Richard Deming

Die a Little Longer

The second time Maida peered through the trellised vines which formed shimmering green curtains on all sides of the porch, she uttered a squeal of dismay. The wide-shouldered young man who had spent five minutes studying the name on her mailbox was turning into the steep lane and approaching the house.

It absolutely could not be the new owner arriving to take possession a day before she expected him, when none of the dishes were packed and her final house cleaning had left her looking like she had wallowed in a coal bin. It absolutely could not be, but it probably was, for no one but the mailman had called in three weeks.

Setting the dishes she was holding alongside a half-filled barrel, she rushed into the house and whisked the dust wrapper from her hair. In the mirror over the kitchen sink she examined the face Tom occasionally described as “tony,” noting its toniness was at the moment incognito behind a good deal of plebian dirt. She attacked the dirt with the dampened end of a dish towel and fluffed her loose black hair into a semblance of order.

By the time she returned to the front door, her visitor was mounting the porch steps. Viewed closely, he was not as young as he had seemed at fifty yards. Maida judged him about her own age — thirty. He had the strong shoulders and powerful arms of an athlete, but his rather pale features and colorless eyes seemed those of a person whose life involved little physical activity. His expression was tinged with wariness, as though he were not sure what his reception would be.

“Mrs. Kirk?” he asked with a touch of diffidence.

“Yes. And you’re Mr. Steuben?”

His eyes turned blank and a curious expression of surprise crossed his face. Then his features relaxed into an amused grin. “How did you know?”

“Easy,” Maida said, matching his grin. “No one ever calls here. Come in.”

She moved aside and he stepped past her into the hall, glanced quickly up the stairs and went on into the front room.

“There are only boxes to sit on,” Maida apologized. “The furniture’s all shipped except for my bed and a spare cot in the maid’s room I’m leaving.”

He said, “May I have a glass of water?”

Surprised by the abruptness of his request, she looked at him for a moment open-mouthed. Then she said, “Certainly,” and went to the kitchen to get him one.

When she brought it back, he drank thirstily and set the empty glass on one of the boxes.

“No one at all?” he asked idly.

“I beg your pardon?”

His colorless eyes touched her face briefly before continuing about the room in slow inventory. “Calls here, I mean.”

“Oh,” Maida said, following him back to their initial conversation. “No one but the mailman. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

The achromatic eyes fixed on her face again, and the suggestion of a smile touched his lips. “Yes. That’s what I wanted.”

“It was lucky we both happened to engage the same real-estate man,” Maida said, making conversation to cover her embarrassment at his standing there as though waiting for something to happen. “You searching all the way from New York for a secluded place to work, which I imagine was hard to find, and us looking for a buyer for a place twenty miles from nowhere, which I know was hard to find.” She added quickly, “Of course it’s an excellent house and the view is lovely.”

He stood quietly with his hands behind him, making no reply.

“I didn’t expect you until tomorrow,” she said nervously. “Were you planning to take possession immediately?”

His expression was musing, as though he pondered her question, and he did not reply for so long she began to suspect he had not heard her. “I’m sorry if it inconveniences you,” he said finally. “I planned to spend the night in Kingston, but my baggage failed to arrive and it contains my traveler’s checks. There’s no need for you to leave, however, unless you fear the conventions. You mentioned a spare cot?”

Her back stiffened indignantly at his air of proprietorship and calm assumption that if anyone left, it should be she. At the same time it occurred to her he should have had no difficulty obtaining credit at the Kingston Hotel until his luggage arrived. Mr. Regan, the real estate man, would certainly have vouched for him.

She said sharply, “I’m afraid I couldn’t leave before tomorrow, even if I wanted to, unless I walk the twenty miles to Kingston. My husband doesn’t plan to pick me up till morning.” She could not forbear adding, “I don’t fear the conventions, as you put it, because all the doors in this house lock.”

Her flash of anger brought a surprised grin to his lips, and laughter replaced the reserved opacity of his eyes. “I really am sorry,” he said.

