Authors: Bill Pronzini
SOMEBODY WAS SHAKING ME AND WHISPERING IN MY EAR in urgent tones. "Lincoln! Wake up! For mercy's sake, wake up!"
I struggled up out of a heavy sleep for the second time in less than a week. Into pitch blackness again, except that this time a pale blob was leaning over my bed. Hard fingers had hold of my shoulder, rocking me as if I were a colicked baby in a cradle.
"What the devil—"
"Ssh! Keep your voice down."
Ivy. I pushed her hand away and got up into a sit, wagging my head to clear out the webs of sleep. "What is it, what's the matter?"
"There is someone in the backyard. Lordy, I think he's trying to break inside the house."
"What!"
"Ssshh! Do you want him to hear you?"
I was wide awake now. I swung my legs off the bed, fetching Ivy an unintentional kick as I did so. She made a faint gasping noise and kicked me back, as if I had done it on purpose. That was Ivy for you: run from a prowler and attack her own brother.
"Where is he?" I asked her as I stood up and fumbled for my pants.
"At the back door. I got up to—" She broke off. Just couldn't bring herself to say that she had got up to use the chamber pot. "I happened to glance out the window and there he was, bold as brass and plain as day in the moonlight, running across the yard."
"Recognize him?"
"No, he had his head down." She drew a deep breath, let it out in a quavery sigh. "A big man, huge, and . . . oh my Lord, Lincoln, there is something wrong with his left arm!"
The muscles in my neck and shoulders bunched tight. But I was not surprised. I said, "You sure?"
"It was drawn in close to his body, as if it were bandaged. . . . He's the murderer, isn't he? He's come for us next!"
Not for us, I thought grimly. For me.
I had my pants on now, and buttoned at the waist so they wouldn't fall down. I did not bother with any other clothing; just made my way across the dark room to where my Starr .44 hung in its holster from a wall hook. I slid the weapon out, rotated the cylinder a notch to put a live round under the hammer.
Behind me Ivy whispered, "You be careful, Lincoln Evans. If anything happens to you . . ." She didn't finish that sentence, either, but her meaning was plain enough. She was more concerned for her own safety than she was for mine.
I said, "You stay here," and slipped out through the open door into the hall.
When I got to the landing I stopped to listen. Faint scraping sounds at the rear of the house, as if he might be trying to jimmy the lock on the back door. A storm of rage had begun to blow inside me, black and hot, like a firewind. Well, by God, I thought, let him come in. I'll put a hole in the son of a bitch and an end to all this right here and now.
Scrape, scrape. And then, as I started down the stairs, the noises stopped and there were no others. Either he had got the door open or given up for some reason—and if he had given up, it was not likely he would stand around outside for very long.
The stairs were carpeted, and a good thing too. I got to the bottom in a hurry and without making any noise, swung around the newel post into the downstairs hallway. I paused again there, in close to the coat closet under the staircase.
Silence . . . then a faint creaking. Footfall on a weak board? Or just the old house making one of its nightly settling groans?
I eased the single-action's hammer back to half-cock and went on down the hall, hugging the left-hand wall. There was some dilution of the darkness behind me in the foyer-moonshine through the parlor windows and the fanlight over the front door—but there in the passage it was well-bottom black. That meant the hall door to the kitchen and the one nearer, on my right, that opened into the dining room were both shut. If I had been certain he was in the house, I would have waited where I was for him to come through one of those two doors. As it was I reckoned the best thing was for me to keep moving.
I passed the dining room door, to within a couple of paces of the kitchen door. That one opened inward to the hall, so I did not want to be too close to it if he was on the other side and fixing to walk through. I listened again. Silence. Creak. Silence. Impatience made me reach out with my free hand, turn the porcelain knob; the click of the latch seemed over-loud in the stillness. With my back against the wall, I dragged the door toward me until I could peer around its edge.
