creeper like a ladder. At a height of about ten or twelve feet, almost
level with the verandah roof, he paused once more and listened for sound of the
dogs. He heard a low, erratic, rumbling noise, but he guessed it was a distant
airplane turning toward Dulles.
At last he was
able to reach out his left foot and cautiously test the guttering. Further
along it was rusted through, but from the verandah roof to the bay window it
looked as if it was reasonably intact. He pressed on it with more weight, and
then decided to try his luck and stand on it with both feet with his full 192
pounds. The lighted window was now only two or three feet away, and he could
hear voices more distinctly and the creak of floorboards as someone walked
around in the room.
It happened at the very instant he was stepping on to the
guttering. There was a loud, hair-raising snarl, and something immensely
powerful and heavy leaped up at him from the ground and tore him bodily down
from the creeper. His fingers and face were lacerated as the beast’s weight
dragged him straight through branches and leaves and brought him to the grass
with a back-bruising thump. Then the thing rolled on top of him, slavering and
snarling and tearing at him with vicious claws. Gene smelled a rank animal odor
that was anything but dog, and he screamed in desperation, as his sweater was
ripped from his arms, and guzzling jaws bit into his shoulder muscle to tug the
flesh away, from his collar bone.
Three
G ene opened his eyes. It was obviously morning. He was lying in a
narrow brass bed in a small upstairs room with floral wallpaper. A watery
sunlight was falling across the room and touching the top of a walnut
chiffonier, on which, from where he lay, he could see a wooden camel with a
decorated saddle, and a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame of a woman
who could have been Lorie’s grandmother.
His shoulder
was stiff and throbbed with suppressed pain. When he turned his head, he saw
that it was tightly bandaged. There were dark brown marks on the bandage that
probably were dried blood. He coughed and realized that his ribs were bruised,
too.
For an hour or
so he drifted into sleep and out again. It occurred to him during one of his
waking moments that he was probably under sedation. He had strange nightmares
about pale and ferocious beasts with claws, and he woke up one time shouting.
Around
mid-morning, the door of his room opened. He moved his head, and through blurry
eyes he saw a tall woman standing there. He thought for one moment it was
Lorie, but then he saw that this woman was older, and more dignified. She was
wearing a dove-gray dress, and her silver hair was elaborately coiffed and
covered with a pearl-studded hairnet. She had a magnificent figure for a woman
in her mid-fifties, with big heavy breasts and a slender waist. He suddenly
remembered Maggie’s words about une grande poltr’me .
This, evidently, was Lorie’s mother.
“Mr. Keiller,”
she said, in a soft French accent “Are you awake now, Mr. Keiller?” He nodded.
“I feel lousy.
My throat’s dry.” She sat on the edge of his bed and lifted a blue glass of
mineral water. With firm hands, she raised his head for him, and he drank.
Afterwards, she patted his lips with a tissue.
“Is that
better?” she asked. “Thank you, yes.”
Mrs. Semple sat
and looked at him with quite unabashed interest.
“You were very
lucky, you know,” she said, after a moment.
“Lucky? I feel
like I’m half-dead.”
“Half-dead is
better than completely dead, Mr. Keiller. You were lucky you were so close to
the house. If you had been further away, we might not have reached you in
time.”
“Do you train
your dogs to do that?” She put her head on one side and frowned a little, as if
she couldn’t quite understand what he was saying. “To kill,” he prompted. “To
tear people apart.”
She nodded
vaguely. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose we do.”
“You suppose1?
I practically died
level with the verandah roof, he paused once more and listened for sound of the
dogs. He heard a low, erratic, rumbling noise, but he guessed it was a distant
airplane turning toward Dulles.
At last he was
able to reach out his left foot and cautiously test the guttering. Further
along it was rusted through, but from the verandah roof to the bay window it
looked as if it was reasonably intact. He pressed on it with more weight, and
then decided to try his luck and stand on it with both feet with his full 192
pounds. The lighted window was now only two or three feet away, and he could
hear voices more distinctly and the creak of floorboards as someone walked
around in the room.
It happened at the very instant he was stepping on to the
guttering. There was a loud, hair-raising snarl, and something immensely
powerful and heavy leaped up at him from the ground and tore him bodily down
from the creeper. His fingers and face were lacerated as the beast’s weight
dragged him straight through branches and leaves and brought him to the grass
with a back-bruising thump. Then the thing rolled on top of him, slavering and
snarling and tearing at him with vicious claws. Gene smelled a rank animal odor
that was anything but dog, and he screamed in desperation, as his sweater was
ripped from his arms, and guzzling jaws bit into his shoulder muscle to tug the
flesh away, from his collar bone.
Three
G ene opened his eyes. It was obviously morning. He was lying in a
narrow brass bed in a small upstairs room with floral wallpaper. A watery
sunlight was falling across the room and touching the top of a walnut
chiffonier, on which, from where he lay, he could see a wooden camel with a
decorated saddle, and a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame of a woman
who could have been Lorie’s grandmother.
His shoulder
was stiff and throbbed with suppressed pain. When he turned his head, he saw
that it was tightly bandaged. There were dark brown marks on the bandage that
probably were dried blood. He coughed and realized that his ribs were bruised,
too.
For an hour or
so he drifted into sleep and out again. It occurred to him during one of his
waking moments that he was probably under sedation. He had strange nightmares
about pale and ferocious beasts with claws, and he woke up one time shouting.
Around
mid-morning, the door of his room opened. He moved his head, and through blurry
eyes he saw a tall woman standing there. He thought for one moment it was
Lorie, but then he saw that this woman was older, and more dignified. She was
wearing a dove-gray dress, and her silver hair was elaborately coiffed and
covered with a pearl-studded hairnet. She had a magnificent figure for a woman
in her mid-fifties, with big heavy breasts and a slender waist. He suddenly
remembered Maggie’s words about une grande poltr’me .
This, evidently, was Lorie’s mother.
“Mr. Keiller,”
she said, in a soft French accent “Are you awake now, Mr. Keiller?” He nodded.
“I feel lousy.
My throat’s dry.” She sat on the edge of his bed and lifted a blue glass of
mineral water. With firm hands, she raised his head for him, and he drank.
Afterwards, she patted his lips with a tissue.
“Is that
better?” she asked. “Thank you, yes.”
Mrs. Semple sat
and looked at him with quite unabashed interest.
“You were very
lucky, you know,” she said, after a moment.
“Lucky? I feel
like I’m half-dead.”
“Half-dead is
better than completely dead, Mr. Keiller. You were lucky you were so close to
the house. If you had been further away, we might not have reached you in
time.”
“Do you train
your dogs to do that?” She put her head on one side and frowned a little, as if
she couldn’t quite understand what he was saying. “To kill,” he prompted. “To
tear people apart.”
She nodded
vaguely. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose we do.”
“You suppose1?
I practically died
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