Free House by Frank Peretti

cartridges.
    â€œYou dropped it,” Stewart said, unhappy about it. “Is this how you treat other people’s property?”
    Randy rolled his eyes and moved forward, shining the lamp in Stewart’s face. “We don’t have time for complaints, Stewart.”
    Stewart brushed past him and perused the damage to the house, in no particular hurry. “Now look what you’ve done.” Outside, the rain intensified, pummeling the roof and pinging off the protruding bed of the truck. A strong gust blew in under the crumpled carriage and extinguished the flame in Randy’s lamp. He swore and set it down.
    Randy pressed into Stewart’s space, reaching for the weapon. “He means business, Stewart. We can’t wait around—”
    Stewart pumped the action and raised the barrel, pointing it at Randy’s chest.
    Horrified, Randy bobbed, first down, then sideways. “Hey! What are you doing?”
    Stewart kept the barrel aimed at his head. “One dead body, huh? Maybe it should be yours.”
    Randy ducked again and ended up on the floor crawling, rolling, backing away while Stewart followed his every move, chuckling with wicked amusement.
    â€œYeah,” Stewart rumbled. “Crawl on the floor. Squirm. It’s right where you belong!”
    Jack ticked off his options. Randy was on the floor between him and Stewart, which put Jack—and Stephanie, still clinging to him—only inches from Stewart’s line of fire. “Stewart, easy now . . . just take it easy.”
    Stewart didn’t take his eyes or his shotgun off the cowering Randy. “Don’t worry. This punk’s not bothering me one bit.” Stewart turned to Randy, “ Are you?”
    Leslie sidled close to Betty and whispered, “Betty, can you talk to him?”
    Betty just held the lamp high, seemingly mesmerized.
    â€œAre you?” Stewart growled.
    â€œNo, no,” Randy said, his voice trembling.
    â€œBetty,” Leslie whispered. “Do something.”
    Betty looked at Leslie, then said to Stewart, “Stewart, don’t you make a big mess now.”
    Leslie fell back, stunned. Jack searched the woman’s half-crazy eyes but could not read them.
    â€œUp against the wall, all of you,” Stewart growled, swinging the barrel in an arc toward them.
    â€œWh-what?” Jack felt the same consternation he saw in the others’ faces. He raised his hands, not yet believing. “Stewart. What gives?”
    â€œAgainst the wall!”
    Leslie helped Randy off the floor. Jack guided Stephanie to the wall that separated the foyer from the dining room, putting himself between her and Stewart’s line of fire. They fell into place like four deserters before a firing squad.
    â€œStewart, I don’t want you ruining the plaster either,” Betty protested.
    â€œShut up!”
    She took her place beside him and remained silent.
    Stewart eyed them one by one with murder in his eyes. “You are the sorriest bunch of sinners I ever seen. Come in here acting like you own the place, all well-to-do like we can’t tell what lies you’re hiding. Filthy atheists! But you’re guilty! Guilty as sin!”
    Leslie turned on her most soothing, professional tone. “Stewart, perhaps we owe you an apology—”
    With a blinding flash and a deafening explosion that mingled with Leslie’s scream, Stewart ruined the plaster above Leslie’s head. She cowered, hands raised in pleading surrender. Randy grabbed her to keep her from falling. Stephanie collapsed against Jack’s legs, almost knocking him over.
    â€œOh, now you’ve done it,” Betty whined.
    Stewart pumped the action again. “Stand up.”
    Jack helped Stephanie to her feet but didn’t let go of her. Her hands quivered in his. His heart was pumping so furiously he could hear it in his skull.
    Stewart waved the barrel back and forth, the very picture of murdering