Instead, my foot slipped, and I fell down the stairs in one long, loud, magnificent, and painful tumble.
CHAPTER FIVE
When I gathered my scattered senses and rolled over on my side, the funny thing was that the pain wasn’t bothering me as much as the mouthful of dirt I had picked up while plowing into the cellar floor. Like a lot of the old houses in this part of the state, this home had never taken up with that newfangled trend of cement floors. In my case, that turned out to be a blessing.
I moved about, got up on my hands and knees, spit and spit, and then wiped my hand across my mouth. Blech. Besides the taste of centuries-old dirt, there was also just the faintest taste of Saudi Arabia’s most famous refined export.
I swiveled, sat down.
It was dark as hell. I blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but after a couple of minutes, I figured my eyes had adjusted as much as they could.
Sure was dark.
I moved my hands through the dirt, feeling dirt and nothing else. Somewhere around here was a 9mm Beretta pistol, along with my flashlight. I was hoping to find either one, no rush to find one before the other.
Then I changed my mind.
The floorboards above me were creaking. My intruder was on the move.
Time to find the pistol first, especially if he heard me go ass over teakettle down the stairs, and knew I’d be in rotten shape to put up any resistance if he decided to come down and check me out.
I groaned and got back on my hands and knees, started spreading my hands through the dirt, looking for the pistol.
No joy.
This was nuts, I thought. My cellar was just a crawl space. You couldn’t even stand up without hitting your head. How come it felt as large as a ballroom down here?
No lights, that’s why. My active mind was expanding the little space.
Okay, maybe finding the flashlight first would be something. The only light switch for the cellar was at the top of the stairs, which I knew was a lousy design—I always said that one of these days I would have to get someone to come in and install another switch here. Yeah. Funny how “one of these days” always manages to arrive at the wrong time and bite you in the ass.
My hand felt something metallic.
About time.
I grasped it, picked it up, put it down.
A wrench.
I caught my breath, tried to ease the trembling in my arms and legs, and the creaking noise continued over my head. I moved my hand again and this time, I had found my prize.
My Beretta.
I slowly got up, hunched over, pistol in hand. Now it was time to find the stairs.
Okay. Where are the stairs?
I rotated slowly and then a little bit of light caught my eye. Some of the ambient light up on the first floor was seeping through the gap between the door and the cellar stair landing, or as it should really be called, the cellar stair falling.
I moved up one step, then another, staying to the side, pistol out, breathing hard, my incisions back there screaming at me to stop climbing the stairs, stop bumping into the railing, stop moving, damn it. But I gritted my teeth, got to the top.
There you go.
I grasped the doorknob, turned, and tugged.
The door didn’t move.
One more time.
Wouldn’t move.
Was it blocked? Did my intruder jam something on the doorknob on the other side, trapping me?
One more tug.
Then I felt like taking the Beretta and rapping it on the side of my very thick skull.
I turned the doorknob and pushed, and the door moved easily enough.
“Nice going, dopey,” I whispered. “Forgetting which way the door opened.”
I got out and flicked on some lights, then turned on some more lights, and went to the kitchen and washed my face, took a glass of water and got a healthy swig, and spat it into the sink.
The water was gray.
Ugh.
I checked everything out, went to the front door that was—surprise!—still locked, and then I came back to the cellar, opened the door, turned on the light. The cellar from my mind’s eye shrunk dramatically, and I spotted the flashlight up against the first step. Good. It was going to stay there. I switched off the light, closed the door, then looked to the stairs going up to the second floor. They looked steep, and they also looked like they stretched about a hundred feet above me.
Not going to happen.
I went back to the living room and kitchen, switched off most of the lights, then went to the couch, stretched out, and pulled a blanket over me. I only yelped twice as my wounds and drains rubbed up against the couch, and then I closed my eyes. I drifted off to sleep, occasionally reassuring myself by touching the nearby metal of my Beretta.
The morning sunlight was blasting right in when my front door was unlocked and Paula Quinn stepped in. She had a black knapsack over one shoulder, along with her purse, and she was also carrying yet another black bag that held her laptop.
She stopped. “What are you doing on the couch?”
“I was sleeping.”
“And why aren’t you in bed?”
“My secret lover Greta kicked me out, that’s why.”
My little joke went unnoticed. She said, “Did I wake you?”
My first lie of the morning. “No, not really.”
She closed the door, dropped her stuff. Her face was red and her eyes were swollen.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Had a rough night.”
“Come over here and tell me about it.”
I shifted on the couch. She sat down and then started weeping. I moved some more and put my arm around her and said, “When you’re ready … go ahead.”
She wiped at her eyes. “Oh, I’ll be okay. And when it’s over, you think, maybe you were overreacting.”
“Knowing you, I doubt it. What
