A Matter Of Taste by Fred Saberhagen (ebook pc reader TXT) 📕

a card that said he was a ‘publicist,’ whatever that is. I don’t—”

      John, shaking his head hopelessly, switched his attention to Elizabeth, who was sitting huddled in one of the living room’s soft chairs. “Liz?” He had to call her name several times to get her attention.

      At last she raised green, frightened eyes.

      “They sent you, didn’t they? That man out in the hall? They told you to come in here and then call one of them in?”

      She nodded. Her eyes were dreamy. “The big young fella there, he talked about that, telling me I ought to invite them in if they asked me to. I don’t know why he wanted that. I never expected he”—her eyes moved in the direction of the bedroom where their host still lay—”was going to—to—” She raised her fingers to her throat And giggled, faintly, once again.

      “You see,” said John to Angie, “this is someone’s home. They can’t get in here unless they’re invited. I don’t know why it works that way, but it really does.” His voice sounded reasonable, even if what he was saying made no sense at all.

      Angie hesitated. “They’? Who’re ‘they’?”

      “Kaiser and his buddies out there. His friend Stewart wasn’t, he was a normal man.” John’s voice was growing ragged again. “But they can’t just push a door in, not a door to someone’s house. They can’t stop me from shutting them out, though God knows they’re strong enough.”

      “John? I think you better get hold of yourself. If you—”

      “Who is this Kaiser, anyway?”

      “I don’t really know.”

      “Angie, that guy in the hall is working every trick he can to get someone to invite him through that door. But once he’s in the apartment—we’re dead, if he wants us dead. And when I look at him I’m scared shitless. It’s like eleven years ago.”

      “I want to go home,” said Elizabeth Wiswell suddenly. “I don’t feel good.” Her slight body made convulsive nodding motions; in a moment, hand to her mouth, she had leaped from her chair and was hurrying down the bedroom hallway. In another moment, sounds of retching came from that direction.

      The other two paid her little attention. Something, Angie suddenly understood, in this situation is taking John back to when he lost his fingers. She had a question ready, but before she could ask it, John pushed past her and went to stand beside the viewscreen, just as the door chime rang yet again.

      Putting his hand on Kaiser’s miniature image, in an urgent whisper he turned his head to Angie and ordered: “Whatever you say, whatever you do, don’t invite any of those people in. Okay? I’ll do my best to explain the rest of this to you later.”

      She was angry, perhaps because she knew she had once been on the brink of issuing such an invitation. “Do you need to keep saying that? Do you think I’m crazy? Or are you?” Then she wished she hadn’t asked the question.

      “No, I’m not.” He paused. “That’s the least of my worries.” Suddenly he held up his four-fingered hands, wiggling the digits briefly like someone miming quotation marks. “This experience,” he said, “taught me something.”

      The door chime sounded yet again. John turned swiftly and pushed the button, beside the video panel, that allowed voice communication.

      “What is it?” he demanded

      Kaiser’s voice, distorted by the system’s third-rate audio, came through. “I said, would you open the door, please?”

      “No!”

      The man in the hall did not sound discouraged.

      “John? Angie? Let me talk with the young woman who’s with you, please. I want to satisfy myself that she’s free to leave this apartment if she wants to. Then I’ll go away, if you insist.”

      “How did you know my name?” John demanded.

      “Angie called you by name. Don’t you remember?”

      John looked doubtful, of his memory if not his purpose. And Liz, emerging feebly from the bedroom hallway, looking almost as pale as Uncle Matthew, shook her head silently and shivered.

      Angie said to the intercom: “She doesn’t want to talk to you. Go away.”

      John turned off the sound again. He was looking at her fiercely, but his voice was so low that she had to strain to hear him. “Angie, you really know that man?”

      “I told you, or I’ve been trying to tell you, I’ve met him once. That’s all.”

      “Where’d you meet him? When?”

      “Yesterday afternoon. I was going to tell you all about it, but—I’ve got his business card in my purse.” She looked about. The purse would be back in the bedroom. “His name’s Valentine Kaiser, and he’s a ‘celebrity publicist,’ whatever that is, or he claims to be.”

      That provoked from John a burst of near-hysterical laughter. “I haven’t met him. I’ve never seen him before. But, I told you, I know what he is.”

      “So? What are we doing now, just letting him stand around out there, and his friend, and harass us all night? I say call the police. Maybe Uncle Matthew really needs an ambulance.” And she too laughed. It was a foolish, panicky sound and she hated herself for making it.

      He was shaking his head emphatically. “No ambulance and no police. Uncle Matthew’s not like other people.

      Believe me, honey, I know what I’m doing. I’m calling Joe.”

That made her pause, with its sheer apparent irrelevance. “Joe Keogh?”

      “Yes.” He was already picking up the phone, in a little alcove off the living room.

      “Why? What’s Joe Keogh got to do with this?” Then Angie turned to look at the silent video screen. Valentine Kaiser was waving his arm in an unmistakable gesture of farewell.

      “Look, John. I think he’s leaving.”

      Receiver at his ear, John came far enough out of the alcove to look. Now Kaiser, with the smaller figure of Mr. Stewart staying shadowlike behind him, had definitely turned and was moving away. Almost at once they were gone out of the camera’s limited range.

      “They’re going,” Angie said doubtfully.

      “Let’s hope so.” John didn’t sound as if he even considered it a possibility. In another moment he was addressing the phone, in the careful voice of one confronted with an answering