Immediately she liked him better. She grinned back and said briskly, “You’re probably eager to see the house. I never before heard of anyone buying a house unseen. You must have great trust in Mr. Regan.”

But apparently her anger only momentarily had jarred him from inward contemplation. “Mr. Regan?” he asked in the tone of one half-listening.

“The real estate man.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Very reliable fellow.”

She preceded him through the downstairs, showing him the dining room, the study, the great sun porch and the kitchen.

“You have everything here you’d have in the city,” she told him, “except neighbors. Central heating, electricity, running water and even a telephone. Of course the phone keeps you awake all night because it rings for eight other parties on the line, but you can’t have everything and solitude too.”

“I see,” he said vaguely, with no smile on his face.

Being proudly interested in the house herself, he seemed to her disappointingly disinterested for a new tenant. She led him up the wide, heavy staircase to the second floor, showed him the big, old-fashioned bath at the head of the stairs, the four bedrooms, and indicated the wing where he would sleep that night on the folding metal cot.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do without sheets,” she told him. “But I kept out an extra blanket for my own bed, and you can have that.”

He was over by the window, looking down. “What’s that for?” he asked.

She moved over beside him and saw he was examining the two-foot edge of roofing which encircled the outside of the house between the lower and upper floors.

“That was Tom’s father doing,” she said, laughing. “Originally the house was one story, and when my husband’s father added the second, he saved material by letting the original roof stick out like that. Actually it isn’t unattractive from the ground. Gives a rather quaint effect. Tom calls it ‘the burglar’s walk.’ ”

As they went downstairs again she was rather piqued that he seemed to show such little interest in the house.

When he followed her out on the front porch, she said, “You’ll have to excuse me if I leave you to your own devices most of the day. I have five barrels of dishes to pack. Do you have to return to Kingston to check on your luggage?”

“No,” he said. “It won’t arrive tonight.”

“How did you get out here, anyway?” she asked, suddenly remembering she had seen no taxi when he first appeared at the gate.

“Caught a ride.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “May I help with your packing?”

“I’d appreciate it very much,” she said, pleased. “You can start wrapping those cups in newspaper while I run down to the box for mail. The mailman’s due now.” She indicated the stacked cups on the porch and the pile of old newspapers.

In the near distance she heard the backfire of Mr. Rawlin’s old sedan. And because she would not see the mailman again and wished to tell him good-by, she started to run toward the mailbox. The old man brought his car to a creaking halt, and when he saw Maida running down the lane, he waited for her.

“Nothing today but the paper, Mrs. Kirk.” He handed it out to her. “Guess you’ll be gone from here tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said. “I wanted to tell you good-by and thanks for your excellent service. You’ve sort of kept me in touch with civilization these last weeks since Tom took the job in Kingston.”

“Guess you don’t see many people aside from me,” the old man agreed. “Kind of lonely for you.”

“I’ll be glad to be settled in Kingston,” Maida said. “But I will miss you, Mr. Rawlin.”

He smiled at her, pleased. “Miss you too, Mrs. Kirk.” He shifted into low and let the clutch out part way, then pressed down on the pedal again. “Almost forgot to tell you. Keep your place locked tonight and don’t let in no strangers. Crazy feller escaped from the state hospital over to Belmont.”

“Oh?” Maida said. “Anyone dangerous?”

“Well, not necessarily. Radio says he acts normal most times, and probably wouldn’t bother nobody unless they bothered him first. But anything gets him mad, he turns to a homey-cidal maniac. Probably he’ll never come near here, but no sense taking chances. You lock up tight.”

She said, “Thanks for the warning, hut I won’t be alone tonight. The new owner arrived a day early.”

Then she bit at her tongue, wondering what his old-fashioned rules of conduct would make of a married woman staying alone in the same house with a stranger. But apparently Mr. Rawlin had an entirely clean mind.

“Good,” he said. “Woman oughtn’t be alone out here, even if there wasn’t a homey-cidal maniac running around.”

When she got back to the porch her guest had wrapped several cups and was placing them carefully in one of the barrels.

