And what had I become? For a number of years I had thought about being in government service, working quietly and behind the scenes, against what I thought was an implacable foe … and I was fortunate enough to find a woman to join me in that life, and the dreams we had …
Now I was alone. A magazine writer with too many scars and bad memories, with a woman now, Paula, but for how long? For how long about anything?
I had that strange mixture of dread, sadness, and melancholy, for having briefly revisited who I had once been in the past, and facing who I really was now.
I didn’t like it.
I kept on not liking it up until I heard the door open downstairs.
I was going to call out but I kept my mouth shut. Enough was enough.
I kept the lights off, kept everything off.
I just listened.
The sound of footsteps down there, once more.
The phone was nearby but it was going to stay right there.
It was time for me to take care of things.
I slowly got off the bed, gritting my teeth from the pain, and I reached under the mattress and pulled out my Beretta. I forced myself up and reached for the flashlight on the nightstand. I was now standing, flashlight in my left hand, pistol in my right.
Okay, then.
I slowly walked across the bedroom floor, hoping the creaking wasn’t warning whoever was down there.
At the upstairs landing, office just ahead and to the left, bathroom to the right.
I took a step and then lost my balance for a moment, and I almost dropped everything as I grabbed the railing to the right.
Damn.
That was close.
Movement downstairs for sure.
My legs started trembling.
Maybe there was enough time to go back to the bedroom and make that phone call …
And face the impassive faces of either Felix or whatever Tyler patrolman was on duty at this hour?
No.
I managed to keep myself upright by using my right hand—still holding the pistol—to guide myself down the stairs. Now all I heard was the ocean. Ambient light from the outside and from the few electronic devices gave me some visibility.
Two more steps.
I paused.
My legs were really trembling now.
From fear or from still being a recently discharged patient?
I took two more steps and reached the kitchen, with the living room visible to my left. My foot slipped again, making a very loud thump, and with all surprise being lost, I switched on the flashlight, yelled, “Freeze, whoever you are!” and swept the wide room with my light.
Nobody was there.
My heart was thumping loud enough to make a nice counterpoint to my shaking legs, and I stepped forward, breathing hard, swinging the light back and forth, back and forth. “Just so you know,” I called out, “I’ve got a pistol here.”
Nobody jumped up and surrendered.
I moved slowly through the living room, past the boxes and the shelves, flashing the light behind the couch and the two chairs. I slowly made my way back to the kitchen. Nothing seemed amiss.
What the hell?
I retraced my steps. Flashed the light again, even pointed it up at the ceiling, just in case my visitor was pretending to be Spiderman.
No joy.
The sliding glass door leading out to my first-floor deck was locked, and the length of wood I put in the runners to jam it from any potential burglar was still in place.
All right.
I moved back through the living room, my back screaming at me that it was time to wrap up this nonsense, go back to bed, and when it comes time to ask the good doctor to remove the drains, perhaps she could also recommend a nice head doc to find out why I was hallucinating.
I checked the front door.
Locked.
I shrugged, felt desperately tired all of a sudden, and turned and looked at the two other doors tucked away near the stairs going up.
One door belonged to my closet.
The other led downstairs, to my oil furnace and a dirt crawl space that marked my cellar.
That door was ajar.
I took another deep breath, leaning back as best as I could against the locked front door.
Hold on, hold on, just hold on, I thought.
Four days ago, a technician had come in to give my oil furnace its annual spring cleaning. She had spent a couple of hours down there, cheerfully banging away and swearing and making the whole house smell of #2 fuel oil for the rest of the day.
But had she closed the door behind her when she was done?
Or had I closed the door at some point?
Or, it being an old house, still settling, still getting used to the repair work after the arson last year, maybe the door just popped open by itself?
I could close the door and jam something up against it, I thought, and then call Felix. Or the cops.
Sure. And wouldn’t they really be in a mood when the door was opened and the cellar was empty.
“Man up, buttercup,” I whispered to myself.
I switched off the flashlight.
Just inside the door to the cellar was a light switch, right above the fuse box that controlled the power for the house. I could open the door, take a step down, flip on the switch, and surprise the hell out of whoever was down there. And with Beretta in hand, I’d make sure he stayed there, while I closed the door, blocked it, and called the cops.
Not Felix. Based on the times I had called Felix and had woken him up, he would probably shoot my intruder, yawn, announce he was going back to bed, and leave me to clean up the mess.
I got to the cellar door, opened it wider with my right foot. Stepping down into the darkness, I was
