A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📕

I gasped, breath gone in one terrifying instant, and he raised his left forefinger to his lips, a sign for me to keep quiet. Disbelief, horror, fear, all wrapped up in one cruel surprise. I stumbled backward into the bedroom doorjamb, and the strange man stepped forward, displaying a long knife vertically for my benefit. He pressed me to the frame with his body, holding the blade lengthwise against my cheek. Crossing my eyes, I tried to focus on the gleaming edge of the weapon, but it was too close. I closed my eyes tight and held my breath as he drew his face to mine. He smelled like an ape—old, sour perspiration permeated his clothes. And there was a strong odor of campfire about him. Nose nearly touching mine, he whispered to me.

“Make one sound and I’ll slit your throat.”

Then I felt him back off, slowly. I opened my eyes and saw him holding the knife cocked at the ready in case I tried anything foolish. I remained flat against the doorjamb, trembling and afraid to move, even to exhale. My gaze was firmly fixed on the long knife in his right hand. One of my carving knives. He must have been in my apartment long enough to go through the kitchen and arm himself.

My intruder stood still, three feet away, giving me room to breathe but not enough to risk an escape. Now, for the first time, I studied his face. Then the entire man. Dressed in soiled, rumpled trousers, shirt, and a tweed cap, he looked to be about five feet eight or nine. A patchy light-brown beard grew on his cheeks and chin. He gave the impression of a desperate man who was slowly starving. The face was familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Something was different and throwing me off. Then, like a forgotten name, it suddenly came to me, and I dismissed the thought just as quickly. Impossible. He stared back at me, blinked, and I looked harder. My first hunch had been right. He was too tall, of course, but it had to be him. I glanced down at his heavy boots. Heels at least two inches high, and the cap on his head added another two inches of height. The man glaring at me—the one holding a knife to me in my parlor as Glenn Gould played Bach on the hi-fi—was probably closer to five-four or five-five. I gazed at his face again. Those fair eyes against tanned skin. Yes, it was him. There, beneath a beard I never would have expected, stood Johnny Dornan, wild, menacing, and very much alive.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“You’re supposed to be dead,” I stammered at my most inane.

“Don’t play dumb,” he said in a low voice. “You knew I wasn’t dead.”

I shook my head. Should I deny his accusation? I doubted it would have helped me out of my current predicament, since I was now painfully aware of the knowledge he’d clearly wanted to keep hidden.

He motioned toward the kitchen behind him and ordered me to go sit at the table. I stepped past him, and he helped me along with a little shove. Once in the kitchen, he pulled out one of the aluminum chairs, scraping it along the floor, and indicated that was where I was to sit. I complied, and he eased himself into a seat opposite me. We stared at each other for a long moment. The bottle of Dewar’s stood tall between us on the table.

“You want a drink, do you?” he asked. “Well, you’re not getting one.”

“You reek,” I said. “Do you know that?”

He watched me with hard eyes. “I haven’t had a bath in over a week. No running water in that house on Tempesta Farm. And now no house on Tempesta Farm, thanks to you.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“You’ve got two things that belong to me. I’ve come to get them.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“No games. I know you took the newspaper and my pistol. Where are they?”

“How did you get in here?” I asked, avoiding his question and trying to buy some time.

“Through the window. I’m a good climber. Now where’s my stuff?”

“You have no right breaking in here.”

I realized that was a weak argument to use against a triple or perhaps quadruple murderer, depending on whether I counted Mack Hodges or not, but I was desperate to stall him until Fadge showed up as promised.

“So call the cops,” he said. “And besides, I’m only returning the favor.”

“That wasn’t your house I broke into.”

“I want that gun now.”

I gulped. “It’s not here.”

He slapped his left hand down hard on the table, startling me. “Did you turn it over to the police?”

How to answer that? If he knew that the gun and newspaper were lost to him, there was no reason to continue with threats. No reason to keep me alive. He’d slit my throat and flee into the night, still deceased as far as anyone else knew.

“No. The Saratoga sheriff thinks he has his man.”

“Bruce Robertson?” asked Johnny.

“I tried to hand it over, but he wasn’t interested.”

“So where is it?”

“Not here.”

“Okay,” he said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. “Let’s go get it.”

“It’s in a safe deposit box at the bank,” I lied.

He stood there, staring me down for a long moment. “Show me the key.”

I asked for permission to fetch my purse. He nodded. Two years earlier, following my father’s death, I’d taken out a box at the First State Bank of New Holland to store some stock certificates and family jewelry. Johnny Dornan would have no way of knowing there were no Colt pistol and the previous Wednesday’s edition of the New Holland Republic inside the safe deposit box. At least not until the morning. And then, only if I was still alive and able to appear in person to retrieve them.

He followed me to the parlor,