Passage.
Occasionally, when his writing wasnât going well, especially when he was stuck for an engaging plot twist, Tommy stretched out on the sofa, his head elevated on the two decorative red pillows, did some deep-breathing exercises, let his mind drift, and gave his imagination a chance to work. Often he solved the problem within an hour and went back to work. More often he fell asleepâand woke with a flush of shame at his laziness, sticky with perspiration and excessive guilt.
Now Tommy gingerly moved the two red throw pillows. The minikin wasnât hiding behind either of them.
The sofa was built to the floor rather than supported on legs. Consequently, nothing could be hiding under it.
The doll-thing might be behind the sofa, however, and to move such a heavy piece away from the wall, Tommy needed both hands. He would have to put aside the pistol; but he was reluctant to let go of it.
He worriedly surveyed the room.
The only movement was the vaguely phosphorescent wriggle of the rain streaming down the windows.
He placed the gun on a cushion, within easy reach, and dragged the sofa away from the wall, sure that something hideous, half clothed in torn cotton rags, would come at him, shrieking.
He was uneasily aware of how vulnerable his ankles were to sharp little teeth.
Furthermore, he should have tucked the legs of his jeans into his socks or clamped them shut with rubber bands, as he would have done in an actual rat hunt. He shuddered at the thought of something squirming up the inside of a pant leg, clawing and biting him as it ascended.
The minikin had not taken refuge behind the sofa.
Relieved but also frustrated, Tommy left the cumbersome piece standing away from the wall and picked up the pistol.
He carefully lifted each of the three square sofa cushions. Nothing waited under them.
Perspiration stung the corner of his right eye. He blotted his face on the sleeve of his flannel shirt and blinked frantically to clear his vision.
The only place left to search was a mahogany credenza to the right of the door, in which he stored reams of typing paper and other supplies. By standing to one side of the cabinet, he was able to peer into the narrow space behind it and satisfy himself that nothing lurked between it and the wall.
The credenza had two pairs of doors. He considered firing a few rounds through them before daring to look inside, but at last he opened them and poked among the supplies without finding the tiny intruder.
Standing in the middle of the office, Tommy turned slowly in a circle, trying to spot the hiding place that he had overlooked. After making a three-hundred-sixty-degree sweep, he was as baffled as ever. He seemed to have searched everywhere.
Yet he was certain that the doll-thing was still in this room. It could not have escaped during the short time that he had been gone to fetch the pistol. Besides, he sensed its hateful presence, the coiled energy of its predatory patience.
He felt something watching him even now.
But watching from where?
âCome on, damn you, show yourself,â he said.
In spite of the perspiration that sheathed him and the tremor that periodically fluttered through his belly, Tommy was gaining confidence by the minute. He felt that he was handling this bizarre situation with remarkable aplomb, conducting himself with sufficient courage and calculation to impress even Chip Nguyen.
âCome on. Where? Where?â
Lightning flashed at the windows, and tree shadows ran spider-quick over glass and streaming rain, and like a warning voice, the tolling thunder seemed to call Tommyâs attention to the drapes.
The drapes. They didnât extend all the way to the floor, hung only an inch or two below the bottoms of the windows, so he hadnât thought that the minikin could be hiding behind them. But perhaps somehow it had climbed two and a half feet of wallâor had leaped high enoughâto snare one of the drapes, and then had
Occasionally, when his writing wasnât going well, especially when he was stuck for an engaging plot twist, Tommy stretched out on the sofa, his head elevated on the two decorative red pillows, did some deep-breathing exercises, let his mind drift, and gave his imagination a chance to work. Often he solved the problem within an hour and went back to work. More often he fell asleepâand woke with a flush of shame at his laziness, sticky with perspiration and excessive guilt.
Now Tommy gingerly moved the two red throw pillows. The minikin wasnât hiding behind either of them.
The sofa was built to the floor rather than supported on legs. Consequently, nothing could be hiding under it.
The doll-thing might be behind the sofa, however, and to move such a heavy piece away from the wall, Tommy needed both hands. He would have to put aside the pistol; but he was reluctant to let go of it.
He worriedly surveyed the room.
The only movement was the vaguely phosphorescent wriggle of the rain streaming down the windows.
He placed the gun on a cushion, within easy reach, and dragged the sofa away from the wall, sure that something hideous, half clothed in torn cotton rags, would come at him, shrieking.
He was uneasily aware of how vulnerable his ankles were to sharp little teeth.
Furthermore, he should have tucked the legs of his jeans into his socks or clamped them shut with rubber bands, as he would have done in an actual rat hunt. He shuddered at the thought of something squirming up the inside of a pant leg, clawing and biting him as it ascended.
The minikin had not taken refuge behind the sofa.
Relieved but also frustrated, Tommy left the cumbersome piece standing away from the wall and picked up the pistol.
He carefully lifted each of the three square sofa cushions. Nothing waited under them.
Perspiration stung the corner of his right eye. He blotted his face on the sleeve of his flannel shirt and blinked frantically to clear his vision.
The only place left to search was a mahogany credenza to the right of the door, in which he stored reams of typing paper and other supplies. By standing to one side of the cabinet, he was able to peer into the narrow space behind it and satisfy himself that nothing lurked between it and the wall.
The credenza had two pairs of doors. He considered firing a few rounds through them before daring to look inside, but at last he opened them and poked among the supplies without finding the tiny intruder.
Standing in the middle of the office, Tommy turned slowly in a circle, trying to spot the hiding place that he had overlooked. After making a three-hundred-sixty-degree sweep, he was as baffled as ever. He seemed to have searched everywhere.
Yet he was certain that the doll-thing was still in this room. It could not have escaped during the short time that he had been gone to fetch the pistol. Besides, he sensed its hateful presence, the coiled energy of its predatory patience.
He felt something watching him even now.
But watching from where?
âCome on, damn you, show yourself,â he said.
In spite of the perspiration that sheathed him and the tremor that periodically fluttered through his belly, Tommy was gaining confidence by the minute. He felt that he was handling this bizarre situation with remarkable aplomb, conducting himself with sufficient courage and calculation to impress even Chip Nguyen.
âCome on. Where? Where?â
Lightning flashed at the windows, and tree shadows ran spider-quick over glass and streaming rain, and like a warning voice, the tolling thunder seemed to call Tommyâs attention to the drapes.
The drapes. They didnât extend all the way to the floor, hung only an inch or two below the bottoms of the windows, so he hadnât thought that the minikin could be hiding behind them. But perhaps somehow it had climbed two and a half feet of wallâor had leaped high enoughâto snare one of the drapes, and then had
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