Eighteen

He woke up. Someone was there! He sat up in the huge bed and listened. Silence. Or rather, not silence. No, not silence at all. If you started counting you would know that there was no silence. The clock. Snow whispering about the house. The bare limbs of trees creaking. The. muffled noise of the city. The house itself made a sound. And there was someone in it besides Arthur Clippert.

For the first time since the death of his wife, he was fully aware of her absence. He was alone. But not quite.

He listened intently, trying not to breathe. Was that a faint step in the kitchen? Did someone bump against the table? A door open, causing a slight draft?

In the dark, his mind's eye pictured the kitchen as he had last seen it. The table heavy and wooden, scarred from a century of cutting and spilling things on it. Jane had bought the table out of an old farmhouse, up north. His supper dishes were still on it. The cleaning woman came only three times a week now. He ate out usually. But tonight on the table were the remains of a too acidic sausage that he had broiled until it had burst. That and the crumbs of a boiled potato, too heavily salted. Jane had liked to cook.

What else was on the table? A fork, half a piece of white bread, butter in a blue dish. And a knife. A very sharp knife, one of a set of French cutlery. A thin, sharp-bladed knife. Not the same one that had been found in Jane's breast. The police had that knife.

He shuddered and his skin was drawn into goose flesh. Forget that, he told himself. It has nothing to do with me.

Another door opening? A faint creak? He couldn't be sure. Just the hint of something brushing against the thick nap of the carpet.

Arthur Clippert eased himself out of bed, naked. He was in the guest room, down the hall from the room he had once shared with Jane. He stepped carefully to the middle of the room and stopped, listening.

He tried to remember where his gun was. Still in the car? No, he had brought it into the house. It was in the linen closet. But did he dare to go there, to get it?

He could hear nothing in the house, except the night sounds. But he was convinced that someone was there. He had to move. He tiptoed across the carpet, into the hallway. He stopped again and listened. Nothing. He went on to the linen closet. Slowly, carefully, he eased the closet door open. He dared not turn on a light. He felt in among the clean sheets and pillowcases, sliding his hand into their smooth coolness until he located the hard lump of the pistol. But then he could not find the naked metal of the pistol and he panicked, pulling out sheets and tangling them around his hand until, at last, the gun was in his hand. Even then he had a bad moment trying to extricate his hand from the tangled linen.

He held the gun up before him in the darkness and could only barely make out its dull gleam. It was a Colt .45 automatic, a relic of his Air Force career.

He stepped carefully along the hallway, his knees making horrible cracks and pops. It was the tension, he knew, but he could not help it. Unless . . . yes, he could go on his hands and knees.

He went down the stairs backward, praying for no squeaky steps and holding the pistol awkwardly. He was naked and chilled.

The clock ticked. Something shifted slightly, a noise like the friction of fabric, perhaps pant legs rubbing together at the thighs. Outside the wind blew harder, the tree limbs rattled and snow was dashed against the windowpanes.

At last he was at the foot of the stairs. To his left was the big living room. He crouched back on his heels, as if to force his glowing white nakedness into the wall. He peered into the shadows of the room, partially lit by the streetlight. It must be three in the morning, he thought, or even four.

It occurred to him then that the gun might not be loaded. He felt the butt. The clip was in.

But another thought came: even if the clip was in, was there a shell in the chamber? Was the safety on? Was the gun cocked and ready to fire? He felt for the safety and flicked it with his thumb. There was a tiny click in the darkness. Could someone hear that? he wondered.

But there was no answering sound from the room.

His scrotum was as tight as a peach pit, and as small. He waited and listened. And then he thought: he had flicked the safety, but did that mean it was now on, or off? He couldn't remember. It had been a century since Master Sergeant Patobny had conducted the course, “Familiarization With Small Arms.” For a moment he was distracted by a memory of Master Sergeant Patobny. A stocky man with a fringe of gray-brown hair around a bald dome. He could see the blue Ike jacket, the name tag above the Silver Cross and the campaign ribbons.

He jarred himself back to the present. He knew the distraction of memory was a psychological thing, an attempt of the self to escape present and terrifying reality.

Is this goddamn gun going to fire, or isn't it, he wondered?

