Midnight Harvest (62 page)

There was another rolling click, as if a furtive step moved upward, and this time she knew beyond a doubt what it was: someone was climbing the stairs. She sat up, prepared to call out, hoping Saint-Germain had changed his mind and was going to spend the night with her after all. But there was no greeting, and the movements she heard so faintly seemed more stealthy than romantic. On impulse, she turned out the light and lay still, listening. There were two other bedrooms on this floor and both were nearer the stairs than hers; if the person on the stairs was unfamiliar with the layout, she would have a little time. She would make the most of it.

Very slowly she eased herself out of bed, flinching at every hint of sound she made, from the sigh of the shifting blankets to the soft groan of the springs; as she perceived it, every whisper was magnified, and the house amplified all sounds to the level of honks and bellows. As she set her foot on the floor, she held still, wanting to be certain before she made her next move, for once she left the bed, she would have to be prepared to act How much she wanted to rush, but she forced herself to wad her pillows under the covers in what she hoped would look like a sleeping shape, then inched her way to her armoire, gingerly pulling the mirrored door open and reaching inside for her father’s over-and-under shotgun. She had loaded it over a week ago, and felt foolish while she did; now she took great comfort in the metal barrels and the beautiful rosewood stock. She moved warily, bringing the stock to her shoulder, the barrels still pointed toward the floor, even as she closed the armoire door and crept into the niche between the end of the armoire and the wall where she waited, ready to bring up the barrels and fire.

There was a quiet footfall in the corridor, and the faint squeak of a hinge: the person in the house had opened the bathroom door. Clearly he did not know his way around, which struck Rowena as being increasingly ominous with every passing second her alarm clock measured off in ticks that seemed as loud as firecrackers. Waiting was nerve-wracking, making her acutely aware of how isolated she was here. She had to resist the urge to burst out of her bedroom door and confront the invader. But that would mean making noise, and noise would alert the culprit, and that could lead to her losing what little advantage she might have. If only she had decided on a second telephone and had it installed in her bedroom! But there was no point in lamenting over sins of omission, not here and not now. She made herself concentrate on everything around her, obstinately refusing to let her attention slip away to less frightening things than hiding here in the dark with a shotgun in her hands.

Finally her door-knob twisted, and the door began to swing inward.

Rowena sank back as far as she could even while she tried to make out the figure in the doorway; she pressed against the side of the armoire as if to be absorbed by its mass into just another shadow in her dark room. She watched, acutely sensitive to every nuance of movement he revealed. The man was tall and slender, in dark clothing with an alpine mask over his face. He held a pistol in his gloved hand, and he very slowly advanced on the bed, his slow progress supremely confident; Rowena could almost smell malice emanating from him, and it frightened her. Suddenly her protected niche felt more like a trap than a haven.

The tall man bent over the bed, bringing the gun up toward the pillow.

How much Rowena wanted to scream! It was all she could do to remain quiet She tightened her grip on the shotgun as the thin man started to draw back the covers, uttering an oath as he did. Rowena lifted the upper barrel of the shotgun and fired, the blast deafening in the small room. She staggered and almost fell back against the wall.

Cenere slewed about, aiming his pistol while hissing a string of obscenities in a language that sounded not-quite-Italian. He fired twice.

Now Rowena let out a high-pitched shriek and fired the lower barrel; she had the satisfaction of seeing the thin man lurch while clapping his arm against his side. She pushed out of her hiding-place and struck at him, knocking him backward onto the bed; he let go of his pistol and clapped his hand to the wound in a more concentrated effort to stop the bleeding.

“What—? Buckshot?” he gasped.

“Yes,” she said, panting, astonished that she had gained the advantage. She grabbed his pistol and let go of the shotgun. “Now you lie back there. Do you understand me?” Her words were rapid and breathless, but her hands did not shake as she aimed his pistol directly at his head. “I don’t suppose I’ll miss at this range.”

Cenere had a low opinion of women’s ability to handle firearms, but he was unwilling to put this to the test, not while he lay there bleeding and she held his own pistol aimed at him. “I’m wounded.”

