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Tea with the Black Dragon

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And even if she died tonight. Even if he were already dead… the fact that he had lived and been who he was: elegant, diffident, kindly, with his funny hands and gorgeous rich voice. That meant something. That they had met meant something, too: dying now could not erase that.

Martha’s thoughts sank to the bottom of her mind, leaving it attentive and quiet. The kidnapper stared at her with distrust upon his features. Her stillness frightened him.

Chapter 9

“Why, it’s Mr. Long,” boomed Rasmussen, smiling hugely. “What a surprise! And looking like something the cat dragged in.”

He received no answer. “Couldn’t you guess I’d have an alarm system rigged up in this house?”

Long was a moment in replying. “I didn’t take that into consideration, Mr. Rasmussen. I confess I’ve underestimated you.” Wet, ill-dressed and preternaturally calm, he regarded the threatening gun.

“May I stand up?”

The big blond stared over the scope sight. At a range of ten feet, the sight was more of a hindrance than a help.

“Why not?” He moved back a few steps, to prevent Long from slipping in beside the gun barrel. “And then you can tell me what you’re doing in my house. Besides breaking the law, of course.”

Mr. Long climbed to his feet. His movements reflected the stiffness of age. “We both know very well,” he began, “that I am looking for Elizabeth Macnamara.”

“I told you yesterday I don’t know where she is.” Rasmussen’s voice sharpened.

Long’s remained quiet. “Obviously I did not believe you yesterday.”

The rifle moved a bit, as Rasmussen perfected his aim. Through an effort of will. Long kept his eyes not on the trigger, but on Rasmussen’s ruddy face.

“Obviously.” Rasmussen was silent for a moment as he considered the situation. Then the mask of amiability disappeared from his face. Long saw and understood.

“Whatever pay you got, buddy, it wasn’t enough.” muttered the blond.

“Did you call the police when the alarm sounded?” Long stalled, shifting his weight to one foot. “Or do you plan to present them with a fait accompli: the corpus of one aging burglar.”

The muzzle of the gun followed his movement efficiently. “I haven’t called yet,” mumbled Rasmussen. “Maybe I will later. I haven’t decided what’s the cleanest way out of this.”

Rasmussen found his grin again and put it on. “You know, fella, you’re totally in the wrong, being found in my living room like this. In the legal sense, I mean.”

Mayland Long lifted his eyebrows; his eyes were opaque. “The legal sense? Would you care to discuss others?”

The smile stuck to Rasmussen’s face, quite irrelevant. “You put me in this position,” he growled, his full cheek against the black metal of the rifle. “And now I have to do this. I really hate it.”

He breathed in slowly, then let half the breath out and pulled the trigger.

The rifle coughed, but Long was not standing before it. Rasmussen’s exhalation had been as much of a signal as the dark man needed. He moved with the abruptness of a startled lizard, sideways, sailing three feet above the carpet, and he vanished up the stairs.

Rasmussen cursed and followed. On the landing he hesitated, peering into the unlit reaches above. His left hand fumbled in his trouser pocket with a clip of twenty-two shorts.

The second floor of the house was a single large chamber, originally an attic. At each gable end were semicircular windows of leaded glass. The only other openings were skylights, set high in the roof. In the center of the floor stood a velvet couch and loveseat. Against the wall was a heavy liquor bar of oak and brass. Beneath the far wall, under a window gleaming red and gold, sat an enormous pedestal bed. A comer of the room to the right of it had been enclosed to create the bathroom.

Long took this all in as he leaped out from the stairwell. The bathroom was a trap: no way out. The bar might conceal him, but its confinement would also hold him helpless. The carpet was white plush. With the lights on, Mr. Long would stand out like a sparrow in the snow.

The lack of windows was the worst part of it; there was no escape from this place. He heard Rasmussen’s feet upon the stairs.

There was a small door set into the left-hand wall. It was less than four feet high and very narrow. He darted toward it, pausing only to plunge his fingers into the dryboard of the wall and yank out the light switch.

In the still darkness behind the wall he picked his way. This triangular space had no flooring; support beams alternated with soft, treacherous strips of insulation. He sank again to hands and feet and crawled away from the entrance.

