Charlaine Harris - Three Bedrooms, One Corpse

I was short and he was tall, and I was bent over in my charge.

I caught him just in the pit of his stomach. Actually, a little lower.

He shrieked, his arms flew up linked by the scarf, and he began to double over. I reeled back from the impact, staggered, went down on my face.

He fell right on top of me.

I fought to get him off, though the air had been mostly knocked out of me. I bucked and pushed and heaved, but he was too heavy. He was growling now, a horrible animal sound, and the glimpse I caught of his face was terrifying, if I could have been any more frightened than I was. He had apparently never been hurt before, because he went berserk with rage. He’d let go of one end of the scarf. He was tearing at any part of me he could get hold of, and I heard a rip and then some clinking, rolling sounds as one of my pockets was absolutely torn off my coat, its contents spilling out.

He grabbed my mass of braided hair and banged my face against the hardwood floor. For a moment of blinding pain my brain went dark, and I heard a cracking sound I couldn’t understand. Then he lifted himself on his knees to get a good swing at my head, and I seized the second to turn over. Now I had one free arm, but he came down on the other one. When I tried to bite him, his suit coat prevented me. He grabbed my hair again and banged the back of my head against the wooden floor. I had another moment of darkness, and then with the little energy I had left I grabbed his ear with my one free hand and pulled and pulled, though he tossed and twisted to shake me off. My other arm, trapped between our bodies, hurt dreadfully, though I had no time to think about that.

I realized I was losing consciousness, the weight of him pushing the air out faster than the struggle was letting me take it in. I dug my fingernails into his ear to mark him, since I was losing, and had the satisfaction of feeling wetness under my fingers. But it almost made me lose my grip on his ear. He’d remembered the scarf now, wrapped it around his free hand, and then put it around my neck. I had the wooly scarf pinned there, though, and the collar of my coat, too. But I began to feel myself blanking in and out, like a flickering picture on a black-and-white television. My hand finally lost its grip and slipped to the floor. My fingers landed on a rough lump. My souvenir rock. I forced my fingers to curl around it, and with my last strength I swung the rock and made direct contact with the side of Franklin’s head. The sound was dull and nauseating.

The weight on top of me went limp. There were some oddly peaceful moments, because of the silence, the stillness; most of all the cessation of fear. Then I became aware of hearing noise again. Was someone talking to me?

“Let go,” said a fuzzy voice, urgently.

Of what? I wondered if I was barely clinging to my life. Should I let go of it? I wanted it.

“Let go of the rock.”

It was a voice I could trust. I let go, moaning at the sudden pain in my cramped fingers.

I heard sounds, sort of-dragging sounds, and something bumped down the length of my body. Franklin Farrell’s head, as someone dragged him off me. I tried to focus, but achieved only a blur.

“I can’t see,” I whispered.

“It’s me, it’s Martin, Roe. Lie still.”

Now that I could do.

“I’m going to call the hospital.” Footsteps retreated and came back. At some point. Everything was fuzzy and blurry and vague.

“Did I hurt him bad?” I mumbled through thick lips. They also hurt. I was finding that a lot of things hurt as my adrenaline ebbed.

I heard a choked sound.

“I called the ambulance for you.”

“Why can’t I see, Martin?”

“He broke your glasses. They cut your face. Maybe your nose is broken. Maybe your arm, too.”

“Oh. My eyes okay?”

“They may be once the swelling goes down.”

“Did-I-kill him?” I was having some difficulty enunciating.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Tough guy,” I mumbled.

“Tough woman,” I thought he said. I would have snorted derisively if my face hadn’t hurt so badly.

“Hurts, Mar’in,” I commented, trying not to whine.

“Go to sleep,” he advised.

It was surprisingly easy to do.

RUBBER SOLES against tile. Trays banging against a metal cart. A voice over a public-address system.

Hospital sounds. I turned my head.

“You’re making a habit of this, Aurora,” my mother said sternly. “I don’t want to get one more call from the hospital in the middle of the night telling me my daughter’s been brought in beaten up.”

“I promise I won’t do it again,” I mumbled painfully.

“For a librarian, you are… ” And her voice faded out. But when I was all there again, it was still going on. “John and I are not as young as we were, and we need our sleep, so if you could just get beaten up in the daytime…” She was stomping around verbally, because ladies couldn’t just stomp around.

“Mother. Am I hurt bad?”

“You’re going to feel terrible for a while, but no, no permanent damage has been done. You may have some scarring around the eyes from the cuts your glasses caused, but it’s probably going to fade. By the way, I called Dr. Sheppard this morning to get a new pair made up. They had a record of what frames you ordered the last time, so they’ll be just like your other glasses. He promised he’d have them later today. To continue-the muscles and ligaments in your left arm are strained badly, but the bones aren’t broken. Your nose, however, is. Your lips are cut and swollen. Your whole face is black and blue. You look like hell on wheels. You have an engagement ring on your left hand.”

“… What?”

“He came in and put it on this morning-he got it right after the jeweler’s opened, he said.”

I couldn’t lift my arm to look. It was taped or bound somehow.

“You’re not supposed to use that arm for a while,” Mother said sharply. “Wait a minute. I’m going to push the button to raise the head of the bed.”

I opened my eyes cautiously and saw blurry pale blue walls and my mother’s arm. It really was daytime. Then as the angle of the bed moved, I was able to see down without shifting my head, which felt as if it might fall off if I did so. My pale left hand was sticking out of a sling, and on it, sure enough, glittered a diamond bigger than Lizanne’s.

Of course he would get one bigger than Lizanne’s.

“Where is he?” I mumbled through my swollen lips.

“He had to stay at the police station this morning, to talk about the man his foreman caught stealing last night, and about-Franklin.” My mother’s voice said the name reluctantly.

“There’s some doubt about Franklin’s bail hearing,” she went on more cheerfully, “because you hit him hard enough to put him in this hospital-right down the hall, with a policeman in there with him and his arm handcuffed to a bedrail.”

Franklin’s arm, not the policeman’s, I assumed.

“You hit him with a rock, I believe,” my mother said remotely.

“Vases,” I said urgently.

“Yes, they know those are the vases from the Anderton house. The senior Andertons had some pictures taken of their more valuable doodads and stored the pictures in their lockbox, and Mandy just now got around to opening the things she had shipped from Lawrenceton to Los Angeles. When the police here called her about the vases being missing, she mailed the pictures, and they arrived yesterday. There’s proof. They’ll nail that bastard.”

I’d never heard my mother say that particular word.

But I wondered if they could find proof to stick the murders to him. Besides what he’d said to me. I would have to appear in court. Again.