Setting the newspaper on the porch rail, Maida said, “I thought we’d have chicken for lunch. I’ll kill it now, so it will have a chance to drain and cool before I fry it.”

He said, “I’ll kill it for you, if you like.”

She agreed willingly, for chicken-killing was a task she detested. “There’s only one left in the chicken house,” she said. She told him where to find the chicken house and the axe.

While he was gone, she began wrapping some more cups, and in about five minutes she heard the hen squawking at the side of the house. The squawking continued, shrill and terrified, for so long it began to get on her nerves. Why doesn’t he kill it? she thought, and then wondered if perhaps he had never killed a chicken and did not know how.

Setting down the cup she was wrapping, she hurried around the side of the house. Her visitor was seated on the chopping block with the fryer’s legs clamped between his knees, one hand expertly holding the bird motionless by pinning its wings together. With the other hand he was methodically plucking it.

For a moment she stared at the scene in incredulous horror. Then she grasped the bird by the throat, jerked it from him and twisted its neck with one experienced flip.

“That’s the crudest thing I’ve ever seen done!” she snapped at him furiously.

His face darkened, causing a large vein to bulge in his forehead. Almost sullenly he said, “A live-plucked chicken is more tender.”

“I prefer to chance the toughness! And I don’t believe it anyway!”

He rose from the chopping block and stood before her with his nostrils flared and the large vein beating in his forehead. She realized he was angry, but he was no more angry than she. Brusquely she turned her back and started toward the house with the chicken.

She heard him take two steps behind her, and his breath made a hissing sound as it expelled between clenched teeth. Then there was a swish, and the sigh of an axe crunching into solid wood. She glanced back to see he had released some of his anger by burying the axe blade so deeply in the chopping block, he was having difficulty wrenching it loose.

In the kitchen she decapitated the bird and let it drain in the sink. While it was draining she heard the axe strike the chopping block twice more and was rather startled at his childish display of temper.

He’s acting like a maniac, she thought indignantly.

Maniac! When the frightening thought jumped into her mind, irritation gushed away as though someone had pulled a plug. Could her guest be...

Of course not, she told herself immediately — hadn’t he identified himself? But she was nevertheless frightened. Certainly he was peculiar. His vagueness and inattention, for example. Were insane persons vague? And his plucking a live chicken. Would any sane person so senselessly cause pain? Of course it was really no more cruel than boiling lobster alive, except lobsters were unable to squawk.

She was being silly, she decided. Her guest could not possibly be the escaped maniac masquerading as Mr. Steuben, for how could he have known she was expecting a Mr. Steuben? She thought back to when he had introduced himself.

The sharp edge of panic touched her. He had not introduced himself! She had simply assumed he was Mr. Steuben and called him by name. Her mind rushed back over each incident since he had arrived, examining it through a crystal of fear. In no instance could she remember his volunteering any information which might indicate he had ever even heard of George Steuben.

She tried to drown growing fright by forcing her thoughts to rebut her suspicions. He spoke as though educated, much as she imagined a professional writer would speak. And even in the improbable event of his being the escaped maniac, Mr. Rawlin had said he was dangerous only if angered.

But he was angry! She began to tremble as she realized there had been silence in the yard for some minutes. At that moment he appeared at the kitchen door, his face pale and his eyes avoiding hers.

“Anything I can do?” he asked quietly.

Unreasoning fear diffused through her body. “No thanks,” she managed to say.

For a time he stood motionless, his eyes still averted, then walked away and she saw him round the corner toward the front porch.

Why, he’s ashamed of showing anger! she thought with relief. He must he George Steuben.

And even if he were the escaped lunatic, she told herself, there was no danger if she did not rouse him again. Surely if he intended any harm, the chicken incident would have made him act. If she showed no change in her attitude, she could safely get by until Tom phoned, as he did every afternoon. She wished there were some way to reach Tom immediately, but knew he would be visiting prospects.