A little moonlight spilled in through the window over the sink, gleamed dully off the glass-doored wall cabinet—just enough to let me see shapes in the dark. Icebox, stove, butcher block, the sink with its jutting pump handle. And over by the door to the service porch—
Three things happened pretty much at once: Something slammed into the door a few inches above my head, wobbling it violently in my grasp, sending out a spray of wood splinters; there was a hollow booming crack; gunflame lit up the kitchen for an instant, letting me see the crouching silhouette of a man behind it.
I went to one knee, still holding onto the door, and fired at the flash. Missed him: the bullet screeched off metal. There was a confusion of noises as the echoes of the shots died away: banging, thudding, a cry from Ivy upstairs, a tinny clattering that sounded like her wash-tub being kicked over out on the service porch.
On the run again, damn his black soul. No more fight in him now that he knew I was both alerted and armed. I shoved up to my feet. Powdersmoke was thick in there; I had to fight down a cough as I stumbled into the kitchen. Then, in the dark, I barked my knee on an edge of the butcher block, so that I half fell into the wall next to the porch door. When I regained my balance and looked through I saw the bent shape of him pawing at the back door. He made a good target but only for a second; by the time I swung over into position to fire again, he was through the door and down the steps into the yard.
I plunged after him. Almost tripped again, this time over the washtub he had dislodged, but managed to reach the back door upright and leaned through it. He was running diagonally across the yard, dodging around Ivy's clothesline to-ward the deep shadows cast by the privy and the fruit trees that grew beyond, at the rear of our property. I ached to trigger another round at him, did not give in to the impulse. The light was poor for accurate shooting and I was too wrought up to trust my aim anyway. And shots in the night, out in the open like this where the sounds would carry, would rouse the whole neighborhood and set off a panic.
Chill wind stung my face as I ran down the steps, on across the yard in pursuit. There was frost on the grass again this morning, a thin icing of it; it made the footing slick, numbed the soles of my bare feet. Forty yards ahead, he blended into the shadows behind the privy and for few seconds I could not locate him. Then, when I caught sight of him again, he was barreling through the gate into the alleyway that bisected the block between First and Second.
He would have a horse tied back there somewhere—a sorrel horse, sure as hell. The knowledge made me try to quicken my pace, and that was a mistake. My naked foot stubbed against something unyielding in the grass—a tree root or rock—and I staggered, lost my balance once more, and this time went down hard on my belly and skidded a few feet on the frost-slick grass. The bole of one of the apple trees brought me up in a heap. Panting, biting my lip against the stinging pain in my toes, I pulled my legs under me and leaned up against the tree. I still had hold of the revolver, for all the good it was likely to do me now. A wonder it hadn't gone off when I smacked the ground, with me on top of it when it did.
I could no longer see him as I limped to the gate. It was only after I bulled out into the alleyway that I saw him again, and by then it was too late. He had had his horse tethered under the black oak that grew at the edge of Reverend Balfour's property next door and he was already in the saddle, wheeling the animal out from under the low-hanging branches and away from where I stood. I dropped to one knee, aiming—but he was stretched out over the horse's neck, the way he had been in Donahue Landing, and just about out of pistol range besides. Even so, I had to fight myself to keep from taking a couple of wild cracks at him.
Where the hell were Joe Perkins's patroling deputies now that I needed them?
I remained in a kneel, cursing softly and steadily, until he pounded out of sight. He had more luck than a hutch full of rabbits—a crazy man's crazy luck. Hanged Jeremy Bodeen and Jacob Pike and knocked me on the head, all right here in town; shot it out with Emmett Bodeen, hanged Bodeen, took a shot at me in Donahue, and then rode Christ knew how far dripping blood from a bullet wound; came back into town tonight, hurt as he was, and broke into my house and made
another
attempt on my life in my own kitchen. And each and every time, he had not only got clean away but managed to do it without anybody getting close enough to identify him. It was the kind of lucky streak—and the kind of unmitigated gall—you can scarcely believe until you see it happen.