“Good Lord, I should hope so,” Rowena exclaimed. “I’m only sorry it wasn’t worse.”

“Well, help me,” he ordered.

“Why should I?” she countered. “Lie there, mister. I’m going to tie you up.”

“With what?” He did his best to laugh and ended coughing, each jolt sending pain through his body.

“Silk scarves, if I must,” she said grimly, and, still aiming the pistol at him, went to rummage with one hand in her chest-of-drawers. At last she pulled out three lengths of silk and stuffed them into the neckline of her peignoir, all the while watching him.

From his place on the bed, Cenere could tell that his wounds, while painful, were not truly serious; he was in more danger from blood-loss. He studied the middle-aged woman who held his pistol and decided he had been mistaken to try to reach Ragoczy through her. She was not the kind of female who would be frightened into giving up any and all information he wanted, and as much as he might enjoy forcing her to talk at another time, he could not risk killing her; she was just the sort who would lie to him and expire. He promised himself another time with Miss Rowena Saxon—once Ragoczy was out of the way, he would reward himself with slowly killing her.

“Hold out your arm,” she said as she came nearer to the bed.

“I’m bleeding,” he complained.

“Whose fault is that? Put out your arm.” She lifted the pistol a little higher. She was feeling light-headed and knew that it was distress that caused her giddiness.

“I’m hurt, don’t you understand, you cow?” He hoped to goad her into doing something rash.

“I can shoot you again and tie you up at my leisure,” she said at her most measured.

Sighing, he flung out his right arm. “Very well. There you are.”

She approached him carefully, pulling out a scarf and making a loop in it. “Lift your hand.”

“For God’s sake—!” he protested. “Do you use them on that degenerate you sleep with?”

She fired again, and saw a portion of her upholstered headboard spray splinters and bits of fabric and stuffing. “Next time I’ll hit you. I’ll aim for your shoulder, but I might get your jaw or your neck.”

Cenere lifted his hand, wanting to seem defeated; he would have to move quickly, and the way he was bleeding, he might not be able to overwhelm her. “There. Is this what you wanted?”

She slipped the loop over his wrist and drew it tight. In that moment, he rolled and fell into her, knocking her backward. “Damn!” she yelled, and fired.

This time the bullet clipped his shoulder, just a flesh wound, but enough to make it impossible for him to attack her beyond one emphatic blow with his fist that glanced off her cheek but was still strong enough to knock her over. Instead of continuing his assault, he lunged for the door and struggled to get out of the bedroom. He tugged the door closed behind him as he heard her trying to get to her feet. Rushing as much as he could, he stumbled down the corridor to the stairs. He had to grip the bannister with both hands in order to descend without falling, and he tottered four times, losing precious time to hold himself erect. His blood was leaving a trail anyone could follow, and he knew he would have to get away quickly or he would have every policeman on duty looking for him. As he caught sight of the telephone, he took a few precious seconds to tug its wire from the wall, hoping this would slow her reporting of this incident. Banging his way through the kitchen, he made for the back porch as if seeking deliverance. He reached the rear door and bumbled out into the tiny yard. There was still the fence to climb, which had not been more than a minor obstacle when he had come here forty minutes ago; it now loomed high as the towers of the unfinished Golden Gate Bridge. He struggled over it, grunting and sweating, and dropped into the other yard on rubbery legs. This was not good, he knew, as he made himself keep going toward the street where his motorcycle waited. If he could manage to ride it for an hour he could reach help beyond San Francisco, where he would not be found. This conviction drove him on even as his vision began to waver as shock started to take its toll.