She could hear no sound from the front of the house, and the silence began to panic her again. She dreaded leaving the sanctuary of the kitchen, but dreaded even more not knowing what her guest was doing. She waited uncertainly until she thought her delay might cause him to come looking for her, and the thought added to her panic. Finally, like a person taking a cold plunge, she steeled her mind and nearly ran through the house to the front porch.

He was quietly wrapping dishes.

After her emotional orgy, this anticlimax jolted her nearly as much as if she had found him waiting with a raised axe, and when he glanced up with his usual disinterest, she felt her face flame red with shame at her suspicions. Immediately his eyes lost their blankness to become alert. He rose slowly, and she fancied his mouth corners began a sullen droop.

At once her fears rushed back ten-fold. I can’t let him know I suspect, she told herself, knowing as she silently repeated it her blush was fading to a dull pallor. I can’t let him know I suspect.

For the first time since his arrival she had his full attention. From slightly narrowed eyes he examined her face intently, seeming to search beyond the surface for her inner thoughts.

Brightly, and she hoped not too wildly, she said, “You’ve finished ever so many! I’ll pack while you wrap.”

She began placing the dishes he had wrapped in a barrel and stuffing newspapers’ around them. She was conscious that he made no move to resume wrapping, instead continuing to watch her from strangely alert eyes, but she kept her own gaze concentrated on her work, hoping ostrich-like this would somehow conceal her paleness.

Eventually he stooped and again began wrapping dishes. But his former air of inattention had evaporated. During the next hour and a half she was acutely aware of his silent examination, and tension grew in her until she worked like an automaton, hardly conscious of what she was doing because of her fear of the man at her side. Not once during this time did she speak.

Then four of the barrels were filled and there were no more dishes to pack. All excuse for silence was gone.

Attempting a smile that failed, she looked past his shoulder instead of at his face and said in too high a voice, “The rest of the dishes are still in the kitchen cabinet. Let’s stop for lunch.”

Not awaiting reply, she went into the house, forcing herself to move without hurry. Supporting herself against the kitchen sink, she closed her eyes and let a controlled tremor loosen the tight muscles of her body.

Another minute and she would have screamed, she thought. She must get a grip on her emotions and think of her guest as George Steuben instead of as a maniac. He probably was Mr. Steuben, she mentally added, without conviction.

She brought herself to steadiness by conceiving of her situation as a struggle between two different parts of her. The maniac, if he were a maniac, was not her danger. Her own fear was the enemy, and the courage to conceal it her only defense. Insane or not, he meant her no harm, of that her mind, if not her emotions, was convinced. Her sole danger was inciting his anger by disclosing to him her unreasoning fear.

He remained on the porch while she prepared lunch, and by the time she had cut up and fried the chicken, she had calmed to the point where she was able to call in a firm voice, “Lunch is ready, Mr. Steuben.”

When he came into the kitchen she was even able to manage a hostesslike apology for the meal.

“I’m afraid it’s a camping-out sort of thing,” she said. “But I wasn’t expecting a guest.”

They ate with their plates on their laps, seated on boxes which she had him bring from the front room. During lunch she exercised her new-found self-control by chatting casually about the house and about Tom’s new job in Kingston. At first she found herself speaking too rapidly, and as he listened without comment, there grew in her a horrible feeling that she must continue chattering forever because he would grow violent the moment she stopped. But when his alertness gradually faded to inattention, her confidence grew, and by the time lunch was over her fear had subsided to a mild uneasiness.

She decided her guest actually was Mr. Steuben, and being alone so much recently had oversharpened her imagination.

After she had washed the dishes and he had wiped, they went back to work. And as practice improved the part she was playing, no one would have suspected that beneath her occasional matter-of-fact remarks lay the embers of hysteria.

Once when his hand accidentally touched hers, she jerked away so suddenly he flushed and his mouth corners drooped. But even this she was able to counteract with gay chatter, and neither mentioned the contact.

