"The front door," Kathy said. She began to run.
She ran like Atalanta, driven by terror. When Pat caught up with her she was on the porch, groping with frantic fingers along the ledge over the door.
"Here it is," she gasped. "We keep a key there in case-"
Mark snatched it from her shaking fingers and inserted it in the lock. But they had forgotten the extra precautions taken by nervous householders. The door yielded only a few inches and then was held by the chain.
"Get back," Mark said. He flung his full weight against the door.
With a crack the chain snapped and the door flew open. Mark plunged in.
The hall was in darkness, but a light shone down the stairs from the corridor above. With the two women in close pursuit, Mark ran up.
They found Josef Friedrichs in the hall outside Kathy's door. He lay face down on the floor, his arms outflung as if he had tried to snatch at something-or ward it off. All around him were the sparkling, glowing shards of what had once been a tall Chinese vase. Pat had noticed it the night before, the exquisite curving shape of it, and the magnificent reds and pinks and greens of a pattern of chrysanthemums and feeding birds. Its carved teak stand was empty.
Kathy's bedroom door was closed; but Pat was aware that the sounds and the breath of sickly cold air had stopped. Thank God for that, she thought; if he's fractured his skull or broken any bones, it would be dangerous to move him… but not as dangerous as to leave him within the range of the unknown force that had invaded Kathy's room.
She brushed the sobbing girl out of the way and knelt by Josef, her skilled hands searching for the signs that would tell her what she needed to know. Some of the broken shards, melancholy in their reminder of broken beauty, lay on Josef's back. Automatically Pat brushed them off.
The vase had struck him on the side of the head, behind his right ear. A lump was already rising, and a thin trail of blood snaked down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. Minor cuts marked his right hand and forearm. But his pulse was steady, and his breathing regular.
Kathy, held in the protective circle of Mark's arm, struggled to control herself. She brushed pathetically at the tears on her cheek with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of mud across her smooth skin.
"He's all right," Mark assured her, stroking her hair. He was obviously more concerned with Kathy's feelings than with her father's wounds; and his mother shot him a look of active dislike before adding her own words of reassurance.
"There's no fracture, Kathy, just a nasty lump. Unless he has a concussion-"
Josef interrupted the diagnosis by groaning. His eyes opened and stared blankly at Pat. He struggled to a sitting position.
"Kathy," he muttered.
"I'm right here, Dad. I'm fine."
She threw her arms around him, so enthusiastically that he fell back against the wall, giving his head another nasty bump. The Robbinses, mother and son, watched the touching tableau with mixed emotions. Pat wasn't sure what Mark was thinking; her own feelings, a blend of relief, bewilderment, and fright, included a sudden awareness of the fact that she was wearing the jeans she usually used for painting, and that she had neglected to take the curlers out of her hair.
Friedrichs insisted he didn't have to go to the hospital. "I am well aware of the symptoms of concussion," he told Pat brusquely. "If I start seeing double, I'll tell you."
Pat knew a stubborn man when she met one. She didn't argue. But she did prevail in one thing: that the Friedrichs spend what remained of the night at her house. Josef agreed for his daughter's sake. The sight of Kathy's room, a disaster area of broken glass, scattered papers, and toppled furniture, turned all of them a little sick. It wasn't so much the mess as the suggestion of malevolence behind such destruction that was frightening.
Reassured about her father, Kathy responded with enthusiasm when Mark suggested they all have a snack and talk things over. The adults were not so eager.
"Tomorrow is Saturday," Pat pointed out. "We can talk after we've had some sleep. I don't think any of us is in condition to think sensibly just now."
Mark, about to remonstrate, caught Josef's eye, and subsided. It was obvious even to him that among the things that would have to be discussed was his presence in Kathy's bedroom at one o'clock in the morning. He didn't need Kathy's warning nudge to know that his ex cuses would have to be very convincing and his audience very kindly disposed toward him.
Although it was Pat who had insisted on going to bed, she was the only one who failed to woo slumber successfully. The big old house had plenty of bedrooms, it was no problem to find room for two guests. The young people dropped off immediately; and when she peeked into Josef's room he was lying quietly. But she was keyed up and worried; despite Josef's disclaimers she felt she ought to keep an eye on him. On her third visit to his room a voice came out of the dark as she hovered distractedly in the doorway.
"For God's sake, Pat, will you go to bed? Every time you tiptoe in here, that damned dog follows you. He jingles so loud he wakes me up."
Pat crept away, aiming a backward kick at Jud as she did so. He eluded it easily, being accustomed to such signs of disapproval, and jingled down the hall after her. She had been more active than Mark that evening, and Jud had hopes of further activity. But this time Pat disappointed him by falling asleep.
It was well past noon when she was awakened by her son, who was looking revoltingly healthy and alert. He had at least had the tact to bring her a cup of coffee. That cheered her briefly, but then the events of the previous night came back in a flood of horrible memories. She told Mark he was a rude, inconsiderate brat, and tried to put the pillow over her head.
"Everybody else is up," Mark said. "I'm making brunch. Shake a leg."
Pat spent considerable time getting dressed. The memory of her curlers and dirty jeans still rankled, so she put on a new blouse and checked skirt and made up her face with particular care. As she might have expected, Mark greeted her entrance into the kitchen with a piercing whistle and the question, "Where's the party?"
"I always dress in my best for a round-table discussion about burglars," Pat said disagreeably.
Kathy was sitting at the kitchen table, looking sleepy and adorable in Pat's favorite robe, the pale-blue chiffon she had bought on sale at Saks, and saved for special occasions. The girl was watching Mark with wide-eyed admiration as he moved efficiently from the sink to the stove. When Pat appeared she jumped up-the tribute of youth to age-and Pat noticed in passing that the gown was several inches too long for her. No doubt the hem would be ripped, and dirty.
"Thanks," she muttered, as Kathy pulled out a chair. "Where's your father?"
The back door opened and Josef came in. He was freshly shaved and was dressed neatly in tan slacks and plaid sports shirt, but his expression was grim.
"All quiet on the home front," he said. "I think it's safe for us to go back. We won't intrude on your hospitality any longer."
"You can't run away from it," Mark said, placing a platter of scrambled eggs and sausage on the table. "You can't pretend it didn't happen. Kathy can't go back to that house, Mr. Friedrichs."
"Now just a minute, young man," Pat began. Josef shook his head.
"He's right, Pat. We do have a few things to discuss. First and foremost, I think, is the question of what you were doing in my daughter's room last night…"
"Mark," said that young man helpfully. "The name is Mark, Mr. Friedrichs. Have some scrambled eggs."
"He makes wonderful scrambled eggs," Kathy said. "How many heroes can also cook?"
She smiled broadly at her father. After a moment he smiled back at her. Pat blinked. She had never imagined that a smile could do so much for a man's looks. He was really quite handsome when his eyes lost their steely coldness.