The passage ended above the stairwell. It turned no comers. There was no exit. He turned around and waited.

Rasmussen’s progress was unmistakable; Long could hear the weight of his passing in the creak of the support beams. He stood above the stairs, put his hand to the wall and cursed aloud. The rifle shifted against the man’s shoulder, Rasmussen, too, began to wait.

Mr. Long was no claustrophobe. This musty hole comforted him, and he weighed his alternatives.

Up until now his choices had been forced. He had headed for the stairs because they were dark. Had the rifleman been fool enough to stand closer to his intended victim. Long would have gone for his attacker. As it was, he had had to slink into this blind hole, lacking other concealment.

But his enemy was at a small disadvantage, now, with no light available except that of the drizzling heavens. If he attempted to pursue Long behind the wall, this disadvantage would become severe. If Rasmussen stumbled into the darkness, the game would belong to Long.

The biggest danger was that the man might find some sort of light. But it was doubtful he kept a flash in the master bedroom, and if he went downstairs to fetch one, that would give Long valuable time.

Time not to escape this house but to change the balance of power.

Old instincts awoke in Long’s memory: old and no longer quite familiar. He knew what it was to hunt. He also remembered, though less well, what it was to be hunted. His lips shrank back from his teeth.

Rasmussen put his back to the wall. He was very close. Long, hearing the scrape of his shirt, considered breaking through the flimsy wall. and taking Rasmussen by the throat. He decided against this because it was more important to question the rifleman than to kill him.

Rasmussen edged by. Eight feet from the small door he stopped. The muted smack of a twenty-two cartridge cut the silence. Another. Rasmussen was methodically piercing the shadows with bullets.

One shell buried itself in the wall behind the bar. One cracked tile. One glanced off metal and sang down the stairway.

And then five bullets in quick succession slammed through the flimsy panels of the little door. The smell of powder cut into the air. Rasmussen inserted a new clip. The door was jerked open.

Standing just outside, Rasmussen shot diagonally into the corridor, first left, then right. Long dared not move.

Then the gunman stepped off the floor, giving his weight hesitantly to a beam.

A shot into the wall behind Long sent a shower of powder around his head. Rasmussen raised the barrel of the gun above his head and brought it down on the other side of the narrow passage. He fired and turned again.

Long moved toward him. His face was only inches above the insulation, fine as angel hair.

This methodical attack was original and deadly. Long had depended on fear of discovery to make his opponent stingy with his fire. But the spit of this rifle was hardly louder than the pre-recorded violence emitted from the TVs along the street. It would be lost in the rain. If this continued, he would inevitably be hit.

But there was a weakness in Rasmussen’s strategy; he had to divide his time between the left and right passage. During those moments Long crawled toward Rasmussen.

The air sparked by his left ear. The noise of the shot was deafening. Then Rasmussen turned and he was free to move. The rifle swung back and Long froze again. Twice more and he would be able to touch Rasmussen. The bullet hit Long in the right shoulder and smashed his collarbone. Passing through flesh it buried itself in the wooden frame post beside him. White teeth flashed in dumb shock.

He felt his right hand slide from its grip on wood. It caught against splinters as it fell, and came to rest finally in the bed of insulation. The arm was useless; it had been taken from him and replaced with a focus of astounding pain.

Instinct alone kept Long quiet. He shifted his weight to the left and brought his right leg forward. He had no choice but to attack now, before Rasmussen had time to turn and fire again: little hope, but no choice. Long lifted himself from the beam and stood swaying. Measuring the distance, he crouched to spring.

But Rasmussen stood motionless, his rifle pointed at the ceiling. His head was tilted, listening.

Long heard the noise too. It came from outside the passage—from the bathroom. He identified the sound with no trouble.

Rasmussen turned, nearly losing his footing. He bulled his way through the narrow door. Long recognized this as his moment.

He recognized it, and yet he did not attack. He tapped his bottled anger, commanding it to flare up, heat his nerves, impel him with the certainty of violence—the single-souled violence of a wounded beast which fuels ferocity with pain.

There was no response from within. Merely the recognition. And the pain.