By two o’clock the last barrel was filled and there was nothing more to do but wait for the arrival of the truck in the morning. Her battle was nearly won, for Tom would phone at any time now, and she meant to ask him to come for her immediately. She n o longer had any intention of spending the night in the house, even though her guest probably was merely the new owner.

As they both relaxed on the porch steps with cigarettes, the phone began to ring. Maida cocked her head to listen, counting three short and two long.

“That’s us,” she said, rising. “Probably Tom to tell me not to forget the slippers he left.”

She went into the kitchen and was raising the receiver before she noticed he had followed and was standing in the door watching her. She hesitated, wondering how she could get her feelings across to Tom without making her guest suspicious, then managed an impersonal smile in his direction and placed the receiver to her ear.

She said, “Hello,” into the phone, and Tom’s voice said, “Maida, are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said quietly, conscious of her guest’s eyes upon her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I was just kind of worried. Heard a radio report about a maniac escaping from Belmont, and he was last seen a couple of miles from there. You close and lock all the downstairs shutters and doors, will you?”

She said, “All right, dear. But you don’t have to worry. I’m well protected.” Deliberately she made her voice falsely bright in the hope Tom would catch the false note.

“How do you mean?”

“Mr. Steuben arrived a day early. He’s sleeping in the maid’s room tonight.”

Tom did not reply for such a long time, she knew she must have succeeded in transmitting a sense of something being askew. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low she could barely hear him.

“Can Mr. Steuben hear or see you now, Maida?”

“Both,” she said. “Why?”

“Maida, listen to me carefully and don’t change your expression. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

Her relief at having so easily gotten across her call for assistance mixed with surprise at his perceptiveness, for ordinarily Tom was not so psychic to her moods. But his next words explained his immediate grasp of the situation.

His voice came so slowly the words were spaced to stand individually in her mind. “Maida, I was bringing George Steuben out in the morning. He’s sitting here with me now.”

Psychologists say cowardice is nine-tenths fear of the unknown, that courage increases with know ledge of definite dangers to be faced. Not so with Maida. Against the uncertain possibility that she was isolated with a homicidal maniac, courage had built a defense around her one vulnerability — hysteria. The sudden removal of uncertainty left a chink in her defensive armor through which slow fear seeped, growing and spreading until she was suffused with terror.

She held the phone to her ear and simply waited, knowing the colorless eyes in the doorway were watching her and the ears were taking in her side of the conversation. She felt she could not speak, could not hang up, could not move, ever, but must dumbly sit through eternity with the phone in her hand.

Tom said, “Maida, if he’s still listening, repeat after me carefully: ‘All right, dear. See you in the morning.’ ”

She made a desperate effort and managed to say dully, “All right, dear. See you in the morning.”

“Good girl. Now keep control of yourself and don’t rouse his suspicion. I’m starting right now.”

After he hung up, another fifteen seconds passed before she was able to put down the receiver. She rose stiffly, not looking at the man in the doorway, and somehow managed to propel herself to the sink. She drew a glass of water and sipped at it while she fought to stem a fit of trembling.

It’s no different now than it was a minute ago, her intellect told her, but her emotions screamed. He’s insane! He’s insane and he’s watching me!

She had to regain control of herself. Nothing was changed. He was the same mart she had worked beside all day without suffering harm. She was still safe as long as she did not arouse his anger by exhibiting fear.

“Was that your husband?” asked a quiet voice immediately behind her.

The glass dropped from her hand and shattered in the sink. Swallowing a scream, she turned and managed to say gaily, “You frightened me. You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“Was that your husband?” he repeated.

“Yes. He wanted to be sure I didn’t forget the slippers.”

“You told him I was here.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes. He was glad to know you arrived a day early.” To her own ears her words sounded as stilted as the dialogue of an amateur play.

She slipped past him and went through the kitchen door, through the dining room and front hall to the porch, knowing he followed one step behind her and suppressing a wild urge to break into a run. She kept right on going down the porch steps, her legs moving without grace in the jerky manner of a marionette.

“Where are you going?” he asked. His tone was not sharp, but it contained an element of command.

