David Rosenfelt - First degree

"I should. I own the damn place. We own the damn place." This shows signs of being a disaster.

We enter and I'm not surprised to discover that inside the dilapidated kennel is a dilapidated kennel.

"What do you think?" Willie asks, positively beaming.

I decide to be direct. "I think you're out of your mind."

He's surprised and wounded. "Why? I thought you love dogs."

"I do. But I don't want to take money from people to stuff their dogs in cages while they go on vacation."

He laughs. "Is that what you think this is?" He points at Tara and Cash. "Look at them, man. Tara was gonna be killed in the animal shelter, and Cash would have been history if they caught him."

I'm not understanding. "So?"

"So we're the shelter," he says. "Come on, man. We rescue dogs from the other shelter, from the street, whatever, and we take care of 'em until we can find them homes. It'll be one of those nonprofit things, like a foundation or something."

He's finally getting through to me. "Damn," I say in wonderment and admiration.

"And I'm gonna run the place," he says. "That's gonna be my job."

I put out my hand and shake his. "And I'm gonna be your partner."

Willie and I spend the next couple of hours talking about our upcoming partnership. We discuss things like what we're going to do to the place, how we'll take care of the dogs, the need to get veterinary care, etc.

I've spent the better part of a year looking for a charity to call my own, and Willie comes up with one a week after getting his money. I'm not about to abandon the needy otters, but I'm genuinely excited to have this project. I'm even more excited that Willie has agreed that we can call it the Tara Foundation. Cash doesn't seem to mind.

I get home and call Laurie to tell her about the venture, but she's not home and I leave a message on her machine for her to call me. Tonight being Thursday, I won't be seeing her. I have no idea where she is. I'm not jealous or insecure, but I wonder how she'd feel about wearing an ankle bracelet so I can monitor her activities.

I call Danny Rollins for the first time in months and place a bet on the Mets against the Braves. I order a pizza, grab a beer, sit with Tara on the couch, and start watching the game. Life is back to normal, and the last thing I remember before falling asleep is a Mike Piazza home run in the fourth inning.

When I wake up, the television is off, but so are all the lights. My first reaction is to assume it's a summer power failure, due to overuse of air-conditioning in the hot weather. However, I can see a streetlight on outside, so the outage must be within the house.

I'm annoyed as I stand, ready to grope around for my flashlight. I hear Tara barking near the back of the house. It is unusual for Tara to bark, and there is always a reason. The last time it was a head being buried on my property. In an instant I go from annoyed to scared, because I know that there is no way Tara would consider a blown circuit breaker a reason to bark.

On a gut instinct level, I know what is going on.

Darrin Hobbs.

I make my way to the phone, but I'm not surprised to discover it has been shut off along with the power. My cell phone is in my car, and I don't think my chances of getting to it are very good.

I hear Tara come into the room, moving toward the other side of the house. I can use her in this fashion as a sentry, but I know that Hobbs would not hesitate to shoot her.

"Here, girl. Come here," I whisper.

She comes to me, and I grab her collar and half coax, half drag her to the closet. I open the closet door and push her inside, closing the door as quietly as I can behind her. She starts barking again, but it's muffled, and she's relatively out of harm's way.

Now it's just Hobbs and me. A Special Forces killing machine head-to-head with an out-of-shape, chickenshit attorney. I'm not thinking about winning; I'm thinking about escaping … about surviving.

I inch out of the room, trying to make it to the back door of the house. It's very difficult in the darkness, and with the need to be perfectly quiet.

"It's show time, asshole."

It's Hobbs's voice in the darkness, but suddenly it's not completely dark anymore. There is the beam of a flashlight, moving back and forth slowly across the inside of the house. I duck down behind a couch as the beam approaches, but I'm very aware that eventually I will be found. And if I am found, I will be killed.

I am more physically afraid than I have ever been in my life, but for some reason it is not a debilitating fear. My mind is totally alert, my senses exquisitely tuned, as I try to come up with a strategy for staying alive.

And then I realize that silence is not my ally … it's his. I need noise, disruption, anything that will attract attention and cause him to move faster and with less caution. If he is free to take his time and methodically hunt me down, he will.

I peer out and follow the beam of the flashlight. It helps me see where the window is, and I pick up a vase and throw it toward the window. I'm right on the mark, and it crashes through.

Hobbs turns toward the noise, and I pick up a paperweight and throw it against a lamp, knocking it over and shattering it. All of this is making a racket, but not enough. I start screaming, "Help! Call the police!" at the top of my lungs, all the time moving from hiding place to hiding place.

The beam of light glances on me once, while I'm on the move, and Hobbs fires his weapon, though the sound is muffled by what must be a silencer. The bullet misses me, but breaks another window. Good.

I'm near the entrance to the hallway when an opportunity presents itself. I throw a plate down the hall, and Hobbs moves toward the entrance, not knowing that I'm there. Ironically, the flashlight allows me to see him, even though he can't see me. As he nears me, I leap for the light, crashing into it and Hobbs as hard as I can.

I land on top of him and can hear him swear. The flashlight falls to the ground, casting a reflected aura on us as we fight.

Fight is probably not the right word for it. I turn into a maniac, desperately trying to hang on to him, trying to rain blows on him, while all he wants to do is separate himself from me so he can take me apart. Or shoot me, if he is still holding the gun.

We knock over a table, but he manages to back off for a moment and deliver a stinging blow to my forehead. I rush forward again, winding up and blindly throwing as hard a punch as I can. It connects, sending shooting pains through my hand as I land on him and we tumble into a cabinet filled with china and glassware, sending it crashing to the ground with a noise that may be louder than any I have ever heard.

I feel like I hit him hard. My hand is aching and wet from what feels like blood, either his or my own. I summon the strength to try to do it again, while readying myself for his return barrage. But he's not retaliating, not attacking, not moving, and I realize that I've knocked him unconscious.

Suddenly, the flashlight moves, rises on its own power, bewildering me, since Hobbs is lying at my feet.

"Andy, are you okay?" is what Laurie says, as beautifully crafted a sentence as any I've ever heard.

"I think so. It's Hobbs. I knocked him out."

I can almost see her grin in the darkness. "So I shouldn't have shot him?"

She points the light on Hobbs's face, and there is a neat little hole in his forehead, which I don't think was made by my fist.

"No, you did fine … but it wasn't necessary. I used my right cross. It's the punch against which there is no known defense."

I go to her and we hug, though I can feel that she is still holding the gun in her hand, just in case. "How did you know to come here?" I ask.