at me, as if she were holding her breath to see what I’d say.
I studied her for a moment, then said, “You’ve redecorated.”
She swallowed, it seemed to take some effort, then nodded. She didn’t speak; probably couldn’t.
I said, “I liked it better before.” She still didn’t say anything. I said, “Whose idea was this?”
When she didn’t answer I said “Whose?” again, putting some snap into it.
She remained mute, like a child who doesn’t know it’s being addressed.
I said, “It was Don, wasn’t it?” She didn’t answer, so I put even more into my voice and repeated, “Wasn’t it?”
At last she nodded.
I said, “I had forbidden you to see him.”
She began to tremble.
“Come here,” I said. After a moment she came. I pressed her into my arms. She gave a small muffled cry as the silver points of the mounting of my pendent dug into her chest. Soon she was quiet. There were footsteps, then, and I heard a door opening down the hall. Tom’s head emerged from the door leading up the attic. I glared at him, but he didn’t seem to notice; just nodded pleasantly to me and continued down the back stairs into the kitchen.
I took Jill by the throat and said, “Restore this room.”
She nodded, just barely.
I said, “Good. I’ll be back to check on you after I’ve settled things with Young Don.”
“No,” she said, very softly. “Please.”
I slapped her, not very hard, and she slumped down onto the floor. “Restore this room by the time I return.”
Don lived near St. Bart’s, in a new, ugly, and no doubt expensive apartment building that will probably be turned into a condominium within another five years. It is two stories of greenish brick, each unit having a little porch area enclosed in an iron rail with access via French windows. They had a great deal invested in their security system.
There are a pair of pine trees flanking the walk, about ten feet in front of the doors. I got cozy with one until someone approached with a key in his hand.
A chubby, thoroughly muffled gentleman in his early thirties stepped up to the door, and I slipped out of the shadows behind him. I followed him through the first door, and stood consulting the list of residents while he unlocked the door. He stopped, looked at me, shrugged, and held the door open. I smiled a thank-you and followed him in. No words were exchanged.
Young Don lived in number 22, which I assumed would be on the second floor. I went up the stairs as if I knew for certain, while the gentleman with the key went down the hall the other way. Yes, it was on the second floor, to the right of the stairs, on the left side of the hall.
I entered without knocking first, which may have startled Young Don, because he gave a little screech just before he discharged his shotgun into my chest.
Being shot at close range by double-ought buckshot fired from a. 12-gauge shotgun is like being hit by about eighteen. 32 caliber bullets, all within a few inches of each other and hitting at the same time, except that I don’t know of any. 32 that will shoot with as much force as a shotgun has. The blast picked me up and carried me into the door with enough force that the impact of my body caused the wood to splinter behind me, so that for a moment I had the sensation of being embedded in the door, before my knees crumbled and I fell in a little heap in front of it. Of course, the wood wasn’t the best.
I wish I could remember those next few seconds, because I’ll bet they were interesting, but, while I have a clear memory of the feel of the door splintering behind me, the next thing I can remember is Young Don saying something I couldn’t make out over the ringing in my ears, and I know that some time passed while I wasn’t looking, so to speak.
I was trying to focus on what he was saying while something in my head said, “Stand up, stand up, stand up.” I braced myself against the shattered door, tried to rise, failed, and tried again. I made some progress.
I heard Don say, “Jill said you’d be here.”
I didn’t try to speak at first; my lungs had been ruptured, and speech requires passing air in and out. I made it to a standing position, leaning against the door. Don’s eyes widened. I took a ragged, experimental breath, and it seemed to work. I said, “I shall draw forth thy bones one by one ere I send thee to the Devil, that for all time thy shapeless body shall serve as a carpet for the minions of Hell.”
For just a second he could only stare at me. In that time, I heard sirens approaching, and knew they were heading for us. Then Young Don worked the pump on the shotgun and pointed it at my chest again.
I laughed in his face. “You told Jill, and even told her what to do with her room, but you didn’t believe it yourself, did you?”
He gave an inarticulate cry and squeezed the trigger again, but this time I was ready; I can move very fast indeed when I have to. The blast of the shotgun faded into the approaching siren, which melted into the cry, which went on in my ears long after it had stopped in his throat.
SIX
re?per?cus?sion n. 1. The indirect effect, influence, or result produced by an event or action. 2. A recoil, rebounding, or reciprocal motion after impact.
Several days have passed since I was last in front of my typewriting machine, and I’m finally beginning to feel a little better. The trauma didn’t hit until I tried to get up again the day after I was shot; I collapsed, and lay like a corpse until I fell asleep again several hours later. The next day, when Jim looked in on me, I was hardly able to respond to him. He seemed worried, but what could he do? More days passed in this way, though I’m not certain how many. Yesterday I felt that I might be starting to recover but I didn’t want to press my luck. Today I managed to rise and, after a moment or two, stumble up to my typing room. I need to at least be doing something or I shall go mad.
I am feeling weak and lethargic, but not too bad other than that.
I think I will rest some more now, and tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, I will be about my business. Seeing Jill I must put off for another day or two, but it is high on my list, and then-
Jim and I have had a pleasant enough chat. I told him what had happened with Jill and Don, and he has told me some of his own history, which I’d set down here but I don’t remember enough of the details to make it worthwhile; it is detail that makes a story interesting.
He asked me of my own history, and I told some of it, though in no particular order; because the recollections that come bubbling forth from my memory like water from a fountain don’t seem to want to emerge in any recognizable pattern; although, now that I think of it, I’ve been relating the day-to-day events of these past weeks very much in order; but that’s merely a matter of setting down what has just happened and isn’t at all the same.
For example, when I think of Laura Kellem, what I get are images of her face, or pieces of conversation that might have happened any time during the years we’ve known each other, or parts of the strange dreams I used to have after we’d first met. That was, I believe, while I was in my third year at University. A friend-his name escapes me-had invited me out to a tavern, and, as was our custom, after a few pints we went stalking through those areas that the painted ladies, as we called them, were known to frequent. Now, in all honesty, neither of us had ever indulged ourselves in spending time or money on these ladies. I don’t know why we never did, whether it was fear of some blot that would follow us around, fear of certain diseases that clergymen and professors would hint at but never name, or merely want of courage, but it is nevertheless the case; on the other hand we both took a strange thrill in passing them by and hearing them speak to us in the cadences of their profession, voices both hard and