She stopped abruptly and turned. “To the mail box. Sometimes there’s afternoon mail.”

He shook his head. “No. You know very well there’s no afternoon delivery.”

She stood stiffly looking up at him, trying to think of some plausible reply, conscious that her face was draining of color but unable to prevent it.

His face darkened slightly, and he said in a sullen voice, “You know who I am.”

She summoned a grin she knew was ghastly. “Why of course. You’re Mr. Steuben.”

“Don’t try to humor me!” he said harshly. “There’s nothing the matter with me that I have to be humored.” His voice developed an edge of forced patience. “Please don’t be afraid of me. I have no intention of harming you.”

She could make no reply. She could do nothing but continue to stare at him, the ghastly grin frozen to her face.

He spaced his words carefully, as though it were important she understand each one. “All I wanted at first was a drink of water. But when you practically insisted I owned the house, I took advantage of it. Why shouldn’t I have? They’re patrolling every road and I had to stay somewhere. I’m a human being, not an animal to be kept in a cage. I’ve as much right to a normal life as anyone.”

She knew her warped grin was beginning to irritate him, hut it had set like cement and there was no way for her to get rid of it. As she continued to stand without speaking or changing expression, his face grew darker and the vein in his forehead bulged slightly.

With a final effort she broke the shackles of her terror and found her vocal chords and body would again obey her will. A residual bit of reason whispered safety lay in simply calming herself, but every nerve in her body screamed for flight.

In a cracking falsetto she said, “I have to go upstairs,” and circled around him with her heart trying to pry apart her jaws.

He made no move to stop her, but as she started to climb the stairs, he was only one step behind. In spite of herself she quickened her pace until she was nearly running. When she reached the top. she continued straight ahead into the bathroom. He came to a halt, then turned quickly and moved back to the stair head.

She closed the door gently, shutting out the sight of his watchful face, noting as she did that it had darkened angrily. Hidden from him. she sank to her knees and dropped her face to her palms, while violent trembling shook her body. How long would it take Tom to drive twenty miles? Oh, Lord, how long would it take?

When his voice came through the door, it had thickened coarsely. “If you’re just hiding, don’t do it. I said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Struggling to her feet, she turned the water in the sink on full blast. She tried to think of some method of blocking the door, but the bathroom contained nothing movable. She opened the linen closet to stare at the bare shelves, started to close it again, then stopped with her hand on the tiny knob. A pulse of hope throbbed through her as she examined the heavy shelves.

She put her fingers under one and pressed upward. It lifted slightly. They were not nailed in!

Estimatingly she compared the length of the shelves with the distance from the edge of the sink to the bathroom doorknob. Then she quietly removed the center shelf.

It was heavy and cumbersome, as all things in this house were heavy and cumbersome, but she managed to get it resting on the edge of the sink without making so much noise that it would be audible above the running water. Bracing one end against the hot water faucet, she slowly lowered the other end toward the door, and felt a surge of relief when it touched just above the knob.

The knob rattled, there was silence for a minute, and then the door shook as the man outside rammed his shoulder against it. Her heart pounded terrifically as the door trembled twice more, but gradually subsided as she saw the brace was going to hold.

She was safe! Almost calmly she turned off the water and leaned against the sink to await Tom’s arrival. Twenty miles, ten of it dirt road. Say ten minutes to get the police — for surely he would bring police— ten minutes to make the first ten miles and twenty minutes to make the second. Forty minutes altogether, and nearly half of that must have passed already.

Only silence came from the other side of the door. She bent to examine the wooden shelf, then, satisfied of its security, walked to the open window and looked out. A robin perched on the burglar’s walk cocked his head at her and flew away.

A splintering crash swung her around. And when she saw the corner of an axe blade protruding through a gash in the door’s upper panel, all her previous terror rushed back in supersaturated strength to batter against her mind in wave after panicking wave. The axe head sawed back and forth, then wrenched free. For the space of a pulse beat there was complete silence, and then with an oddly quiet crunch, the axe broke through.

