Tales from Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (1988) Anthology by Cathleen Jordan Cynthia Manson

Author:Cathleen Jordan, Cynthia Manson [Cathleen Jordan, Cynthia Manson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

She awoke to fear, but she had done that often before. Only at once, in the moment of waking, she knew that this time was different. For several minutes she lay there, hearing the storm again, feeling sore, and in a curious, disconnected way trying to remember why this was different. A stickiness of blood on her cheek told her. This time it was real.

Memory crowded in as she tried to trace back to the beginning, to when it all started. Days and incidents slid by, ending with Eddie James’s voice that evening, talking to Grace. “I don’t trust guys like him. . .making a fool of yourself. . .if you can’t see. . .”

Had Eddie seen?

Over the drumming of the rain she heard another sound, the steady approach of footsteps, then the click of the padlock. The door was pushed open, and he was back. He stepped over her calmly, sat down on a bale of hay, and lighted a cigarette. He sat there smoking in the dark, and Margaret watched in frightened fascination as the small glowing tip of the cigarette reflected off his features. She saw why he had left. He was holding a shotgun across his knees. He must have gone to his car to fetch it; she had not even noticed the car earlier. Now he sat there waiting.

“That son of a bitch is taking his time,” he said at last.

“Maybe he’s not coming back,” she said. “He took his van. Maybe he’s gone for good.” She bit her swollen lip. Should she have said that? Was he less apt to hurt them with Eddie gone?

“Oh no. He’s just gone out for a few beers. He’ll be back for more of what he’s been getting.” Bitterness had crept into his tone. “I can wait. I’ll take him first, then you. It’ll look as if I tried to come to your rescue.” He paused. “This whole thing would have been a snap without the two of you,” he went on then, almost conversationally. “I don’t know which one’s worse—that beer-guzzling cowboy or you with your scared-mouse act. You’re about one step from the nuthouse, you know that, kid?”

She could feel his eyes on her, smell the smoke from his cigarette. He said thoughtfully, “I could have handled a good-looking woman with a valuable piece of property. Hell, that’s a cinch—I’ve done it before. Even the other guy wasn’t fair competition—goddamned cowboy. But you. You were a real problem. You came first with her. I could see that. And you’d never want to get rid of this broken-down farm, no matter how good the offer was. Hell, you know what this place is worth? Development going on all around you?” His tone was almost conversational again, as if he were about to cite figures.

Margaret, her eyes used to the dark now, looked around the tiny shed. Her head was pounding. A long-handled shovel stood by the door; some loops of baling wire hung over a nail. Nothing else except for the hay stacked against the wall.

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