She opened the door quietly and was engulfed in icy water— she had forgotten the wind. She put her foot down and sank into mud up to her ankle; pulled it up and no shoe.
By then she was half-soaked and already starting to shiver.
Oooo— that rain was cold! Purse? Money? Well, there was no one else on this road; so she slid her purse under the seat.
She pushed the door shut quietly, lost the second shoe, and gave up on the raincoat idea. She started to hurry along the road toward the light, shielding her eyes with one hand, and giving silent thanks that the surface was so muddy that the rocks hardly bit into her feet at all.
A coyote howled a couple of fields away.
It was great to be out of the putrid car, and the cold shower was reviving her. This was no mechanized superfarm, though, just one barn and a tiny house; perhaps they did it all with transistors. The yard was half-flooded, puddles shining silver in the glare from the high mercury-vapor light, and the light itself was emitting a high-pitched whining.
Puddles, deep enough for her heart to sink in. There were no lights in the house. Well, if no one was home, she would break into the barn and spend the night with the kids. Gratefully she stumbled up the steps onto the little porch, out of the rain. Lights sprang up in the windows in great welcome floods. The door opened before she could touch it, and there was a man standing in the doorway.
She saw what he was holding out to her at the same moment as he said, “Did you by any chance come to borrow a towel?” Then she was inside, standing in electric brightness beside an old iron range, feeling a delicious glow from it, rubbing her face with the towel, and conscious that she was soaked through and dripping all over the linoleum, but the towel was big and soft and very welcome.
“I’ve just made some tea,” said the man. “You like tea?”
“I adore hot tea,” she said. “Cream and sugar, if you have them, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t— just tea will do.” She looked around the room. Not a farmhouse at all, she saw now, it was a weekend cottage, all cluttered with old furniture, Contemporary Salvation Army, but a reassuringly normal sort of place, and the man looked fairly safe and sympathetic.
He was about her own age, tall and spare, with a concerned and friendly expression on an ascetic sort of face. He had yellow hair, not a usual sort of blond, and he wore it combed straight back and oddly short at the sides, but he was well dressed— green slacks and a checked shirt with a green wool sweater. He looked more like an engineer or an accountant than a farmer. She felt herself relax slightly from the tension of being a woman alone and vulnerable, because he did not look like The Mad Rapist See Page 4. Civilized. Potentially useful.
Then a second man walked out of one of the other rooms, limped across to the door she had just come through, and shot the bolt— and also shot her heartbeat up about twenty points, because there was a likely Mad Rapist if she had ever seen one, certainly not the sort of kid you would want to follow you to the subway.
His nose had been hammered almost flat, and he had a red scar over one eye. His knuckles were purple and skinned— this one was a bruiser, a tough. His clothes were all right, jeans and a shirt, but half the shirt buttons were undone, and the sleeves folded up to the elbow to show off the forearms. He was barely taller than she, bull-necked and heavy, probably a body-building freak. Then he smiled, and half his teeth were missing. She backed up a couple of steps and almost knocked the tea cup out of the tall man’s hand.
“Ah!” he said. “Sorry— my name’s Howard, Jerry Howard.”
“Ariadne Gillis,” she said and held out a hand.
He looked slightly surprised and shook it; soft hand— no farmer. He was uneasy, and she suddenly became aware that her blouse was soaked and clinging. It wasn’t the sort of blouse that was supposed to cling— he could probably read the maker’s name on her bra strap. He held out the cup with a shy smile.
“You’re very welcome, Miss? Gillis. You picked a bad night to come visiting.” She had her back to the kid. When the Howard man shot a sort of warning glance over her shoulder, she turned around once more.
“This is my friend Achilles Crionson, but he prefers to be addressed as Killer. Don’t let his appearance scare you, though… He’s trying to give it up— hasn’t killed anyone in weeks.”
“You are welcome,” said the kid, standing too close. He took her hand and held it… and held it… he was giving her full eye contact— a heavy-lidded, arrogant stare, challenging her to break away first— inquiring, inviting, offering…
Jeez!
This one was bad news, God’s gift to women, arrogance in spades— superstud, at your service. She felt herself blush before those steady black eyes and saw the satisfaction. Lady Killer?
She pulled back her hand and dropped her eyes to the tea cup and took a shaky drink, hot and sweet. The kid did not step back, so she did, turning once more to the older man.
“Look,” she said, “I’ve gone and put my car in the ditch at the end of your driveway. I know it’s a terrible night, but if you have a tractor and could…” Howard shook his head; he was drinking tea also. “No tractor.”
“Telephone, then?” she asked, heart sinking. He was going to suggest that she stay the night.
“And no telephone. We do have a horse, but I wouldn’t try pulling out a car with a horse in this weather at night.” He was almost as uneasy as she was. “We do have a spare room, Miss Gillis, and it has a big, strong bolt on the door. The plumbing is as primitive as it could be, but Killer and I were just about to cook up some steaks and we have a spare steak…”
“No, I can’t…” she said. Not stay the night with Mad Rapist around— she fancied she could feel heavy breathing on her back. If she couldn’t, he was thinking it.
Howard tried a smile, and it was as reassuring as his companion’s smile was disturbing. “Come here,” he said, laying his cup down on the range. He led her over to one of the two doors and threw it open on a room with a single bed with clothes laid out on it— jeans and blouse, bra, gray sweater, a bright yellow raincoat with a hood, shoes and socks What…? How…?
Howard rattled the bolt on the door. “Solid,” he said. “But I can’t impose on you like this,” she protested.
He gave her an odd look, turned pink, and stuttered, “It’s a spare room. Killer and I sleep next door.” She didn’t believe that. Killer had been sending her signals; and so had this man, although much more discreetly and unintentionally. They hadn’t been reacting to her the way gays did. There had been interest— frank come-and-get-it lust in Killer’s case. This Jerry was lying, hoping to put her at ease, but making himself uncomfortable at the same time.
“It’s very kind of you, Jerry,” she said. “But I have my children with me, out in the car— ”
“CHILDREN!”
He stared at her as though she had said she had the Russian Army along. His eyes went to the kid’s, and the kid returned a huge grin, showing those shattered teeth.
“Children?” repeated the older man, still stunned.
“Yes, children,” Ariadne said. “You’ve seen them around— like small people. The storks bring them.” Howard was still staring at Killer, and Killer was still grinning back at him. Why this reaction to children?
Then Howard seemed to pull his wits together. “We’d better get them in here, then,” he said. “How many, Miss— Mrs. Gillis?”
“Oh, please call me Ariadne,” she said, wondering if he was always so formal. A shy man? “Only two. Lacey is seven and Alan almost three. They were both asleep when I left— ” Then she had a sudden fit of shivering.