Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

Could use some of those ice crystals down here, thought Ro-back wryly.

The news that morning had mentioned a strike at the plant some fifty miles away. Fifteen an hour the men wanted. His lips twisted. Try dawn to dusk, seven days a week, for a buck and a half per.

The men stopped directly below him. One was average size, the other looming large in the bright sun. They seemed to argue before starting back toward the house.

Roback cursed and slipped out of the harness.

More than knee high, with a short head, deep chested, and brown in color, there was no telling what the dog’s bloodlines were, which mattered not at all. As a watchdog she was worth her weight in gold — but that chain confined her to the front of the house to give the alarm and act as a deterrent.

She could be circumvented, since the post and rail fence was merely decorative, cutting back on the far side to enclose the neglected garden, one of the few things Shelley could no longer manage; the near side ending in a small grove. Its length was broken by the gate opening and the entrance to the gravel driveway that led to the barn and other outbuildings in the rear.

Which was why Shelley had the Ladysmith, but there were times when a gun might not be enough.

Strides lengthened by the slope, he moved to intercept them, catching up where the road curved.

Brought up short by the chain, the dog hung suspended by her collar, standing on her rear legs, eyes bright with menace.

The man was bigger than Roback thought, a good three inches taller than his six feet, the body proportioned to go with the height, pectorals and biceps straining his white T-shirt, lower torso poured into jeans. The face was ruggedly handsome, curly hair sun-bleached, a look in the blue eyes as though they were regarding you from a distance. The face was vaguely familiar.

Congeniality and politeness had never been Roback’s strong points, and the heat, interruption, and rapid walk made him even more irritable. “What do you want?” he asked harshly.

Perspiration soaking his light shirt, the smaller man swept sweat from his forehead with a thin hand. Straight dark hair queued back; deepset, dark eyes shadowed by the sun but flitting and restless. Well dressed, compared to the big man. Knitted shirt with designer’s logo, slacks well tailored, expensive leather shoes.

“Take it easy, mister. Our car broke down back there over the rise. You know how they are these days. We’ll need a tow — just want to use your phone.”

Maybe, thought Roback. And maybe you saw a woman in a wheelchair and thought why not.

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Village in walking distance with a service station.”

“So she said, but it’s a long walk in this heat—”

“Want to see Joanie,” said the big man.

Joanie?

“What’s he talking about?” demanded Roback.

“Aw, just something in his head. Your wife reminds him of a woman he used to know.” The small man tapped his forehead. “Sometimes he gets confused.”

Roback looked into the blue eyes and thought sometimes didn’t cover it.

The big man took a step toward the house. Voice as cold as the ice crystals in the contrail, Roback caught his arm and whirled him around. “I said keep walking.”

The big man’s nostrils flared. The small man stepped between them. “Take it easy, Con.”

Roback could swear — he glanced at the smaller man.

“Do I know him?”

The dark eyes flicked over Roback, the hills, and the house as though looking for an escape route.

“Naw. We’re not from around here. Just passing through. I told you. Our car—”

“I want to talk to Joanie,” said Con.

“In a minute, Con.”

“Not in a month of Sundays,” snapped Roback.

“Jesus, mister, have a heart. The guy’s harmless. Lost a little reality when he banged his head a while back. He’s been looking for this Joanie ever since. Medical expenses cleaned him out, so I’ve been taking care of him. All you got to do—”

The heat of anger driving the coldness from his voice, Roback said, “I got to do nothing. You do. Get moving.”

The dog still stood, held upright by the chain. Damned fool would choke herself. He knew she wouldn’t. Her throat and shoulder muscles were like iron.

The small man tugged at Con’s arm. “Come on, Con.”

“Joanie’s in the house, Fred,” said Con stubbornly. “You said so.”

You said so?

Roback felt a tingle of warning, felt menace now in the humid heat, like a small, seemingly innocent pile of dead leaves suddenly becoming the mottled coils of a rattlesnake. He’d made a mistake, intercepting them. A whiff of those chemicals must have addled his brain. He should have gone directly to the house, got the shotgun—

Con started toward the house. Barking, the dog threw herself against the chain to meet him. Roback stepped past Fred, wrapped a hand over Con’s shoulder, and pulled.

He never saw what Fred hit him with, something exploding behind his right ear; unconscious before his face hit the hot black macadam.