Chapter 1

I had thought that we were settling into a groove. The kids loved Ashley, and she acted as if she was alive for two reasons: to love and smother them with that love, and to love me. Together we took them on picnics, to the park, to the zoo, and on walks about the neighborhood. The neighbors grew accustomed to seeing the four of us together.

I took them to visit their mother every other Saturday. When the children asked me why their mommy couldn’t take them on walks herself, or come to visit for a day, I simply told them that their mommy had disobeyed the judge, the judge was a very important person, and when you disobeyed, you got sent to your room. Since mommy was a grown up, she had a special room to go to for her time outs.

They did not like it. After all, being kids, they wanted both their parents. Still, explained in that manner, they could wrap their heads around it.

So, late one night, with the kids asleep, Ashley sleepily kissed me good night, and shuffled off to bed. I was paying the bills, and trying to keep my checkbook register, as well as my bill book, straight. I was on the verge of wrapping everything up, stamping the bills, and setting them by the coffeepot in order to hit the mailbox on the way to work. My progress was disturbed by a pounding upon my door.

It was, after all, after 2300 hours, and folks in my circle did not simply stop by, pound on the door, and do so after, oh, say, 2000 hours, at least not without a phone call in advance. I had received no such call, and so cocked my Colt, engaged the safety, and prepared to greet my guest.

Through the locked door, I invited the knock-er to identify himself, and Tim obliged me. “Motherfucker, I want my bitch! Open the fuck up, or I’ll kick your door in, and take her!”

I figured that this sort of philosophical conversation ought to be shared with a wider audience, so I grabbed my phone, and called 911. I told the dispatcher that I had a person pounding upon my door, demanding entry, and threatening residents of my home. I asked for a couple of officers, and requested that the dispatcher notify them that the homeowner was a CPL holder. She murmured something as an aside, and returned to the phone. “Sir, officers are on the way. Do you know this person?”

“Yep. He is my girlfriend’s ex. One of your officers, Bobbie Merritt, is familiar with him. I’ve been told that he treated Ashley poorly, and tonight that looks to be accurate.”

Our conversation was interrupted by additional, louder, pounding. Tim had expanded his conversational repertoire, and elected to share it with me. “I told you, you fuck! Let me in, I’m gonna take my bitch back! Open the fuck up, if you know what is good for you!”

I took this as an opportunity to orient him to the facts of our situation. “Sir? I have the sheriff department on the line. They have officers on the way. You really need to leave. I’m not going to let you in my house, under any circumstances.”

He did not appear to be a receptive audience. “You fuck! Did you call the fucking cops on me? You sunuvabitch! I’ll fucking kick your ass! Open this goddamned door, you little shit, and I’ll kill you! I swear it!”

I turned to the phone, and asked the dispatcher, “Did you just hear this guy, just now?”

She responded, “Yep, loud and clear. I’ll ask the deputies to pick up their response.”

Shortly, I heard the first siren. Tim seemed to find this a call to action, and the thumping against my door, and the bellowing of threats, increased. Ashley appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Mark? Is everything OK?”

“Nope. Tim is at the door. As you can hear, he’s kinda excited. You get the kids, lock the bedroom door. My keys are on the dresser, open the gun safe and arm yourself with the 20 gauge shotgun. If somebody kicks in that door, kill him!”

“Got it!” and so she got. I heard the kids murmuring upstairs, the bedroom door slam, and returned my attention to my guest. The door was beginning to shake with each impact. I did not have a lot of confidence that the cops would arrive before my door gave up the ghost. I drew the Colt, thumbed off the safety, and stepped back to the corner of the entryway. I settled the phone on the table behind me, and waited for events to unfold.

Tim persisted in his attempts to dismantle my house using blunt force trauma, front door first. As his efforts made clear, my NEXT door was going to be considerably sturdier, and the connection to the frame, and through the frame to my foundation, would be much, much more robust.

So, I waited, the dispatcher waited, the officers hurried along, and, as I was beginning to expect, my door yielded abruptly. This brought Tim into my house, face first, and he took a moment on my floor to gather his wit, take note of my presence, and get to his feet. I saw a hammer in his hand, and retreated across the living room.

I held him in my sights, and began to present directions. “Tim! Get out of my house! Now! Stop, I will shoot! Leave my house! Drop the weapon! Drop the weapon! Drop the weapon! Stop! Leave now! Stop!”

He advanced upon me, ignoring my commands. Once he came about 15 or 20 feet from me, I began to squeeze the trigger. He kept advancing, and I began to shoot.

A 45 does not toss a human across a room. If the human is sufficiently enraged, or maniacal, or drugged up, well, he may not show any indication that he has been shot at all. That is why the military has a three shot burst control on the rifles issued to soldiers. I had taken that advice, and shot him three times, and then I moved back and over across the doorway, and took note of the fact that he did not seem to be slowing down. Since he was waving his hammer around, I shot him again. And again. By the time the slide locked back on the empty magazine, I was backing away. I dropped the spent magazine, and grabbed another from my mag carrier on my left hip. I slammed the magazine into place, and dropped the slide, loading the weapon.

By now I had retreated across the dining room as well, and was entering the kitchen. Our boy Tim was starting to look a bit peaked, moving slower than his initial advance. Since he was still advancing, still threatening me and “his bitch”, and still waving that hammer, well, I was gonna keep shooting.

I settled the sights on his third shirt button, and commenced to empty the magazine. Another slide lock, another dumped mag, and I seated my last magazine, and backed up some more.

Tim was moving even more slowly, but still had his hammer. I maneuvered around the kitchen table, and kept my sights on his chest. He was starting to list to starboard, when I heard voices from my porch, and saw movement. Backing away, moving the pistol to my left hand, holding it by the slide, I identified myself. “I’m the homeowner. The guy is armed with a hammer, and kicked in my door! I have children and a woman upstairs.”

Unsurprisingly, a hand appeared from my left, relieved me of my pistol, and hustled me aside. I soon was the proud tenant of a pair of handcuffs, and the helpful officer ushered me outside to a patrol car.

Just about the time I was discovering the way to sit comfortably in the back seat of a patrol car, while handcuffed (Pro Tip: there isn’t one), I saw one of the officers race from my home, grab a medic bag, or so it appeared, and trot back inside.

I was left for several minutes to admire the electronic marvels of contemporary policing, until I heard my new friend the dispatcher advising the officers, “8-34, you have Milford EMS. Their ETA 7 minutes.”

Evidently 8-34 was one of the occupants of my home, as I heard, “Tell them to step it up. This guy took a lot of stopping, and he’s bleeding pretty bad!”