Cover Of Night

She thought about experimenting with a recipe she’d found for spaghetti-and-meatball soup, because she thought the boys would love it, and to see if it would be easy enough to make for her customers if she expanded into lunch this winter. She went into the kitchen and began pulling out ingredients, then put everything back and instead opened a can of the boys’ Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs. She ate the meatballs and dumped the spaghetti.

She was sleepy and tired, and it occurred to her she could go to bed if she wanted. There was no one who needed taking care of, no chores that had to be done, no one she had to talk to. So she’d showered, put on a pair of flannel pajamas because the last two nights had been downright cold, and, feeling downright decadent, was in bed shortly after seven.

Much later a horrendous boom shook her out of a sleep so deep that for a moment her mind was blank and she couldn’t think where she was or what she was doing, and she lay in bed blinking at the complete darkness around her. Then she woke up enough to look at the clock, only to discover no red digital numbers were in their accustomed place. The power was off.

"’Damn it," she muttered, because her clock didn’t have battery backup, which meant she would have to get up and find the little battery-operated travel clock she’d had for years – otherwise she might oversleep in the morning. It was either that or sit up until the power came on. She lay there wondering if the booming noise had been a transformer exploding, which would explain why there was no electricity. Or maybe there was a really fierce thunderstorm and lightning had struck something.

Then she heard more loud noises, different from the booming sound, in that the house didn’t shake. These noises weren’t as loud, and they were sharper, with a sort of flat echo. There were a lot of them, too. She wished they would stop, because she was so sleepy…

Realization hit her like a slap in the face, and tilted her world on its side. Oh, my God, that was gunfire!

From the twins’ bedroom came the sound of breaking glass.

She bolted out of bed. feeling blindly for the flashlight she always kept on her bedside table in case one of the boys needed her in the middle of the night. Her hand brushed it and knocked it sideways; it hit the floor with a clatter and thump, rolling.

"Shit!" She had to have a flashlight; the interior of the house was as dark as Tut’s tomb; she’d fall on something and break a bone if she tried navigating it in total darkness. She went down on her hands and knees and crawled around the bedroom floor, slowly sweeping her hands out in front of her. After a couple of panicky sweeps in which she touched nothing more interesting than her bedroom slippers, her fingers found cool metal. She thumbed the switch, and a bright beam shot out, the light restoring her surroundings to familiarity and banishing that disturbing sense of disorientation.

She ran out into the hall, instinct turning her to the left, toward the twins’ room. The sound of more breaking glass made her skid to a stop. The boys weren’t there, they were safely in Seattle with her parents, and… and… was someone shooting at her house?

Her blood ran so cold she thought she might faint, and she swayed against the wall, putting her hand out for support. Without knowing the particulars of what was going on, her mind made a huge, instinctive jump and shouted "Mellor!" at her.

Mellor and Huxley. They had come back.

She had been terrified they would; that was the reason she’d sent the boys away. She didn’t know why the two men were back or what they wanted, but beyond any doubt, she knew they were the ones doing this. Were they downstairs, even now. waiting for her? Was she trapped up here?

No. They had to be outside, if they were shooting into the house. This was her house, her home, and she knew every nook, every weird angle, every way out. They1 couldn’t trap her in here. She could get out, somehow.

She realized that the flashlight pinpointed her position, and switched it off. The night seemed even darker than before, her vision ruined by the brief time she’d had the flashlight on. She had to risk it, she thought, and switched the light on again.

First things first. She had to put some clothes on and get to the ground floor.

She raced back to her room, grabbed jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, listening hard for a betraying noise that would tell her they were in her house. The gunfire continued and it actually sounded somewhat distant. From outside came shouts and screams, cries of fear or pain. She couldn’t hear anything inside.

When she reached the head of the stairs, she shone the flashlight down them. She couldn’t see anything unusual, so she went down the first few steps, flashing the light around the hallway and foyer. Empty, as much as she could see. She took the rest of the stairs faster, feeling horribly exposed and vulnerable, almost leaping down the last three steps.

Weapon. She needed some sort of weapon.

Damn it, she had two four-year-olds in the house; she didn’t keep weapons around.

Except for her knives. She was a cook. She had a lot of knives. She also had that cliche woman’s weapon, a rolling pin. Fine. Anything would do.

Keeping the flashlight aimed at the floor so the beam would he more difficult to see, she eased into the kitchen and went straight to her block of knives, pulling out the biggest one, the chef’s knife. The handle fit into her hand like an old friend.

Silently she moved back into the hallway, which was centrally located in the house, i his was where she would be least trapped, where she could go in any direction.

She turned off the flashlight and stood there in the dark, listening, waiting. How long she stood there didn’t matter. She could hear her own harsh breathing, feel it rasping in her throat. Her head swam. She could feel her heart racing in panic, feel the almost painful thud of her heartbeat against her ribs. No, she couldn’t panic – she wouldn’t panic. Drawing in a deep breath, as deep as she could manage, she held it and used her inflated lungs to compress her heart and hold it, force it to slow. It was an old trick she’d used while climbing, whenever she’d caught her body’s automatic responses overpowering her discipline and focus.