Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

word, for she had no desire to fling herself out the door in mad flight, as those unfortunates pursued by the god had done. She wanted to crouch under something, curl herself into the smallest possible space, remain motionless and unbreathing, like a mouse hunted by a cat.

The hell with the stove. She might as well go to bed; she couldn't work by candlelight anyway, the faded script of the manuscript was hard on the eyes even with adequate light. Crouch in bed, under the covers, hidden by darkness . . .

She had located the open bedroom door when a violent sneeze erupted from her and she suddenly understood why the analogy of the cat and the mouse had come into her mind. She stopped short, thrown off-balance by the explosion, supporting herself against the doorframe.

The symptoms were unmistakable. The cat was here, inside the apartment, probably in the bedroom. But how had it gotten in? The answer was just as unmistakable. Cats couldn't pick locks or pry open windows. And if the cat was still inside, the person who let it in, deliberately or inadvertently, might also be inside.

Another sneeze rocked her body. She turned very slowly and began to pick her way back across the room, pressing a finger under her lips and praying she could control the explosion that threatened until she was outside the apartment. A faint rustling sound from the bedroom made her stomach contract. There weren't many places in the small apartment where an intruder could hide, even in that convenient darkness. He must be in the bedroom, waiting till she was in bed or asleep, before he emerged.

It never occurred to her that she might be in danger. She knew what he wanted. He had searched the place once before and failed to find it. It was a logical assumption that she must carry it with her. Breaking in after she was already in the apartment, even asleep, would have involved some noise and some risk. This plan was simpler and safer; if it hadn't been for the cat, and her convenient allergy, she would never have suspected anyone was there. Looking under the bed before retiring wasn't a habit of hers.

The pressure inside her head was so intense she felt her skull would explode. She was almost at the door; stooping, she picked up the briefcase. Just a few seconds longer ... No use. The sneeze echoed like a bomb blast. As the echoes died, she heard footsteps. He must have realized that she was retreating, that she knew someone was there; there was no use trying to conceal his presence now.

A thin beam of light struck across the room with the impact of a missile, darting from the table to the door and stopping on her right hand. The hand that held the briefcase.

Left-handed, Karen fumbled for the doorknob. She didn't turn around; she wouldn't have been able to see him, he was behind the light that would blind her. She was still fumbling when a hard shove sent her sprawling. By sheer luck she missed hitting a piece of furniture, but the impact was hard enough to knock the breath out of her. Something dark and shapeless bent over her; an odd, musky scent tickled her agonized nostrils and she burst into a fit of sneezing. Even the violence of the paroxysm didn't distract her from the grip that seized the briefcase and tried to pull it away. She wrapped both arms around it and rolled over.

She discovered to her surprise that she had enough breath left to scream, and then realized with even greater surprise that the outraged sound had not come from her mouth. It was a horrible noise, piercing, inhuman, unending. There was a flurry of movement behind her and a low-voiced, muffled exclamation. The door opened and closed again.

Karen lay still for a moment, listening. Had that been a trick? No; footsteps ran down the steps and faded into silence. Still clutching the briefcase, she located the candle and made her way to the kitchen. The glow from the lighted burner made her blink. Carrying the candle she ventured back into the living room.

The cat was sitting by the door. It stared pointedly at her over its shoulder and meowed. Karen stared back at it. Her eyes were streaming. She sneezed.

Chapter Eleven

No sigh relieved her speechless woe, She had no voice to speak her dread.

Mary E. Coleridge,

The Other Side of the Mirror, 1908

Why didn't you call me?" Peggy demanded. Her voice had the tight, controlled tone of someone who wants to yell but is determined not to.

"I did call you." Elbows on the table, head propped on her hands, Karen stared blindly into her cup of coffee. She was still in her nightgown and robe. Even though she had stuffed herself with antihistamines, it had taken her a long time to get to sleep, and she was still drowsy and stupefied. "Your line was busy."

"I was talking to Simon. Damn it, you could have told the hotel operator it was an emergency—"

"But it wasn't, not by that time. The police had arrived—"

"Oh, you called the police, did you?" Peggy caught hold of her head with both hands and shook it violently. "Damn, there I go again. If I didn't care about you so much I wouldn't yell at you."

"I know," Karen said, smiling.

"It's no excuse, though. I'll work on it. What did you tell them?"

"I didn't mention the manuscript."

"Hmmm. You think that was wise?"

"I couldn't see that it would do any good," Karen argued. "There are already too many people who know that it's worth stealing; why advertise the fact to the rest of the town? I couldn't give them the names of the people I suspect, since there's no evidence. I think the person was wearing gloves."

"Any crook who can read or watch TV knows enough to wear gloves,"

Peggy agreed. "He didn't leave a cast-off garment or a packet of matches, or any other