was closing the door as a mother, parked watchfully in a Dodge Caravan at the curb, began to shout, “Use the sidewalk, Douglas . . . !”
The van crept up the street, following Douglas and his fellow pirate.
As Grant was stepping back downstairs the doorbell rang again, and soon he was sitting in the living room with the lights out, smoking his second cigarette, waiting for the bell to ring.
It did, again and again: hobos, men from Mars, ballerinas followed by more hobos.
There was a lull, and Grant went into the kitchen, made another grilled cheese sandwich for dinner.
The doorbell rang again.
Abandoning the grilled cheese sandwich, Grant grabbed a handful of candy bars, yanked open the door—
Petee Wilkins was standing there, snuffling, looking at the ground. There was something in his right hand, which he jerked up—
Instinctively, Grant twisted aside as Petee’s eyes briefly met his and the gun went off. It sounded very far away and not very loud. But it must have been a better handgun than Grant assumed, because the slug hit him in the side like a hard punch. As Grant kept twisting, falling into the candy basket and to the ground, he heard Petee hitch a sob and cry, “I’m sorry!”
Then Petee was gone.
Grant lay stunned, and waited for pain to follow the burning sensation of the bullet.
It came, but it wasn’t as bad as he feared.
As he sat up, a lone trick-or-treater, dressed in some indeterminate costume that may have represented Mr. Moneybags from the board game Monopoly, complete with miniature top hat, stood in the doorway looking down at him. He said the required words and Grant fumbled on the ground around him and threw a handful of candy bars his way.
“Gee, thanks, mister!” Mr. Moneybags said, and ran off.
Grant scooped as much of the candy around him as possible out through the doorway, then stood up with an “Oooof” and, holding his side, kicked the door closed.
He limped into the kitchen and had a look.
There was blood on his hand, which was not a good sign, but there wasn’t a lot soaked into his shirt, which was. He pulled his shirt out of his pants, took a deep breath, and studied the wound.
Just under the skin, left side, in and out, looking clean. He knew he would find the slug somewhere in the front hallway.
“Thank you, Petee, you incompetent asshole,” he whispered,and cleaned the wound at the kitchen sink as best he could. He tied three clean dish towels together and girded his middle.
The blood flow had nearly stopped already.
The front doorbell rang, but he ignored it.
He called the police dispatcher, whose name was Maggie Pheifer, identified himself, told her to have a patrol car visit Petee Wilkins’ father’s house, where they would probably find Petee Wilkins hiding under his own bed. “Consider him armed and dangerous, just in case. I’ll call back in later.”
From upstairs came a moan, louder than the others.
“Shit,” Grant said and, taking a deep, painful breath, hobbled to the stairs and limped his way up.
C HAPTER T WENTY-THREE
Marianne Carlin’s eyes were wide open. She lay pushed back on the bed, knees apart. She was breathing in short little gasps.
“Hello, Detective,” Samhain said calmly from the foot of the bed, where he floated like a wraith. “I see Petee didn’t do his job, which is just as well. I really didn’t want you dead, only . . . incapacitated.”
Grant felt suddenly short of breath, leaned against the doorjamb. He slid down to the floor, staring at Samhain.
“My, my,” Samhain said, “Petee seems to have done a fine job at that.”
“What do you want, Samhain?” Grant said, gasping. There was a growing pain in his left side, which wasn’t going to go away.
Samhain said nothing, staring at Marianne Carlin, who gave a moan and arched her back.
“You want the baby,” Grant said.
“Yes,” Samhain said simply.
“Why?”
Again the wraith was silent as Marianne threw her headback in pain. Grant
The van crept up the street, following Douglas and his fellow pirate.
As Grant was stepping back downstairs the doorbell rang again, and soon he was sitting in the living room with the lights out, smoking his second cigarette, waiting for the bell to ring.
It did, again and again: hobos, men from Mars, ballerinas followed by more hobos.
There was a lull, and Grant went into the kitchen, made another grilled cheese sandwich for dinner.
The doorbell rang again.
Abandoning the grilled cheese sandwich, Grant grabbed a handful of candy bars, yanked open the door—
Petee Wilkins was standing there, snuffling, looking at the ground. There was something in his right hand, which he jerked up—
Instinctively, Grant twisted aside as Petee’s eyes briefly met his and the gun went off. It sounded very far away and not very loud. But it must have been a better handgun than Grant assumed, because the slug hit him in the side like a hard punch. As Grant kept twisting, falling into the candy basket and to the ground, he heard Petee hitch a sob and cry, “I’m sorry!”
Then Petee was gone.
Grant lay stunned, and waited for pain to follow the burning sensation of the bullet.
It came, but it wasn’t as bad as he feared.
As he sat up, a lone trick-or-treater, dressed in some indeterminate costume that may have represented Mr. Moneybags from the board game Monopoly, complete with miniature top hat, stood in the doorway looking down at him. He said the required words and Grant fumbled on the ground around him and threw a handful of candy bars his way.
“Gee, thanks, mister!” Mr. Moneybags said, and ran off.
Grant scooped as much of the candy around him as possible out through the doorway, then stood up with an “Oooof” and, holding his side, kicked the door closed.
He limped into the kitchen and had a look.
There was blood on his hand, which was not a good sign, but there wasn’t a lot soaked into his shirt, which was. He pulled his shirt out of his pants, took a deep breath, and studied the wound.
Just under the skin, left side, in and out, looking clean. He knew he would find the slug somewhere in the front hallway.
“Thank you, Petee, you incompetent asshole,” he whispered,and cleaned the wound at the kitchen sink as best he could. He tied three clean dish towels together and girded his middle.
The blood flow had nearly stopped already.
The front doorbell rang, but he ignored it.
He called the police dispatcher, whose name was Maggie Pheifer, identified himself, told her to have a patrol car visit Petee Wilkins’ father’s house, where they would probably find Petee Wilkins hiding under his own bed. “Consider him armed and dangerous, just in case. I’ll call back in later.”
From upstairs came a moan, louder than the others.
“Shit,” Grant said and, taking a deep, painful breath, hobbled to the stairs and limped his way up.
C HAPTER T WENTY-THREE
Marianne Carlin’s eyes were wide open. She lay pushed back on the bed, knees apart. She was breathing in short little gasps.
“Hello, Detective,” Samhain said calmly from the foot of the bed, where he floated like a wraith. “I see Petee didn’t do his job, which is just as well. I really didn’t want you dead, only . . . incapacitated.”
Grant felt suddenly short of breath, leaned against the doorjamb. He slid down to the floor, staring at Samhain.
“My, my,” Samhain said, “Petee seems to have done a fine job at that.”
“What do you want, Samhain?” Grant said, gasping. There was a growing pain in his left side, which wasn’t going to go away.
Samhain said nothing, staring at Marianne Carlin, who gave a moan and arched her back.
“You want the baby,” Grant said.
“Yes,” Samhain said simply.
“Why?”
Again the wraith was silent as Marianne threw her headback in pain. Grant
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