But it couldn’t have happened.
So what had occurred? A leftover from my first and last experience with a heavy-duty painkiller? Or something else that might be connected to my surgery, when my body was so violently opened up and closed by the skilled surgeons?
And another thought came to me, about my invisible and late-night visitor.
Maybe that needed to be filed along with my Cissy Manning sighting.
Maybe.
Then the lights went out.
All right. I had no fire going in the fireplace, which meant the living room was plunged into darkness. Eventually my eyes would adjust and the ambient light from outside would at least outline where the furniture was, so I could walk around without tripping over anything.
Flashlights. Since I’m right next to the ocean and my house is on the end of the power circuit for this part of the beach, I’ve been a madman about keeping flashlights in every room of the house, but that had been pre-fire. Now? Well, the only place where I was certain there was a flashlight was upstairs in my bedroom.
I got up. Couldn’t locate my borrowed cane.
All right, we’ll just go upstairs without it.
I started shuffling my feet, and stifled a chuckle, knowing that the way I was slowly shuffling with arms held out was akin to what poor Mr. Karloff had to endure in filming some of his classic horror movies. I got through the living room without tripping, and then I made it to the stairway without encountering an angry, torch-bearing mob, so that was good.
With hand on a banister, I got upstairs in a fair amount of time, and feeling pretty cocky, made a right and—
Promptly ran into the open door. Edgewise.
Crap, that hurt.
I moved around, arms still waving some, and then I got into my bedroom.
Fantastic.
My eyes must have adjusted somewhat and the bedroom looked pretty well lit-up. I could even make out the tumbled pile of blankets and sheets.
I stopped just as I got to the bed.
Something was wrong.
Something wasn’t right.
Okay.
I looked around and with the ambient light coming in—
Wait a sec.
I made my way to the near window, which overlooked my tiny yard and a pile of large boulders and stones that rose up to Atlantic Avenue, and right above that was the steady glow of lights coming from the Lafayette House and the streetlights. I moved around, peered south.
More lights.
Only my home was suffering a blackout.
I moved around and got to the nightstand, picked up the phone.
No dial tone.
All right. No power, no phone.
I went to the door leading out to the small deck facing south. Through the glass I saw all the lights of Tyler Beach at nighttime.
And I saw something else.
What looked to be a bobbing light, up by the edge of the Lafayette House parking lot. Someone holding a flashlight.
I watched for another minute. The bobbing light kept bobbing.
But now it was coming down my dirt driveway.
Back to the nightstand, I picked up my own flashlight, and reaching between the mattress and box spring, retrieved my Beretta. I wasted some important seconds, wondering how I would carry the pistol with no holster. In my saggy pajama bottoms, I couldn’t shove it between my waist and waistband.
To hell with it.
I switched on the flashlight, cupped my hand around the beam so it wouldn’t light up the nearby world, and got out of the bedroom without smashing my nose and face again.
Down the stairs, and then I switched off the light, and waited.
Waited.
Lots of dark thoughts dancing around back there, thinking about locked doors, windows, setting up a line of defense, and then a line of retreat.
But I didn’t feel like retreating tonight. I unlocked the door and stepped out.
Outside, the cool spring air was refreshing, especially since I was sweating like the proverbial swine. A quick look to the left, up to my driveway, showed not one but two bobbing lights coming toward me.
I moved to the right, across my tiny, scraggly lawn, where there was a line of boulders and rocks. I banged my shins twice—one for each leg, of course—and settled down.
Outside was better than being inside. Offense is better than a good defense. Patton said something about any fortification built by man can be surpassed by man. Or something like that.
The two lights paused where my driveway flattened out and approached my new one-car garage. A dark stream quickly plowed though my mind: if I saw anyone light a match, flare, or Molotov cocktail, I was going to start shooting without asking any questions at all.
The two lights were close now, as though their handlers were conferring.
About the best way to approach my house? To break in? To do what?
Over the sound of the waves, I could make out the soft murmur of voices. The lights split up and started to the front door. The lead light went up to the front door, knocked hard, three times.
Another quick confer.
Two more hard knocks.
No response from inside the house.
What a surprise.
The two lights backed off, and then it looked like there was another chitchat session. I was cold and worried and uncomfortable, and there was a heaviness at my back and shoulder that told me it was way beyond time to empty the bladders, but still, I was enjoying myself.
Why?
Because I was in control, I was in charge, and I was no longer going to be a victim.
The conference seemed to have ended; the lights started going up the driveway, then stopped, and there were some harsh voices. One light came back, the other one following, and back to the door.
More harsh whispers.
Then a shape bent over, and the other light backed away, illuminating my doorknob.
Enough.
I
