Lightning

She swung the car around and drove back to Brenkshaw's, where she parked in the driveway in front of the closed garage, which was set back from the house. Chris slid out by the driver's door, and she picked him up and held him against her left side, his head against her shoulder. He held on to her, so she only needed her left arm to keep him in place, though he was quite heavy; her baby was not a baby any more. In her free hand she gripped the revolver.

As she carried Chris along the walk, past the stark alders, with no light except a purplish glow from one of the widely spaced mercury-vapor streetlamps out at the curb, she hoped no one was at a window in any of the nearby houses. On the other hand it probably wasn't unusual for someone to visit a doctor's house in the middle of the night, needing treatment.

She went up the front steps, across the porch, and rang the bell three times, quick, as a frantic mother might do. She waited only a few seconds before ringing it three more times.

In a couple of minutes, after she had rung the bell again and was beginning to think that no one was home, the porch lights came on. She saw a man studying her through the three-pane, fan-shaped window in the top third of the door.

"Please," she said urgently, holding the revolver at her side it could not be seen, "my boy, poison, he's swallowed poison!"

The man opened the door inward, and there was an outward-opening glass storm door, as well, so Laura stepped out of its way.

He was about sixty-five, white-haired, with a face that was Irish except for a strong Roman nose and dark brown eyes. He was dressed in a brown robe, white pajamas, and slippers. Peering at her over the rims of tortoiseshell glasses, he said, "What's wrong?"

"I live two blocks down, you're so close, and my boy— poison." At the height of her hysteria, she let go of Chris, and he got out of her way as she shoved the muzzle of the.38 against the man's belly. "I'll blow your guts out if you call for help."

She had no intention of shooting him, but she apparently sounded convincing, for he nodded and said nothing.

"Are you Dr. Brenkshaw?" He nodded again, and she said, "Who else is in the house, Doctor?"

"No one. I'm alone here."

"Your wife?"

"I'm a widower."

"Children?"

"All grown and gone."

"Don't lie to me."

"I've made a lifetime habit of not lying," he said. "It's gotten me in trouble a few times, but telling the truth generally makes life simpler. Look, it's chilly, and this robe's thin. You can intimidate me as well if you come inside."

She stepped across the threshold, keeping the gun in his belly and pushing him backward with it. Chris followed her. "Honey," she whispered, "go check out the house. Quietly. Start upstairs, and don't miss a room. If there's anyone here, tell them the doctor has an emergency patient and needs their help."

Chris headed for the stairs, and Laura kept Carter Brenkshaw in the foyer at gunpoint. Nearby a grandfather clock was ticking softly.

"You know," he said, "I've been a lifelong reader of thrillers."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I've often read a scene in which a gorgeous villainess held the hero against his will. As often as not, when he finally turned the tables on her, she surrendered to the inevitability of masculine triumph, and they made wild, passionate love. So when it happens to me, why do I have to be too old to enjoy the prospect of the second half of this little showdown?"

Laura held back a smile because she could not continue to pretend to be dangerous once she allowed herself to smile. "Shut up."

"Surely you can do better than that."

"Just shut up, all right? Shut up."

He did not go pale or begin to tremble. He smiled.

Chris returned from upstairs. "Nobody, Mom."

Brenkshaw said, "I wonder how many dangerous thugs have pint-size accomplices who call them Mom?"

"Don't misjudge me, Doctor. I'm desperate."

Chris disappeared into the downstairs rooms, turning on lights as he went.

To Brenkshaw, Laura said, "I've got a wounded man in the car—"

"Of course, a gunshot."

"— I Want you to treat him and keep your mouth shut about it, 'cause if you don't, we'll come back some night and blow you away."

"This," he said almost merrily, "is perfectly delicious."

As Chris returned, he switched off the lights he had switched on

moments ago. "Nobody, Mom."

"You have a stretcher?" Laura asked the physician. Brenkshaw stared at her. "You really do have a wounded man?" "What the hell else would I be doing here?" "How peculiar. Well, all right, how badly is he bleeding?" "A lot earlier, not so much now. But he's unconscious." "If he's not bleeding badly now, we can roll him in. I've got a

collapsible wheelchair in my office. Can I get an overcoat," he said, pointing to the foyer closet, "or do tough molls like you get a thrill out of making old men shiver in their peejays?"