The night was quiet now; nobody had raised an alarm. The commotion had seemed louder than it actually was: the thick walls of the house had muffled the two shots and the banging around inside, and neither of us had made any loud noises during the chase across the yard. At least I had that much—along with his poor aim—to be thankful for.
When I stood up I was aware for the first time of how cold it was. The wind slashed through the thin material of my nightshirt; the icy ground sent shoots of chill through my bare feet. Shivering, I pushed back into my yard.
As I came around past the shed, hurrying, I saw that there was a light in the Balfour's upstairs bedroom and that the Reverend had his bald head poked out of the window. When he saw me he called down, "That you, Lincoln? What's going on?"
"Nothing to be concerned about, Reverend."
"Did we hear shooting?"
"No. No cause for alarm."
He was a meek old soul, despite his calling—or maybe on account of it. He liked the idea of trouble even less than the next man. "Well, if; you say so . . ."
"Sorry to have disturbed you. Good night."
He said something else that I did not listen to as I went on into the house. The stench of powdersmoke was still strong in the kitchen; I opened the window over the sink to let in fresh air. I was hunting for matches to light the kitchen lamp when Ivy came in with her bedroom lamp flickering, reminding me again of a scrawny ghost in her virginal night-dress.
She was all a-twitter; there had not been this much thrill and terror in her life since her wedding night. "You're not hurt, Lincoln? Those shots . . ."
"Do I look all bloody?"
"Well, you needn't snap my head off. Did he get away?"
"Yes, Ivy, he got away."
"Did you see his face?"
"No."
"I saw you chasing him across the yard," she said. "Mercy! I thought I was going to have a seizure, I was so frightened."
I had nothing to say to that. I located the matches and lit the wall lamp. Ivy gasped when she saw the damage that had been done by the exchange of shots, not that there was much of it. The madman's bullet had put a splintered hole in the kitchen door and the one from my revolver had ruined the nickel-plated finish on her Acme range. And there were a couple of dents in her washtub, a rip in the back screen door, and marks around the main door latch where he had pried it open.
But Ivy took it hard, as she had every right to. She followed me around making clucking, whimpering sounds, and when I was done with the inspection she said, ''Oh, Lincoln, he was right here in our house—a crazy man with a gun! If I hadn't woken up he would have murdered us both in our beds!"
She has always had an irrational fear of being murdered in her bed. Why it should be more terrible to be murdered in your bed than anywhere else is beyond me. I said, "Now, Ivy. You did wake up, and neither of us is hurt."
"What if he comes back?"
"He won't. He's long gone by now."
"I don't mean tonight. What if he comes tomorrow night, or the next night, or—"
"He won't," I said again. "He is not going to walk around free much longer, I promise you that. By God, he's not."
She let out a shuddery sigh and clasped her hands at her breast. "I shall never feel the same about this house again," she said. "No, never. It was a violation, what he did tonight—a
violation
of home and hearth. . . ."
"That's foolishness."
"I mean it, Lincoln. I shall never feel safe here again!"
"Stop tormenting yourself and come along to bed."
"I shan't rest," Ivy said. "I shall never sleep well again."
She was being dramatic, as was her nature, but knowing that did not make me feel any less brotherly toward her. I patted her shoulder, went to secure the back door with a piece of wire. Then we climbed the stairs and went to our rooms in silence.
But I did not sleep, any more than Ivy was sleeping in her room. I lay there in the dark, my revolver close to hand, hating him and thinking about him coming here tonight. There could be no doubt that for some time now he had intended me to be one of his victims. But why? It was not just that he had recognized me in Donahue; there was some other reason, some wrong he believed I had done him. Whatever it was, his hate for me was as strong as it had been for the others he'd killed, as strong as mine was for him—strong enough to bring him after me in the middle of the night even though he was wounded.