Last October she had been shot … in the head. Actually the bullet had grazed her temple. Perhaps it was asking too much to forget so quickly. She did wish that everyone around her would forget it. That’s why she wouldn’t tell anyone about the headaches.
Her boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, already thought she was “compromised,” “altered,” “temporarily unfit for duty.” So far she had managed to avoid and put off his insistence that she go through a psychological evaluation. Her only leverage in delaying it was that Kunze felt responsible for sending her on the detour that resulted in her almost being killed. Not that he would admit responsibility. Instead he let her off the hook, claiming he had a soft spot for the holidays. Funny, when she thought about Kunze and Christmas, Maggie could easily conjure up the image of the Grinch who stole Christmas. But now that the holidays were long over, she expected Kunze would push for the evaluation.
Deborah Kerr found Robert Mitchum just as Maggie realized she could still smell something scorched and sooty. Was the smoke not a figment of her nightmare? Could something in the house be on fire?
In the dark corner of the television screen she saw movement. Not flames but a flicker of motion that was not a part of the movie. A reflection. A figure. A man walking across the doorway of the room behind her.
Someone was in her house.
CHAPTER 3
The dogs were gone.
Maggie should have noticed sooner. They were always at her feet.
Her eyes darted around the dim living room. She sank into the sofa and remained still. It was better if he thought he hadn’t been spotted. He may not have seen her. Instead, he stayed in the kitchen.
She kept the corner of the TV screen in her line of vision. If he came up behind her she’d see him.
Or would she?
As scenes changed in the movie so did the corner reflection.
Maggie tried to remember where her weapons were. Her faithful Smith & Wesson service revolver was upstairs in her bedroom. A Sig Sauer was down the hall in a bottom desk drawer. She had never before felt the need for a gun inside her home. As soon as she moved into the two-story Tudor, she had installed a state-of-the-art security system. She’d taken great care to create barriers outside as well. Not to mention two overprotective dogs who would never allow an intruder inside. And for the first time Maggie felt sick to her stomach.
Where were Harvey and Jake?
She couldn’t bear the thought of either dog injured or dead.
A quiet click-swoosh came from the kitchen, and the room brightened. Her intruder had opened the refrigerator.
Maggie slumped farther down on the sofa.
Waited. Listened.
She slid her body off the cushions, dropping her knees onto the floor, now wishing she had carpeting to muffle her movement. Ironically that’s why she didn’t have a shred of carpeting in the house. Not because she loved the gorgeous wood floors but because floor coverings concealed footsteps. Thank goodness she had on socks.
Maggie kept her focus on the corner reflection, her new angle giving her a new view. She saw his hunched back. He was looking inside her refrigerator. She grabbed a glass paperweight from the side table. Quietly she crawled to the doorway, sliding against the wall and hugging the shadows.
What did you do with my dogs, you bastard?
She let the anger drive her as she inched closer to the door.
She could smell him. He reeked of smoke and charred wood. So it hadn’t been her nightmare playing tricks on her imagination.
He reached inside the refrigerator, unaware of her presence, leaving himself vulnerable. She clutched the paperweight tight in her fist and swung it high, ready to bring it down on the back of the man’s head. Then she took a deep breath and charged through the doorway. He startled and spun around, and Maggie stopped her arm in midair.
“Damn it, Patrick. You scared the hell out of me.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I almost bashed your head in.”
Her brother squatted down to the floor, obviously weak-kneed, sitting back on his haunches. In the light from the opened refrigerator behind him Maggie could see the soot smeared on his forehead. His fingers clenched the door handle.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said, struggling to his feet. He was a firefighter, young and in great shape, and yet Maggie had reduced him to a frazzled pile on her kitchen floor.
“I didn’t expect you until the end of the week.”
“We finished early. I should have called.” Then he added with a smile, “Sorry. I’m not used to having someone to call.”
And Maggie wasn’t used to having someone come home.