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concerned. A TV crew? A fan? Or maybe … She remembered the phone call that morning.
    She turned into the short driveway of her townhouse and pulled herself out, looking around. She didn’t see the van. She took the Wendy’s bag and went around to the back of the Range Rover, opening the tailgate and reaching in to pull out the camera and the rock. She was aware of somebody behind her. She whirled to see a bearded man in a t-shirt. He stepped toward her, reaching out.
    She stepped back, whirled and with an expert karate side-kick, plunged her bare foot deep into his abdomen, leaving a dirty footprint on his t-shirt. He grunted in surprise, his mouth flying open and his dark eyes wide. He bent over double and she stepped toward him, grabbing his hand bending it straight behind him, twisting his wrist and driving him to his knees. He yelped in pain, but she twisted harder and shoved her foot onto his back, slamming him down onto his stomach. The concrete knocked the breath out of him and he offered no resistance, but she didn’t take any chances. She wrenched his arm behind him, set down the Wendy’s bag and reached up to her head, yanking a long white plastic strap from her ponytail, letting her damp hair cascade around her face. She kneeled on his back, grabbing his other hand and twisting it around behind him, making him grunt in pain. She wrapped the plastic around his wrists and threaded it through a built-in fastener and yanked it tight. Another grunt.
    She was tempted to jump up and throw up her hands like she’d seen rodeo calf ropers do. But instead, she sat hard on his back, picked up the Wendy’s bag and took out a fry, popping it into her mouth.
    “Got a call yesterday from a cop in Tennessee,” she informed the man as she chewed. “Said he couldn’t do anything official, but told me they met this weird guy who had my picture. Guy had a beard and was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, just like you. Look, I’ve had enough crap today. The cops’ll take it from here. Just remember this the next time you pick on a defenseless woman!”
    The man groaned.

“D acey?” said the little-boy voice. “Why come you sittin’ on that man?” Little Sammy had pedalled up on his G.I. Joe camouflage-painted Big Wheel and sat there, his fine, blond baby hair askew, his cowboy boots planted solidly on the concrete.
    “Because he’s a bad man, honey.”
    “No I’m not,” wheezed the man, beginning to recover from the blow to the stomach.
    Dacey ignored him. “Tell your mom to call the police. Go get your mom now, sweetie.” Sammy was three and had learned all about police on Sesame Street, so he clattered away toward his house, a boy on a mission.
    “Calling the police isn’t a good idea.” The man’s voice was stronger, but it was muffled from being stuck flat on his stomach under a one hundred thirty-pound load.
    “Why not?”
    “Because I could charge you with assault and battery.”
    Dacey stood up and looked down at him, his hands trussed behind his back, a faint footprint on his shirt. “You came at me.”
    “I was going to help you carry your stuff.”
    “ Sure you were, pal. You didn’t say anything. You just came at me.” She finished the last French fry and set the bag in the back of her Range Rover.
    He paused to breathe and to gather his words. “I’m sorry. I’m not very communicative sometimes. Can I get up?”
    “Nope. You might be a smooth talker. I know about smooth talkers.” She spied a bulge in his back pocket and bent down to fish out his wallet. She flipped through the cards.
    Sammy’s mother ran out of her townhouse holding a nine-millimeter pistol. Hurrying toward Dacey, she shouted, “Are you okay? I’ll call the police!”
    Dacey looked up from the wallet. “Just hold a bit, Nance. Let me see what we’ve got here.” Nancy, a slim, dark-haired woman of thirty-two stood, feet wide in an expert marksman’s stance in flip-flops, baggy blue shorts, and a man’s shirt,