Chapter 8

The luminous dial on her bedside clock said one-fifteen. She lay back on the pillow. What had awakened her? She could feel the bed beside her empty; was Hudson home? That must be it. She turned on her side and pulled the blanket up. Pretty soon she’d hear the third stair squeak, as it always did no matter how quiet he tried to be. As he always did.

It startled her to realize how much her life had changed in just a few months. The last two years in the ashram outside Syracuse were nearly perfect as she lived them: peace, security, the absence of threat. Who could ask for more out of life? She still thought of them with fondness; the devotees were...That clinking sound wasn’t Hudson... She pulled a sweater over her pajamas and stood for a moment, listening. She was tempted to call out Hudson’s name but didn’t want to wake Andre. There had been two squeaks, and as she listened she heard a rustling she couldn’t identify. She turned to go to the door, as it opened and two burly men burst in. One had a knife in his hand, the other a handgun. An automatic Cilla noted, having learned all she wanted to know about guns at an early age.

The one with the pistol pointed it at Cilla. “You.” He gestured toward the door.

“What are you doing here?” Cilla glared at him. “What are you doing in my house!”

“You,” the man repeated. “Come. Or we cut you.” His accent was thick.

“If you put it that way. Where are we going?”

“Move.” He gestured again at the door.

Cilla meekly bowed her head and walked through the door ahead of the men. They indicated the stairs; she went down them. They were old-farmhouse stairs with a sturdy railing on one side and narrow enough to force single file. As she reached the bottom, Cilla turned. “I need soduatem mosiker.”

“What?” The man with the gun leaned closer to her to understand. Cilla knocked the gun hand aside with her left arm. With her right hand she jabbed stiffened fingers to his throat. The gun fell as he brought both hands to his neck. She pushed him into the man following and ran through the darkened living room to the kitchen, opening a drawer that held knives. She took the sturdiest and sharpest and flattened herself against the wall next to the swinging door she’d come through. She could hear the man she’d hit choking and the sound of running feet coming toward the kitchen door. Suddenly they stopped. For a second there was silence, then the crash of a body hitting the floor. She opened the door a crack. Hudson! In the dim glow from the second floor lights, her husband was reaching down to man number two who was on his back on the living room floor. She ran around him toward the stairs. The choking man had found the door to the glass-enclosed porch; it was wide open. Cilla looked out, and an arm encircled her neck. Only the size of the intruder - shorter than Cilla’s 5’ 9” - preventing him from pulling her off her feet. A strong jab of her elbow was ineffective against his heavy coat. His knife was at her throat as he dragged her toward the porch door. She kicked him in the ankle. The man erupted unfamiliar words. They were half out the door when he gave a loud, “Oof!” and his hands released. She fell to the porch floor as Hudson came over her for a second blow. This was enough for the man, who scurried out the door and over the hardened snow to the road. Hudson turned back for man two, but he’d recovered enough to get out through the kitchen, and could be heard crunching across the yard.

“You okay?” Hudson asked his wife.

A car started up down the road.

“Does furious count?” Cilla turned on lights.

“Who were they?”

“Foreigners. The one who had me on the porch screamed something about a sin when I kicked him. Sounded like a Swede.”

“Did they use any other words?”

“Suke? Is that a name?”

“Suke…”

“Yes… I suppose it could have been ‘Luke’.”

“I heard a crash.” Andre’s head appeared around the corner of the stairs. “Are you all right, Cilla?”

“We had visitors,” said Hudson.

“Oh?” Andre looked at Cilla’s pajamas.

“Unexpected,” Hudson answered. “And unfriendly. Made any new enemies, Andre?”

“Every day. They haven’t taken to housebreaking yet, though. Is that what happened? Someone broke in?”

“They didn’t need to break. We never lock anything,” said Cilla.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” He took a step toward Cilla. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“Yes. They’ll be long gone now.”

“And no damage done that I can see,” added Hudson.

“Probably just some damn fools who got the wrong house.” Andre yawned. “Then I guess the excitement’s over. Good night all.” He went back up the stairs.

When he’d gone, Cilla turned sharply to her husband. “Hudson, they were upstairs! They walked right into our bedroom. I am going to start locking up.” She stopped. “God, I hate the thought of that. We might as well live in the city.” She paused, “They wanted me to go with them.”

“Like out of the house?”

