambled for the cover of the truck, Travis had been getting off his back, sitting up in the mud. Blood was visible on him, spreading across his