“Could be,” James said.
They walked in silence to Doc Spiver’s house, and Quinlan knocked on the freshly painted white door. Even in the dull morning light, the house looked well cared for. Just like all the other houses in this bloody little town.
No answer.
Quinlan knocked again, calling out, “Doc Spiver? It’s Quinlan. It’s about Hunker Dawson. He fell and hurt his shoulder.”
No answer.
Sally felt something hard and dark creep over her. “He must be out with someone else,” she said, but she was shivering.
Quinlan turned the doorknob. To his surprise it wasn’t locked. “Let’s see,” he said and pushed the door open. The house was warm, the furnace going full blast.
There were no lights on, and there should have been, what with all the dull gray outside. It was just as gray inside the house, the comers just as shadowy, as it was outdoors.
“Doc Spiver?”
Suddenly James turned, took her by the shoulders, and said, “I want you to stay here in the hallway, Sally. Don’t budge.”
She just smiled up at him. “I’ll look in the living room and dining room. Why don’t you check upstairs? He’s just not here, James.”
“Probably not.” He turned and headed up the stairs. Sally felt the impact of the heat. It was hotter now, almost burning, making her mouth dry. She quickly switched on the hallway light. Odd, but it didn’t help. It was still too dark in here. Everything was so still, so motionless. There didn’t seem to be any air. She tried to draw in a deep breath but couldn’t. She looked at the arch that led into the living room.
Suddenly she didn’t want to go in there. But she forced herself to take one step at a time. She wished James were right beside her, talking to her, dispelling the horrible stillness. For God’s sake, the old man just wasn’t here, that was all.
She tried to take another deep breath. She took another step. She stood in the open archway. The living room was just as dim and gray as the hallway. She quickly switched on the overhead lights. She saw the rich Bokhara carpet, the Tiffany lamp that Doc Spiver had knocked over because he hadn’t seen it. It wasn’t broken or cracked, as far as she could tell. She took a step into the living room.
“Doc Spiver? Are you here?”
There was no answer.
She looked around, not wanting to go further, to take one more step into that room. She saw a blur, something moving quickly. She heard a loud thump on the hardwood floor, then the raucous sound of a rocking chair. There was a loud, indignant meow, and a huge gray cat leaped off the back of the sofa to land at her feet. Sally shrieked. Then she laughed, a horrible laugh that made her sound crazy. “Good kitty,” she said, her voice so thin she was surprised she could breathe. The cat skittered away.
She heard the rocking chair moving, back and forth, back and forth, creaking softly now. She stifled the scream in her throat. The cat had hit the rocking chair and made it move, nothing more. She drew a deep breath and walked quickly to the far side of the living room. The rocker was moving slowly, as if someone were putting pressure on it, somehow making it move. She walked around to the front of the chair.
The air was as still and dead as the old man slumped low in the old bentwood rocker, one arm hanging to the floor, his head bowed to his chest. His fingernails scraped gently against the hardwood floor. The sound was like a gun blast. She stifled a scream behind the fist pressed against her mouth. Then she took several fast breaths. She stared in fascination at the drops of blood that dripped slowly, inexorably, off the end of his middle finger. She turned on her heel and ran back into the hallway.
She yelled, her voice hoarse with terror and the urge to vomit, “James! Doc Spiver is here! James!”
“One wonders-if you weren’t here, Ms. Brandon, would there have been two deaths?”