Perchance to Dream by Robert B. Parker Page A

Yes. She often comes in to read my books. Sometimes we read them together."
        "Have you seen her lately?" I said.
        Mrs. Swayze's face tightened a little. It made her cheeks pinch and redden.
        "I think she went off with Mr. Simpson. I think she's visiting him."
        "Really?" I said. "Do you know Mr. Simpson's full name?"
        Mrs. Swayze's eyes got very wide and she looked a little frightened.
        "Me? I don't know. I don't know anyone's first name. I don't remember very much anymore. I can't even remember where my house is. I look and I look and I can't see it."
        "Do you know where Mr. Simpson's house is?"
        She shook her head vigorously, and pointed again, vaguely, toward the window.
        "Over there," she said, "I imagine."
        "Do you know why she went to visit Mr. Simpson?" I said.
        Mrs. Swayze smiled secretively and winked at me.
        "A lot of the young girls here go to visit Mr. Simpson."
        "Do they usually come back?"
        "I don't know," she said. Her tone suggested that the question was idiotic.
        Then her eyes shifted past me and she said, "Hi, sweetie."
        I turned. Sweetie was the Mexican, on crepe-soled shoes, who had opened the door behind me. I should have smelled him. He was rank as a goat. His small eyes fixed on me and never left.
        "I've been talking with Dr. Marlowe," Mrs. Swayze said. "He tried to see my house for me but he says he can't."
        The Mexican's eyes never wavered.
        "Si, Seriora Swayze," he said. Then he raised a forefinger and curled it toward him and gestured me toward the hall. I turned to Mrs. Swayze and bowed slightly.
        "If I see your house," I said, "I'll let you know."
        As I said it I slipped my gun out from under my arm and held it down against my leg, where the Mexican couldn't see it. Then I straightened and turned to leave.
        "Thank you, doctor," Mrs. Swayze said. She was bent back over her book, fully engrossed again, wetting her thumb to turn the next page.
        The Mexican backed out of the room ahead of me and as I reached the hall and stepped away from the door he whistled a punch with his left hand that caught me on the side of the jaw and slammed me back against the wall. It was like being hit by a bowling ball. I banged into the wall, my legs felt rubbery and I slid a little downward, trying to brace against the wall with my back as I slid. There was no expression on the Mexican's face as he stepped in to me and rammed his forearm up under my chin, and pinned me back against the wall. His breath was sour in my face as he came in against me and I saw his eyes suddenly widen as I jammed the muzzle of the Colt into his belly under his rib cage.
        "Back up," I said hoarsely, "your breath is wilting my suit."
        The Mexican stepped back carefully and stood with his hands a little away from his sides, his small eyes still steady on me.
        "Now," I said, "you and I are going to walk down this corridor and into the front hall and out the front door. And you're going to do it backwards."
        He made no motion, he said nothing. I could feel the tension in him, like a trigger waiting to be pulled. I hoped he could feel the same thing in me. Especially because I had a trigger to pull.
        "Move," I said.
        He backed slowly down the corridor, moving through the patches of sunlight where the doors to patients' rooms were open and the light streamed in from the east. Dust motes lazed in the sunlight. At the far end of the corridor there was a door in the right wall. I jerked the gun at it and it opened and we were in the entry hall where I'd waited to see Dr. Bonsentir. The slick-haired man in the white coat was there. He looked at me and made a move with his hand. I shook my head and he froze.
        "You too!" I said. "Both of you face the wall, hands on the wall, spread your legs, back away from the wall so