Pick Your Poison

“Stop that animal from ruining my paint job, Kate.”

She hurried after Webster, saying, “I’m calling nine-one-one,” over her shoulder.

“Don’t overreact. Let me check the place out first.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” she yelled, cell phone in one hand, Webster’s leash in the other.

I’ve always considered shouldn’t a fighting word, so I pushed open the door and stuck my head inside. The rooms on either side of the foyer were as dark as the bottom of a well, probably because the windows had wooden shades that completely obliterated all daylight. Kept the place cool in the summer heat.

Once I propped open the front door with my purse, I had enough light to see the stairs directly in front of me. I tried the foyer light switch, knowing we kept the electricity turned on, but nothing happened. Might not even be a bulb in the socket.

I stepped all the way in and edged my way along the wall until I could feel the molding of a door frame. I inched farther down to the window, hunting with my fingers for the centerpiece that controlled the slats until I found it.

Daylight brightened the front living room, sending huge roaches scurrying in every direction. I shivered with disgust, thinking I should have anticipated their presence and brought a shotgun—I’m pretty good with a gun. Daddy raised real Texans, not Southern belles, thank you very much.

This room led to the dining area, and to the right of the dining room was the kitchen. Straight past the stairs would get me to the kitchen as well, and there were four bedrooms and a couple bathrooms upstairs.

“Abby?” Kate whispered from the foyer.

“To your left.”

Kate’s silhouette was framed in the light of the door and she held Webster by the scruff, an umbrella poised in her other hand. “My phone wouldn’t respond when I dialed nine-one-one, so a lady three doors down called the police.”

“Between your umbrella and your dog, I’m sure we’re as safe as squirrels up a tree until they get here.”

“Very funny.”

Then we both heard it.

A shuffle or a scrape. Coming from upstairs.

Kate gasped, her umbrella weapon clattering to the floor. She zipped to my side, dragging Webster with her. “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered, digging her fingers into my arm.

Webster started pedaling, his nails clicking on the wood floor.

“Calm down or you’ll give the poor dog a heart attack. This is our house, and I’m finding out this minute what’s going on. Who knows? Maybe there’s a bird trapped upstairs—or even a possum.” I sounded brave enough. But was I trying to convince Kate—or myself?

“Okay,” she said. “But help me put Webster in the kitchen first. He’ll never go up those stairs.”

She was right. “Come on, you poor excuse for a dog,” I said, pushing him from the rear.

Kate stuck with his front end, but when we reached the kitchen door, footsteps—running, pounding steps— echoed through what I thought had been a vacant house.

Someone was coming down the stairs.

Neither of us had time to move before we saw a gray blur race through the foyer and out the open front door.

Kate started screaming, “Oh, my God!” over and over, which sent Webster flying through the kitchen entry beyond us.

I almost went after whoever ran off, buoyed by the idea that the intruder felt compelled to escape. I’ve always preferred my criminal types on the spineless end of the bell curve. But I didn’t think that would be too smart, so I said, “Pull yourself together, Kate. We’ll corral Webster and wait in my car for the police.”

I turned my attention to the kitchen, where sun persisted through the grime of curtainless windows, striping the room with dust-filled rays of light.

What I saw didn’t register at first, considering I expected to see Webster cowering in the corner rather than where he was—sitting in the center of the room... next to the man lying in a pool of blood.

7

I hurried over and knelt next to the man, pressing my fingers to his throat to take yet another pulse in less than a week.

Kate flipped on the light and opened the blinds. That was when I realized whose pulse I was taking.

“You’d better not be dead,” I said under my breath. “We’ve got too much unfinished business, buster.”

But Steven’s pulse was strong—racing, in fact. Blood still oozed from a gash at the base of his skull, and with nothing better available, I pressed the hem of my T-shirt against the wound.

“Is he... you know?” Kate stood above us, her mouth white-ringed with fear.

Steven answered the question himself by moaning and turning his head in my direction. “Abby? Is that you?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

His eyes opened wider and then his hand flew to the back of his head.

“Don’t move,” I said sharply.

But did he listen? Of course not. He sat bolt upright, like Dracula popping up from his casket.

“What in hell happened?” He surveyed the room, obviously disoriented.

Meanwhile, Webster plopped down in the corner.

Steven gingerly removed his pale yellow Polo and held the wadded shirt against the gash.

A siren whined from several blocks away. Our siren, I hoped.

“We called the police. I’m sure they’ll call you an ambulance,” I said.

“I don’t need any ambulance. If I ever get my hands on the bastard who hit me, he’ll be one sorry-ass cowboy.” Steven slowly rose, but once upright, wavered on wobbly legs.

I supported him by cupping his elbow. “Why don’t you humor me and sit still a minute longer?”

“Don’t tell me what to do, okay?” He flushed with anger.

“Back to your old self in record time, I see. Fine. But the next time you need help, count me out.”

“She’s just glad you’re okay, Steven,” Kate said. “She gets a teensy bit irritable when she’s scared.”

“You don’t need to explain my behavior to him, Kate. He’s an ungrateful slob, which, of course, is not a news flash.”

“Me, ungrateful? I don’t recall ever hearing you say kiss my foot, much less thank-you,” he shot back. “I came here to help you, babe, if I remember right.”

“Don’t call me babe!”

When the police arrived a few minutes later, we were still arguing. From her expression, Kate was even more thankful than I was for the interruption.

They examined both doors, checked the windows, and started filling out reports. Policeman One convinced Steven that an emergency room visit might be a good idea, but agreed an ambulance wasn’t necessary. Then Policeman Two added his two cents, saying he’d have to be dead or unconscious to ride in an ambulance, since every paramedic he knew drove like a New York cabbie. “Besides,” he added, “everyone bleeds. Doesn’t mean you’re dying.”

They all laughed.

I had to interrupt this conversation before I became seriously nauseated. “Could we delay this meeting of Extra Y Chromosomes Anonymous? A crime was committed here.”

Cop One said, “You talking about the broken lock or the assault?”

“Both,” I said.

“I guess you saw that the back lock was broken, too,” Steven said.

Policeman Two nodded. “I noticed. We’ve had a problem with homeless folks in the area wanting out of the