Deadly Edge

choices. Around noon Claire had driven away in the Buick to look at the dogs, and none of the three of them was any good for her purpose. Feeling cranky and irritable at the waste of time and lack of success—and feeling worse because of the less than six hours’ sleep she’d had—she got back to the house at two o’clock to be doubly irritated by the problem of the locked garage door.

The problem was, the doors could only be locked or unlocked from the outside. It made it very awkward. Sooner or later they’d have to install modern overhead doors, but in the meantime there didn’t seem to be any way to have a lock on these doors that could be gotten at from both sides.

Now she unlocked and opened the doors, drove the Buick in, went back outside, closed and locked the doors again, and walked crunching across the stone driveway to the front door. Another key unlocked that, and she went in.

The only thing that bothered her about solitude was the absence of sound. She had brought the radio back to the kitchen when she’d gotten up this morning, and now she turned it on first thing, and started a pot of tea. In one of the Scandinavian countries they had recently introduced all-night radio for the first time, and the suicide rate dropped by an amazing percentage.

She ate a carton of vanilla yogurt while waiting for the tea. Dinner was the only true meal she ever ate, snacking the rest of the day on foods that were supposed to be good for dieters.

She poured a cup of tea to carry into the living room, and going down the hall past the open bedroom door she saw from the corner of her eye that a man was lying on the bed, on his back, his head propped up by a pillow; he was smiling dreamily through the window at the lake.

She went on another step before the image registered, and then stopped. A T-shaped iron bar of dread appeared within her back and shoulders, bowing her back, hunching her shoulders. The cup slopped tea on her thumb and fingers. She found she was blinking uncontrollably, and she made herself turn back, turn around and look at him again, in hopes that he wasn’t really there.

She had gone beyond the doorway; it was necessary to take one dragging underwater step back in the direction she’d come, and then she could see him. His shoes were off, showing black socks. He was wearing plaid bell-bottom slacks in shades of yellow and green, very dirty-looking. Some clothing was crumpled like laundry on the floor beside the bed, and above the trousers he was wearing only a gray-looking T-shirt, partly pulled out of the trousers. He wore a watch on his left wrist, with a very wide brown leather band; the wide band made her think of Roman slaves. He looked to be in his middle or late twenties and had long straight brown hair, very much like her own, only less well combed. He was slender, reasonably well built, but his face was fat, with puffy cheeks and protruding lips. She stood in the doorway, staring at him, and he made no move.

A sound behind her made her spin around, and she spilled more of the hot tea. She made a small high-pitched sound of terror in her throat, and looked at the other one, in the living-room doorway. He was wearing a fringed Davy Crockett jacket over a blue shirt streaked with gray as though Clorox had been dribbled over it. His black trousers were tucked into brown paratrooper’s boots. He had a wild friz of hair, blondish-brown, a Caucasian equivalent of the hair-style called Afro, and he was smiling at her. He had the laughing eyes that go with sudden cruelty.

His voice was light, his manner flippant. He said, “Don’t bug Manny, he’s trippin’ out. Come on in here. What you got in the cup?”

She didn’t move. She shook her head, not intending to.

He looked at her, and his expression became suddenly mean, though he still smiled. He said, “You want pencils in the cup? I don’t need you able to see, you know. Just so you can hear and talk, that’s all I need.”

She didn’t understand the specifics of the threat, but knew it was a threat and had no doubt he would do it, whatever it was. have to move, she thought, have to do what be says. She took one step forward, and the second was easier, and she walked toward him, the bones of her face standing out prominently around deep-set eyes.

He stepped to one side, grinning, bowing her into her living room. As she went by he lifted a hand, saying, “What’s in the cup?” He took it, tasted it, laughed in delight. “Son of a bitch, it’s teal Isn’t that cute? You take sugar in your tea, honey?”

Under the things he said, things moved that he didn’t say. She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

“That’s too bad. Well, different strokes for different folks. Sit down on your sofa, honey, let’s talk. Here, take your tea.”

She took the tea, went to the sofa, sat down. The fireplace was directly in front of her, with yesterday’s dead fire in it. The stones looked cold.

He didn’t sit. He went over and stood at the corner of the fireplace, one foot up on the hearth, one elbow up on the mantelpiece with his hand dangling down, his other hand casually on his hip as he faced her. He said, “We’re looking for a friend of yours. Tell the truth, we thought we’d run into him here. When’ll he be back?”

Cool, she thought. Cunning. She remembered what she’d said to Parker on the phone last night: “I know how to be a little mouse.” Did she? She was blinking again, very badly, and was afraid that would betray her; he’d see the blinking and know she was lying. But it wouldn’t stop, and she said, “I don’t know who you mean. I’m sorry, you have me frightened, but—” She raised her free hand and rubbed her eyelids hard with thumb and forefinger.

“Nothing to be frightened of,” he said, but he used a voice full of laughter and meanness. He said, “We just want to see your friend, talk to him, maybe pick up a little something he’s got for us.”

Her eyes hurt from the rubbing now, but the blinking went on. For an excuse to look away from him, and because she was afraid she would spill tea again, she half turned and put the cup on the end table, saying at the same time, “I live here alone.”

“A head like you? Don’t do dumb lies, honey, we’ll just make you pay for them.”

Now she did look at him, because what she had to say was technically true. “I’m a widow,” she said. “My husband was an airline pilot.”

His expression became uncertain; he said, “What about Parker?”

“Mr. Parker? I only—”

“Mister Parker! God damn it, I don’t like jokes!”

She was afraid he was going to rush at her and start punching and kicking. She cried, “I just take messages!