He remembered then that he would have to rack the slide back in order to cock the pistol and to inject a round into the chamber. Sgt. Patobny's voice told him that, and also that the safety was now off. So, there was another purpose to the vision of Patobny. But racking the slide, that would make too much noise.

The only way to do it was to slide the thing slowly, easing it past the telltale clicks and minimizing the noise of friction. The trouble was, it was too damn silent in the house. It was as if whoever was there was waiting, holding his breath, listening for the sounds that would tell him where Clippert was crouching.

Click-a-lick-a-lick! It was loud—too damn loud! And he still had to let the slide back. There was nothing for it; he let the slide go slowly back. Slowly!

And then he saw him.

He was across the room, standing near the big chair next to the fireplace. An extra darkness, along with a faint glow that must be the face. And there was a slight rustling sound, almost like tinkling.

He sees me! He heard me! Arthur could feel his own too white flesh gleaming in the darkness, his vulnerable nakedness.

He held the .45 in both hands, stretched out in front of him. It has to fire, he thought. Let it fire! If not, I'm dead.

He aimed directly for the thickest, darkest portion of the figure in the corner. He squeezed the trigger.

KABLOWWW!

The noise, the shock and the buck of the .45 knocked Arthur off balance. He fell to his side, firing.

KABLOWM! BLAM! BLA-BLA-BLAMMM!

The room rang with earsplitting noise. There was a crashing, jangling sound. A terrific commotion. Then a ringing silence.

I got him! he thought. He crouched on the floor, looking about him, still blinded by the brilliant flash of the shots.

Nothing.

He straightened up, on his knees, and looked around, open-mouthed and staring, the .45 still in his fist.

Suddenly, the front door crashed open. Clippert gawked, whirling to look behind him. A second later there was a smashing of glass in the front window, just a few feet away, and a hand with a gun poked in.

“Hold it!”

Clippert froze.

“Get up,” the voice said, commanding.

Clippert staggered to his feet.

“Drop the gun. Kick it away.”

Clippert stubbed his toe on the heavy weapon, but it slid away from him.

“Where's the light switch?”

“The . . . the door,” Clippert said.

“All right, move to it slowly, I can see you. Move to it and turn on all the switches there. Move!”

Clippert moved carefully to the switches by the door and flicked all three of them. The living room, the entry and the little porch flooded with light. Clippert blinked against the unaccustomed light.

“Step out the door,” the voice snapped.

“Like this?”

“Move!”

Clippert stepped out into the snow, his hands over his head. He shivered in the brilliant light and peered into the darkness. He had never felt so defenseless.

A man appeared out of the darkness wearing a hat and an overcoat. He was tall and skinny, rawboned. He looked more like a cop than anyone Clippert had ever seen.

“Who are you?” the cop asked.

Coldly, Clippert told him.

Someone screamed and screamed at Mulheisen. And then it was the telephone. He sat up and looked with blurry eyes at the glowing of the bedside clock. After four. He had been asleep for just over an hour.

“Wha?” he said to the phone.

A voice heavily laden with resignation said, “Little bit of a problem here at Clippert's place, Mul.”

“Whosis?”

“Maki.” Sergeant Maki of the Ninth Precinct was known on the street as Pivot. He looked like a forty-year-old high-school basketball star, but that wasn't why they called him Pivot. He used to have a habit of wheeling on a tough suspect and belting him. This would happen in the early hours of interrogation. It never happened anymore, but the name was still there.

Mulheisen groaned. Maki waited. Finally, Mulheisen said, “What's the problem?”

Maki explained, finishing, “When I heard the shots I rousted the gun, only it turned out to be Clippert himself.” Maki glanced over at Clippert, who stood glaring by the fireplace, wearing a red velvet robe and holding a snifter of brandy. That corner of the room was a bit messy—the Christmas tree was sprawled on the floor in a tangle of broken limbs and smashed ornaments, plaster was out of the wall.

“He says he heard a burglar, so he shot the hell out of his Christmas tree,” Maki said.

“Any sign of a break-in?” Mulheisen asked.

“Not really,” Maki said. “Coulda been, I guess. He says there's no sign of anything taken. You coming down?”

“Why should I?”

Maki stared at Clippert, an unflinching gaze. “Yeah, well, there's some damage here. A broken window, front door kinda messed up. Clippert's pissed.”

“To hell with him,” Mulheisen said. “Call McClain. Lay on the works, lab, photographer . . .”

