Thorn by Fred Saberhagen (reading like a writer TXT) 📕

      Hasty glances to right and left assured Judy that her companions were looking pretty sick. She herself was not quite as scared as they appeared to be; she had an inner certainty that help of a most effective kind was on its way. Judy was sure that he now was aware, at least dimly, of her presence here, near the very thing that had already drawn him so powerfully, and he was coming, at great speed.

      The trouble was that Judy could not be at all sure of how far he had yet to travel, or long it would be until he got here.

      As soon as four pairs of hands had been tied, the tallest of the masked men, the one who gave the orders, got the prisoners to stand up again and then went along the line going briskly and impersonally through all their pockets, and dumping out Pat’s knapsack as well. Judy could see from the corner of her eye that the searcher took no money from Bill’s wallet. He appeared to be chiefly interested in ID’s, which he looked at and then put back. But Bill’s car keys did disappear into the tall man’s pocket.

      This quick search completed, their chief captor stood in front of them, looking at them for a moment. “Ralph,” he said abruptly then, “better get the Jeep out.” And he tossed one of his henchmen the two sets of car keys he had confiscated. “It’ll take some towing to get both their vehicles around the hill and under cover, but we’ll have to do it, now we’ve come this far. Ike, you go along and give him a hand. Cover up the tire tracks. I can manage here.”

      The other two men went out of the room by a side door that led into some sort of hallway. A minute later Judy could hear an engine starting, as if the Jeep the men had been told to use were parked in some attached garage or shed, with no closed doors between. Gradually the sound of the engine moved away.

      “Sit down,” said the ski-masked man who still remained. The four sat, a movement made awkward by bound hands. The Coleman on the table emitted a faint hissing noise, and sent out its glare. The masked man set down his shotgun, where he could reach it easily and at a careful distance from the others, leaning against a stack of crates that appeared to hold foodstuffs. Then he said: “Well, people. We’ve got some things to talk about, before I can let you go.”

      He certainly has no intentionofdoing that, thought Judy to herself. Whatever was going on here … had something to do with that painting. The painting, the old painting showing some woman … it was still wrapped in rough cloth. And now Judy could tell there was clear plastic around it too. And it still leaned against a rough adobe wall in darkness—within a few feet of where she was sitting at this very moment.

      Judy opened her eyes with a start. But the sound she had heard was only the wind, scraping a pine branch lightly along the building’s ancient roof.

      The standing man had turned his head toward her at her motion. Now slowly he turned back to the girl who had introduced herself as Helen. She was the one getting most of his attention.

      The man said: “A little bird tells me your name is Helen Seabright. How come you’re carrying car keys but no license, no money, nothing else?”

      Helen shook her head. She didn’t look especially frightened now, Judy realized. Dazed, but almost eager, as if she would like to hear the answer to that question herself.

      “I know you too,” Helen answered. “You’re Gliddon. I don’t think anyone ever told me your first name.”

      “You called me by that name outside. I’d like to know why. Also, I want to know just what the fuck you’re doing up here at midnight, talking about a radiophone.”

      Helen was unperturbed. “I know you have one, in this building. Back in the other room where the stove is. I’ve seen it”

      Gliddon whistled softly under his mask. He said no more. He stood there looking at them all until the other two men came back from their task of moving and hiding vehicles. It took them the best part of an hour.

* * *

      Galvanized when his household alarm shrieked that a locked door somewhere had been opened, Ellison Seabright jumped to his feet and hurried at once toward his bedroom, to check the master security console and to arm himself with a Luger that he kept there. Stephanie, with whom he had been arguing in the breakfast room, for once caused no interference, but fell silent and came along. She had to step lively to keep up with him. He could still move quickly, Ellison told himself, when there was good reason to do so.

      Puffing, he entered his bedroom and switched on the light over the security console—the sun had gone down a little while ago and the house was full of gathering dimness. From a table drawer beside the bed he grabbed his weapon. Gun in hand, he saw the console’s indication that the intrusion had been in the garage.

      He grunted at Stephanie and started out of the room. She followed. They both understood that there could be no question of calling the police.

      When Ellison poked his head into the garage, one of the car doors was still standing open to the thickening night, and the inside lights were on. The Subaru was gone.

      Ellison looked around, then closed the door to the outside and turned off the lights. He glared at his wife. “You—” he began, sure that whatever had happened was going to be her fault. Then he led the way at a quick walk back to the room where they had left the boy asleep. The young visitor, or intruder, was