Cilla shook her head. “My chance was on the stairs where I only had one to deal with; I wasn’t going to wait to see what the invitation included. Maybe they just wanted me to show them where the family jewels are.”

It was a measure of their confidence in local police that neither gave any thought to calling them. Chief Solomon was an acquaintance, but hadn’t impressed them on their one experience with him.

“Are we invaded? Did I wake up in the wrong decade?”

“To echo our guest, you’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“Scrub the frown, lover. I’m OK, and they’d have to be out of their minds to come back again after tonight.”

“It’d help if we knew why they were here in the first place.” He looked out the window across the sleeping valley where Great Haystack loomed in the darkness. There was no moon, but he could see the summit beacon that burned all night.

At breakfast, Andre asked Cilla if the Wallace Carver next door was the Wallace Carver, attorney, who had been one of the most prominent figures in Suffolk and Essex County courtrooms.

“Probably,” said his hostess, “this Wallace Carver wouldn’t have allowed himself to be anything less, and I could perhaps have found a stronger word than `prominent’.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve been in court with him a few times, usually on the other side as it happens, but I’ve developed a great deal of respect for his legal abilities. We’ve never formally met and I’d really like to talk with him under circumstances where we aren’t adversaries. Could you do a big favor and provide an introduction?”

Cilla would as soon have introduced a hungry lion, but Andre was owed, so she walked him down to the Carver house, quickly excusing herself so as not to be spattered by environmentalist blood.

To her surprise, when she returned from the ski area that evening, she found Andre had not only survived, but was still in a cheery mood, with enough energy to ask to borrow her cross country skis for his daily exercise. Maybe they’d enjoyed growling at each other. She had her own schedule, attending a town planning board meeting. As a surveyor’s daughter she knew it was important to keep regulatory boards informed, and it didn’t hurt to have the general manager herself do the informing, so it was well after eleven when she drove home. Six inches of snow had fallen, and she was glad she had four-wheel drive as she turned into Swallow Hill Road. From a ski business point of view, it was good consistency: wet snow that packs well, and the evergreens were heavy with it. Soon the wind will come up, she thought, and spoil the beauty of the living Christmas card captured in the glow of her headlights. Theirs and Carver’s were the only houses on the gravel road. With no streetlights to illuminate it, she could have been driving through middle Alaska.

Hudson was out again with the snowmaking machines, equipment that was becoming less urgent the more snow that fell. She closed the garage door and went into the house through the kitchen door, a few steps from the garage. The telephone was ringing.

“Wallace Carver, Cilla.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Is Hudson there?”

“No. You never call this late.”

“It’s about a client of mine. It can wait.”

“Are you still taking people? I thought you’d retired.”

“I am retired. This one is a damned old fool who just won’t accept it. Have Hudson call me,” he ordered. “No. On second thought don’t. I can’t talk about it.” He hung up.

She held the dead phone for a moment. Then replaced it gently. She knew Hudson was fond of Carver; the two enjoyed the mental jousting that took place whenever they got together. Carver was the one person she knew who could give her husband a battle at chess. Her own feelings were somewhat different. If Wallace Carver had been born German, Hitler would have had to fight him for dictator. He seldom said `please’ or `thank you’ and never `good bye’ when finishing a phone conversation. The phone rang again.

“Yes?” Her voice was cold, preparing for new instructions from General Carver.

“Where is he?” Not Wally. A soft voice, almost a whisper.

“What?”

“Your father. Where is your father?”

“You have the wrong number,” she hung up the phone. It rang again before she could turn from it. “Yes?”

“Tell me where your father is and I won’t bother you any more.”

“He’s dead. You’re nine months too late.” The phone went into its cradle with a little more force. She stood looking at it. Waiting. A moment later it rang again.

“Don’t do that again. I only want to talk with him.”

“Then see a channeler. Get off my line.” She hung up and unplugged the phone from the wall.

She paused. Something about the voice. What was it? It was low, quiet and yet with an underlying strength. She’d heard it before. Where? Sometime before Christmas…? She shook her head. Bartlett, New Hampshire, was not a place where one expected crank calls. It also wasn’t a place where one’s home got invaded; Cilla couldn’t remember hearing of any other attack like hers. She hadn’t been quite honest with Hudson about it. Certainly no rational beings would make a second try at a house from which they’d been driven off - nearly captured - and which could no longer be taken by surprise. But there was something about the look in the eyes of the intruders. They revealed no rational thought.