No one moved. An agent burst in from the corridor. “Chick, have you lost your marbles?”
Desiree whipped up her skirt and simultaneously triggered the garter snaps on the front of her thighs. Two tear gas pellets popped from the snaps and burst on the carpeting.
There were shouts of protest, shouts of annoyance, shouts of disbelief. And then there was bedlam as the occupants of the room scrambled toward the open door. Desiree slammed into a wall. She stood plastered there.
She saw Sam staggering toward her, his fists digging into his eyes under his black-rimmed glasses. She pushed off of the wall and rammed her palms against his chest. The blow sent him staggering backward. She saw him go down.
“Sam, Sam—” she murmured in despair; then she whirled and shot for the open door.
The explosion deafened her. She had the sensation she was being lifted and pitched on a hot wind — and then there was nothing.
Desiree came awake in a hospital room. Holly stood beside her bed. She looked around. She was alone with her chief. She attempted to lift her head, found that she could not.
“Hi, kid,” Holly said in a gentle voice. “Don’t fry to move. You got a bum back out of the deal, but you and the others are alive.”
“Sam?” she mumbled. She felt tears brimming her eyes.
Holly remained silent.
“S-Sam, the... the secret weapon,” she quavered.
The thought was ludicrous. She thought she should laugh. She could not.
“From what I’ve been able to piece together,” said Holly, “from what you told the others, Mamie and her pals rigged his money belt while he slept. He was timed to explode.”
“He was a nice guy, Chief. I liked him.”
“We’ve picked up Doctor Field. He was on his way to Buenos Aires with a suitcase full of money. We missed Mamie and her friends, but we’ll get her some day. She and I are ancient adversaries.”
“I liked Sam, Chief.”
“He was dedicated and perceptive. He knew that someday something like this could happen to him. It’s all down on tape, Desiree. Everything Sam had in his head. And there’s only one person in the world who knows where the tape is.”
She stared up at Holly. “When are you going to get it, Chief?”
“When I leave here.”
“Then I think I’ll sleep. I’m very tired.”
“You do that, kid.”
She slept with an image of Doctor Samuel Herchenfelder, scientist extraordinary, alive in her mind.
Never Too Good — To Die
by J. Simmons Scheb
No one can die twice, she told herself. And then, seeking the tight, mad look in his face... Or — can they?
Myra Saunders was irritated that afternoon. She flicked on the windshield wiper and the headlights, glanced into the rearview mirror and pushed at her dark brown hair.
“Damn!” she said aloud. The one time Antoine had done a halfway decent job, it had to pour down rain before she could get home.
Anyway, she thought as she pulled the car under the carport, she’d remembered to close the windows in the house. Nothing there would be wet if Charles hadn’t been home some time during the day and opened them again.
She switched off the motor and heaved herself out from under the wheel. Myra was a big, bulky woman of thirty-eight in a bright scarlet suit that strained at the seams as she gathered up her packages and clicked her way over to the side door of her house.
The key wasn’t under the mat, but when she tried the door it opened, and she made a mental note to speak to Charles about that. His carelessness was inexcusable,
Immediately, however, she knew it hadn’t been Charles. Her kitchen was a mess. Every cupboard door was flung wide; half-open drawers spilled out dish towels, potholders, recipes. One of her favorite cups lay broken on the floor.
“Is someone here?” she shouted. “Is somebody in my house?”
Angrily, she marched across the kitchen and laid her packages on the counter. Then suddenly, fear swept over her. Somebody could be in her house. She spun around, and there he was, crouching behind the open door.
At first he seemed to be all shoulders, just one big pair of shoulders in a wrinkled, dirty trench coat.
He made no sound. He simply crouched there, staring, holding her yellow-handled carving knife in his enormous gloved right hand.
Myra couldn’t move. Her legs were paralyzed, her feet riveted to the floor. “Who—?” she demanded. “What—?”
He took one step, forward, and she saw beady little eyes peering from beneath a battered rain hat, the blue-black stubble of a beard on fatty jowls, the thin, pale line that had to be his lips. She opened her mouth to scream but he rushed at her. A slash of sudden pain shot through her body, and as she slumped forward on to the floor, she heard her scream come out a moan.
He hesitated. She could see his big, ugly work shoes, planted inches from her face, and she could hear his heavy breathing, but the knife had fallen under her and he made no attempt to get it. Instead, he must have panicked, because the shoes turned suddenly and pounded away, and the side door slammed so violently that the whole house seemed to shake. She could hear his foot steps fade as he ran across the carport.
A long time later, Myra stirred and heard the living room clock strike five. She raised her head. The pain in her side was excruciating and she found that her legs refused to obey. Tears rushed to her eyes. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Panic rose in her throat.
Myra laid her head down on her arms. Think! she told herself. Think!
It would be at least an hour and a half before Charles got home, and she wasn’t at all sure she could last that long. The pool of blood beneath her was getting bigger with every heartbeat. Instinctively, she knew that life was draining out of her.
The phone was across the kitchen, high up on the wall. She judged the distance at about eight feet. Too far, but she had to try. Forcing herself up onto her elbows, she started edging towards it, dragging her legs behind. In the middle of the floor she collapsed, her elbows crumpling under her and her head bumping hard on the cold and unyielding stone. Tears came to her eyes again and streamed down the sides of her face.
“Why?” she demanded of the empty room. “Why should this happen to me?”
Her frustration turned to anger. A thousand times she had told Charles it was stupid to keep a key underneath the mat. Why hadn’t he listened? After fifteen years of marriage, why couldn’t he just once—
Someone was knocking at the front door. “Come!” Myra tried to shout. But the shout was really a groan, not much more than a whisper. “Come!” she said again, but her voice was even weaker.
She waited. It would be Mrs. Armstrong, from across the street, coming to borrow something. Mrs. Armstrong was a withered, bony little woman who was none too bright, but at least she would know enough to call an ambulance.
Myra’s lips moved. “Come in, Mrs. Armstrong. Come on in and borrow anything you want. I’m sorry I said that last night. I don’t care if you never get organized. Just come in and save my life!”
The knocking stopped. Minutes passed, and Myra waited for footsteps to come around the side of the house to the door that led in from the carport. They didn’t. They simply faded away.
“You idiot!” Myra cried, getting up to her elbows again. “Couldn’t you see the car? You knew I must be home. Why didn’t you come to the side door? You could have seen through the window!”
The phone began to ring. That would be Charles, calling to tell her he’d be late again. She looked up at it gratefully. Oh, Charles. Wonderful, wonderful Charles!