Brian Garfield - Necessity

Nobody in the mud room or the narrow service hall beyond. She shuts the door behind her. The wall pegs are hung with red caps and hunting coats and waders; there are boots on the floor.

She moves into the hallway, putting weight down slowly on each foot. Glances into the laundry room, sees no more than she expected to see, moves on toward the L-turn that leads past the back stairs into the kitchen.

At the corner she presses her back to the wall and listens before she peeks around.

She can hear the buzz of men’s voices; can’t identify them or make out words. No noise coming from the kitchen. The voices are beyond, in the big front room.

She looks around the corner. Past the narrow flight of open stairs she can see this side of the kitchen-butcher-block table, wooden chairs, heavy copper pots hanging from the wrought iron gizmo she remembers buying at a country auction-and part of the far wall with its stainless steel sink under the side window.

Nobody.

We are running in luck, kid. Just let it hold.

She moves in under the stairs and peers between the treads-a slightly wider angle of the kitchen from here. The steel door of the big walk-in freezer; lights burning in their shades-this part of the house has always been dark, even at noon on a bright day.

Hell, there’s nobody back here. Let’s get moving.

Out from under. Around to the foot of the stairs. Nothing visible up there except shadows. Someone laughs boisterously in the front room-she doesn’t recognize the laugh but she does recognize Jack Sertic’s high-pitched voice when he replies, “Bet your ass, man,” and his distinctive bray.

Oh Jesus. If Jack’s here on a Thursday then it’s almost dead certain Bert’s here too.

It’s just what she’s hoped to avoid.

Someone else speaks-it may be Bert’s voice; too indistinct to be sure-and several voices join in the laughter. She hears the rattle and chink of chips on the table.

There’s a whole damn gang of them in there. Jesus.

But there’s nothing you can do about that and this is hardly a bright time to turn around and flee. You’re almost home, child. Unless they’ve changed things all around in this house, Ellen is just up those stairs.

Let’s go.

She goes up the steps quickly, surrounded by the familiar cedar smell of the house.

At the top there’s one of those three-foot-high expandable gates across the doorway, the kind they use to prevent small children from falling down staircases. Rather than risk a noise by opening it she steps over it.

The rattle of poker chips always used to annoy her. It’s one of those sounds you can’t ignore. It used to keep her awake half the night.

On her left the gun room is unoccupied: bookcases filled with Bert’s big picture tomes on wildlife and ballistics; recliner chair, lamp, couch, gun rack bristling with weapons, big console TV under the shelves of pirated videocassette movies.

“You what?”

“Said I raise forty dollars.”

“Marjorie?” Bert is hollering. “You want to go get us some sandwiches? Slice up some of that venison from last night.”

“You gotta be out of your gourd, man. I got trip nines staring you right in the face.”

“You want to play cards or just brag about your nines?”

The sound of a nearby door latch. In sudden alarm she wheels back into the den and flattens herself against the wall just inside the doorway; and hears footsteps march forward along the landing.

She sees Marjorie Quirini go past in the hallway; recognizes Marjorie’s broad beam and the apron ties. There’s some squeaking and snapping as the child gate is opened and shut: Marjorie’s heavy feet plod down the stairs.

Christ. That was close.

She must have been dusting or something.

She goes back out into the hall. The bathroom on the right is empty. There are two possible routes here: through the bathroom to the master bedroom and then out into the landing; or forward to the landing and then along past the row of bedroom doors. But the landing is an open loft above the big front room and the voices are below that balcony. If the furniture hasn’t been rearranged the poker table is in full view of the landing.

So she goes in through the bathroom and opens the connecting door a crack.

No one in the big bedroom. She looks at her watch. Twelve-twenty.

Get a move on.

She remembers the fourposter bed. Bert’s previous wife bought it when they redecorated the place after the fire six years ago.

She goes past it to the door and softly eases it open.

This will be the worst part: the gauntlet between this door and the nursery twenty feet to the right along the balcony. Every step of it will be in sight of a good part of the big living room below.

“Look at that. The case nine. Four nines. I lose with jacks full. Can you believe it?”

“I told you not to mess around with my nines, stupid.”

Then she realizes. Of course. All I’ve got to do is lie down and crawl. They won’t see a thing.

She pokes her head out and looks both ways along the landing. Nothing stirs.

Someone coughs. “You want to deal the cards or just sit there looking stunned?”

She hears Bert’s voice clearly for the first time: “I think the son of a bitch shorted us the two kilos on purpose. I think he got a better price from somebody else.”

Feeling idiotic she gets down on her face and begins to crawl along the baseboard. Out under the railing past the edge of the balcony she can see the upper portion of the high plate glass picture windows that run across the front of the house.

Another voice now. Vaguely familiar but she can’t identify it: “What’s wrong with that? You get a better deal someplace, you take it. Hey-am I right or am I right?”

“Not after he agreed to the score.” Bert is petulant. “We had a deal with the son of a bitch.”

She’s halfway along the wall now. Hope to heaven nobody comes up the stairs right now.

Through the picture windows she sees the helicopter and now she realizes whose voice that is: George Talmy the pilot. So he’s still here after all.

She crawls as far as the nursery door. There’s a big cutout of Snoopy thumbtacked above the latch.

She opens it silently.

A big woman in a white uniform-a stranger-sits watching TV on a small portable color set with the sound turned way down.

The baby napping in the crib is only a bundle of sheets and a clutter of toys from here.

The big nurse is lifting five-pound hand weights. Up slowly and down again. Her biceps look like Muhammad Ali’s.

Oh shit.

In the rack are six hunting rifles and four handguns. A heavy chain connects all of them, running through the trigger guards, fastened with a thick brass-frame padlock.

It’s the same lock. Her key opens it. As silently as possible she pulls the links of the chain through the trigger housing of the Luger.

Despite its heft it is the smallest caliber revolver on the rack. Any of the others would be a lot more powerful and menacing but this is the only one she’s sure she knows how to use because Bert forced her to memorize the procedures of shooting and reloading and cleaning the damned thing. If you’re ever alone up here, he kept saying-as if she ever was up here in the woods without the company of Bert or the Quirinis or half a dozen of the deer-hunting fraternity and their ditsy wives and girlfriends.

It isn’t loaded of course. She remembers his lectures about keeping loaded guns around the house. She unlocks the ammunition drawer and finds the box of.22 magnum cartridges; fumbles a bit loading the chambers but finally has it full; puts the box back in the drawer and locks everything up and carries the heavy revolver to the door.