Rowena pulled herself to her feet using the bed-stead. Her head rang from being hit, and she could feel a patch of blood on her face. She was mildly disoriented, and made an effort to keep standing, and finally managed to get her feet squarely under her. She knew the man was gone, for she had heard him slam out the back door. She would have liked to sit down and cry, but she was aware that would only help the criminal, so she marshaled her resolve, turned on the lights—the mess was appalling: blood everywhere, and gouges from buckshot and bullets marring her walls and furniture—and went out into the hall. Following the trail of blood down to the first floor, she went to the telephone stand at the foot of the stairs. She picked up the receiver and heard only silence; she dialed the operator with the same result For an instant she felt tears well, but she strove to contain her rocky emotions; her ordeal was not over yet. As she took a step back, she saw that the telephone was not connected to its box, and she stifled a sob. She turned on more lights and tried not to step in any of the blood on her floors and carpets. With a sigh, she took her raincoat from the coat-closet across from the front door, picked up her purse, checked it for keys and her change-purse, then went to her garage, raised the door, and got into her Chancellor Miller Speedster. As she drove out in search of a pay telephone, she kept alert for a tall, lean man in dark clothes who would probably be limping now, or at least moving slowly.

On Hyde Street she found what she sought, and made a call to the police, giving her name and address and a brief summary of what had happened. She also told the duty officer that she was afraid to return to the house until the police arrived. He promised they would come soon, and hung up. She waited almost a full minute before she called Saint-Germain.

“Ferenc Ragoczy speaking,” he said as if he were used to telephone calls in the middle of the night.

“Oh, Good Lord,” Rowena said, and to her intense chagrin, burst into tears, unable to say any of the prudent, cordial things she had intended.

“Rowena,” he said, suddenly very worried. “What’s happened? Are you all right? Where are you?”

“I’m in a telephone booth at Hyde and California just now,” she said, trying to regain some composure.

“Why on earth?” he asked, such anguish in his voice that it almost took her breath away.

“Someone broke into my house,” she said, and began to sob once more.

“When did this happen?” There was no hint of blame in his question, which somehow made it harder for her to bear.

“This evening. Not quite an hour ago. He had a pistol. I just called the police. I have to get back.” She was about to hang up. “I think he was after you.”

“Do you want me to come?” He paused. “Whatever you want, I will do.”

“Oh, yes, please,” she said, and dropped the receiver back into the cradle before she started to weep in earnest. There was some relief in tears, but she was unwilling to indulge herself for more than a couple minutes. She leaned on the telephone booth door, shaking so violently she wondered if she could trust herself to drive back to her house. Telling herself it had to be done, she got back into her car and returned the way she came. As she reached the corner of Taylor Street, she thought her neighbors must surely have noticed something, and that slowed her down; she wanted their help, not to make a spectacle of herself. As she parked in the space just in front of her door, she finally let go of the steering wheel, not realizing until then how tightly she had been holding on to it. She sat for several minutes, unable to make herself get out of the car, let alone enter her home. Finally she saw a police car pulling in across the street, and she stared in relief. A moment later two uniformed officers came across the street, one of them pausing by her car window.

“You the lady who called?” the man asked.

“Miss Saxon. Yes, I called. I wanted to report a break-in. Of an occupied house. This one.” She began trembling again. “I told your Sergeant Brady what happened.” It amazed her that she remembered the man’s name.

“Yes, ma’am. He passed it on to us.” He opened the car door. “What say you let us in so we can take a look around? Just to see how things are?”

She found his tone more condescending than reassuring, but she did as he recommended, only then aware that under her raincoat her peignoir was bloody. “The man had a pistol. I think it’s still in my bedroom somewhere; he’s gone,” she said, and saw the two policemen exchange glances.

“A pistol. Are you sure?” the second cop asked.

“Yes; of course I am. I can’t tell you what make it was. I hardly had any time to examine it But it isn’t a revolver, if that is what you’re wondering,” she said, glad to be angry instead of weepy. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. “The telephone cord is pulled out of the wall. I would have called from here if he hadn’t done that.”

“Sounds pretty bad, all right,” said the first policeman, his manner patronizing. “We’ll check it out for—” He went silent as he saw the spatters of blood on the stairs and floor. “Jesus,” he exclaimed softly.

Rowena removed her raincoat deliberately and hung it up, then turned around, certain she would command their attention now. “The bedroom is much worse.”

“I couldn’t see your face, out there; you really got hit. That’s one hell of a bruise,” said the first officer. “And your … your bathrobe. God.”