“I already did,” Maki said. “McClain said to call you. The lab is coming. Also, Clippert's doctor. He's not hurt, but he may need a sedative, or something. He didn't see the burglar, he says. He thought he did. So he shot the tree with this .45 he's got.”

“Get the gun,” Mulheisen said. “Make sure the lab gets the bullets. Check the registration.”

“It's registered,” Maki said.

“Anything you can take him on?”

Maki shrugged, then realized that Mulheisen couldn't see a shrug over the telephone. “Discharging a firearm within the city limits, maybe?” he said, his voice ripe with irony.

“Okay,” Mulheisen said, “let me talk to him.”

Maki held out the telephone. “You,” he said.

Clippert was outraged. He downed the brandy in one gulp and snatched the telephone from Maki.

“Who is this?” he demanded.

“This is Mulheisen. Heard you had another burglary, Clippert.” Mulheisen's voice was calm and relaxed now. He was lying back in his bed.

“Mulheisen, I have a complaint to make. This officer—”

“Clippert! Did you have a burglar or didn't you?”

“Of course I did! And then I was almost shot by one of your men. Not only that, but I suffered gross indignities and he has been insolent. But what I want to know, Mulheisen, is what the hell he was doing here? I didn't put in any call.”

“Why not?”

“Why—I—there wasn't time . . . I—”

“Clippert, it's after four. When your doctor gets there, why don't you take a pill and go to bed. I'll be in my office by nine o'clock. Why don't you be there too?”

“What? I've had about enough of this insolence, Sergeant. I'll be down there, all right, with my attorney. You're going to wish you had never heard of me.”

“Fine. I want to talk to you about a man named Wienoshek.”

“What? Who?” Clippert paused. “I don't know what you're talking about. What is this?”

Mulheisen noticed that some of Clippert's rage had dissipated. “This guy Wienoshek is a burglar,” Mulheisen said.

“Do you think he's the man who broke in?”

Mulheisen laughed. “Could be. See you in the morning. Nine o'clock. The Ninth Precinct, that's on Chalmers. You know where it is? Good. Now let me talk to Sergeant Maki.”

To Maki he said, “Make it sound like I'm sending you off duty. Maybe he'll go for it and run. I'd like to see that. But I doubt it.”

Maki managed a poor smile. “Well, thanks, Mul. Should I split, or just go back to the station?” His smile faded. “Well, at least it's warm there.”

Mulheisen laughed. “That's too good. Keep an eye on him.”

It was after five before Clippert was alone again. The doctor had left some sleeping pills, but Clippert didn't take them. He had another shot of brandy and trudged back up to the guest room. He lay there, thinking about Wienoshek. What could they make of Wienoshek? He finally decided they could make anything they wanted of Wienoshek, it would have nothing to do with himself.

After a bit he forgot about Wienoshek. He became more conscious of the present, of lying in bed. He rehearsed all the events of the past few hours, going over again how he had awakened, feeling the fear again . . .

And then he was really afraid. Pure, mindless terror seized him and he went stiff, shaking. After a few moments the feeling passed and he was limp, with cold sweat all over his body. It's just shock, he told himself, like trembling an hour after a near accident. Then he remembered the .45. Where was it? He had left it downstairs, on the mantel of the fireplace.

He got out of bed and went down to get it. It was still there. He had not turned on the light. Once again he stood in the dark room, seeing only by the faint light of the street, holding the .45. He looked down at it. Then he laid the cool muzzle against his cheek, smelling the cordite of the recent explosions mingling with the scent of the gun oil. He flicked his tongue at the barrel and tasted the metallic tang. He edged the muzzle up to his temple.

This is how you do it, he thought. It's easy. You just pull the trigger, like this . . . his finger tightened against the trigger. He lowered the gun.

It was still snowing. He looked out into the swirling cloud around the streetlight. There were no cars parked but he knew they were out there. Oh yes. They were out there, snow or not. But who? Mulheisen? Wienoshek? Who else? The FBI, the U.S. Attorney, the grand jury. People. That's all it was. People. They wanted you and fed on you and tore you to bits when you didn't give them what they wanted.

He couldn't worry about them, he decided. He had other things to worry about. He had things to do. You have to do it alone, he told himself.

He went upstairs, taking the .45 with him.