coffee, then dialed into work from his cell phone.
“Chip? This is Grant. Captain Farrow knows I’m not coming in today, right? You told him, like I asked?”
The desk sergeant said something, and Grant snapped, “Then tell him now, you dimwit. I won’t be in.”
Grant pushed the off button on the phone and tossed it onto the kitchen table.
From upstairs there came a sound, and Grant froze in place, listening. Then it came again, bedsprings creaking. The detective relaxed, turning back to his eggs, which were bubbling and snapping in the frying pan now.
After breakfast he cleaned up the kitchen, poured a second cup of coffee and went back down to the basement. A sour rising sun was trying to fight its way through the scudding clouds.
Maybe it would clear after all.
Grant settled himself back in his chair, turned the television back on and watched two westerns back-to-back, muting the sound every once in a while to listen for sounds upstairs.
At eleven A.M . he went back upstairs and pulled a fresh bottle of Dewar’s from its bag, which he had placed on the dining room hutch the day before. He brought the bottle downstairs. He emptied the last finger of scotch from the old bottle into the glass, twisted open the new bottle and added another finger.
A sound from upstairs, a moan, and Grant set the bottle of scotch on the TV table, took his glass, and went up to the kitchen.
“Shit.”
Another moan followed, and Grant slowly trudged up the stairs to the second floor of the house. There was a short hallway with two bedrooms and a bath off it. Hepassed the bath and his own bedroom and stood in the doorway of the other, sipping scotch.
Marianne Carlin lay on her back on the guest bed, the covers kicked aside, half-asleep.
Her belly under her nightgown was huge.
As Grant watched, she moved her head from side to side, eyes closed, and moaned again. Grant thought he saw something move in her belly, like a snake under a sheet.
Grant went to the bed, put his glass down on the bedside table and picked up the washcloth that lay folded on the edge of the water bowl there and dipped it into the water. He wrung it out and patted the young woman’s forehead with the cloth.
Marianne mumbled something in her sleep, the name, “Jack,” then wrenched herself over onto her side away from him and began to softly snore.
Grant rearranged the covers over her, folded the washcloth back on the edge of the bowl, retrieved his alcohol and left.
Another movie brought him to lunchtime—a grilled cheese sandwich—and then two more short old westerns got him to four o’clock in the afternoon. The schools were out by now, and the younger trick-or-treaters would start soon. He went upstairs to check his candy bowl by the front door, and for good measure added another bag to it, which made it overflow. He picked up the fallen Snickers bars and put them in his pocket.
He glanced outside and saw that the sun had lost its all-day fight with the gray clouds and was dropping, a pallid orange ball, toward the western horizon.
A porch light flicked on at the house across the street, which seemed to trigger a relay—two more houses lit up,one of them with tiny pumpkin lights strung across its gutter from end to end, the other with a huge spotlight next to the drive illuminating a motor-driven, wriggling spider in a rope web arranged in the lower branches of a white birch.
Back in the basement, Grant noted that the pumpkins on his back neighbor’s deck railing were now lit, flickering frowns to smiles.
He tried to watch another movie, but his palms had begun to sweat.
Upstairs, the doorbell rang. He went up to answer it. Two diminutive sailors, one with a pirate’s eye patch, looked up at him and shouted, “Trick or treat!” They thrust their near-empty bags up in a no-nonsense manner, glaring balefully at him.
He gave them each two candy bars, and they turned immediately and fled sideways across his lawn to the next house. Grant
“Chip? This is Grant. Captain Farrow knows I’m not coming in today, right? You told him, like I asked?”
The desk sergeant said something, and Grant snapped, “Then tell him now, you dimwit. I won’t be in.”
Grant pushed the off button on the phone and tossed it onto the kitchen table.
From upstairs there came a sound, and Grant froze in place, listening. Then it came again, bedsprings creaking. The detective relaxed, turning back to his eggs, which were bubbling and snapping in the frying pan now.
After breakfast he cleaned up the kitchen, poured a second cup of coffee and went back down to the basement. A sour rising sun was trying to fight its way through the scudding clouds.
Maybe it would clear after all.
Grant settled himself back in his chair, turned the television back on and watched two westerns back-to-back, muting the sound every once in a while to listen for sounds upstairs.
At eleven A.M . he went back upstairs and pulled a fresh bottle of Dewar’s from its bag, which he had placed on the dining room hutch the day before. He brought the bottle downstairs. He emptied the last finger of scotch from the old bottle into the glass, twisted open the new bottle and added another finger.
A sound from upstairs, a moan, and Grant set the bottle of scotch on the TV table, took his glass, and went up to the kitchen.
“Shit.”
Another moan followed, and Grant slowly trudged up the stairs to the second floor of the house. There was a short hallway with two bedrooms and a bath off it. Hepassed the bath and his own bedroom and stood in the doorway of the other, sipping scotch.
Marianne Carlin lay on her back on the guest bed, the covers kicked aside, half-asleep.
Her belly under her nightgown was huge.
As Grant watched, she moved her head from side to side, eyes closed, and moaned again. Grant thought he saw something move in her belly, like a snake under a sheet.
Grant went to the bed, put his glass down on the bedside table and picked up the washcloth that lay folded on the edge of the water bowl there and dipped it into the water. He wrung it out and patted the young woman’s forehead with the cloth.
Marianne mumbled something in her sleep, the name, “Jack,” then wrenched herself over onto her side away from him and began to softly snore.
Grant rearranged the covers over her, folded the washcloth back on the edge of the bowl, retrieved his alcohol and left.
Another movie brought him to lunchtime—a grilled cheese sandwich—and then two more short old westerns got him to four o’clock in the afternoon. The schools were out by now, and the younger trick-or-treaters would start soon. He went upstairs to check his candy bowl by the front door, and for good measure added another bag to it, which made it overflow. He picked up the fallen Snickers bars and put them in his pocket.
He glanced outside and saw that the sun had lost its all-day fight with the gray clouds and was dropping, a pallid orange ball, toward the western horizon.
A porch light flicked on at the house across the street, which seemed to trigger a relay—two more houses lit up,one of them with tiny pumpkin lights strung across its gutter from end to end, the other with a huge spotlight next to the drive illuminating a motor-driven, wriggling spider in a rope web arranged in the lower branches of a white birch.
Back in the basement, Grant noted that the pumpkins on his back neighbor’s deck railing were now lit, flickering frowns to smiles.
He tried to watch another movie, but his palms had begun to sweat.
Upstairs, the doorbell rang. He went up to answer it. Two diminutive sailors, one with a pirate’s eye patch, looked up at him and shouted, “Trick or treat!” They thrust their near-empty bags up in a no-nonsense manner, glaring balefully at him.
He gave them each two candy bars, and they turned immediately and fled sideways across his lawn to the next house. Grant
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