Twice more the heavy blade gashed chunks of paneling from the door, until a hole the size of a man’s head appeared. A face showed through the hole, but it was not a face she recognized. The features were blood-red, and a huge vein bulged beneath the damp fringe of hair falling haphazardly across his brow. The eyes were no longer colorless, but blazed with the intensity of burning oil, and the lips were spread wide over clenched teeth, through which a spray of spittle hissed.

For a full minute the maniac stared at Maida with devouring fury. Then his face disappeared and a thick right arm slid through the hole, groping for the wedged shelf. His fingers grasped it and jerked upward so that it gave a quarter inch.

Maida threw herself at the board, slammed it back in place and tried to claw the groping arm away from it. But the moment she touched the arm, his hand flashed from its grip on the shelf to clamp around her wrist.

Sinking to her knees, Maida screamed. The sound cascaded from the walls, echoed and re-echoed around her as she poured out her terror in scream after scream.

She felt herself jerked to her feet, and her screams faded to animal-like whimpers as the madman’s arm slowly withdrew from the hole, drawing hers steadily toward it. She saw he intended to pull her arm through to his own side, and in desperation she grasped his forearm with her other hand and sank her teeth into the wrist.

He let go so suddenly she stumbled backward and sprawled full-length upon the floor. Half-stunned by the fall and nauseated by the taste of blood on her lips, she simply lay there listening to the strangled hiss of his breathing.

Then the axe smashed against the door, smashed again and again until the panel shattered in a dozen places and finally fell apart, leaving a jagged opening two-feet square. Maida managed to get to her feet, and she cowered toward the window as his head and shoulders thrust through the opening and he began to pull himself into the room.

Without conscious thought she flung one leg over the window sill, felt the burglar’s walk beneath her foot and swung the other leg through. As the maniac’s hands touched the floor and his feet wriggled through the hole, Maida moved precariously along the slanting roof edge toward her bedroom window. Halfway she glanced at the ground twenty feet below, then stopped with her body pressed against the outer wall as dizziness flowed over her. She thought she was going to fall, but was shocked from the notion by the sudden appearance of the lunatic’s head from the bathroom window.

With a burst of speed she edged away from him until her hand touched the sill outside her bedroom. His head disappeared.

Quickly she moved back along the burglar’s walk toward the bathroom. His head and shoulders appeared around the corner of the window she had just left, one arm moved in a long arc and the axe spun past her so closely the handle grazed her back.

Almost as a continuation of the axe-throwing motion, he swung himself outside and side-stepped toward her rapidly. She barely had time to fall head-first into the bathroom when his hand was reaching for the sill.

With the unthinking instinct of a cornered animal she knew she could never escape through flight. The same primitive instinct made her swivel without rising from her knees, grasp the inner window’s lower edge and slam it upon his hand.

The madman shrieked in enraged pain, but held his one-handed grip. As the fingers of his free hand curled beneath the window and forced it up again, Maida lifted the heavy shelf from the floor and swung it over her head like an unwieldy club. Now both his hands grasped the window sill preparatory to his vault into the room.

Maida slammed the shelf down across his knuckles.

His hands jerked back and he stood erect on the burglar’s walk, his arms gyroscoping to maintain balance. Slower and slower they circled as he recovered, stopped his teetering and again leaned inward toward the window.

Maida smashed the linen closet shelf through the glass of both panes squarely into his face. As he tumbled backward, his feet flew up over his head in a sickening half somersault, and he disappeared head down.

When she could bring herself to peer over the edge of the window, he lay on the ground with his head impossibly bent under his arm, like a sleeping bird.

Slowly Maida straightened herself. She pushed her hands downward along her thighs, smoothing her house dress. Poisedly she descended the stairs, politely edging past the policeman with drawn gun and open mouth whom she met halfway down.

At the bottom of the stairs stood Tom, his mouth as open as the policeman’s. Maida held out one hand to her husband as though offering it to be kissed.

“He only wanted a drink of water,” she said in a high voice.

She began to laugh hysterically.

Content

Richard Deming
Die a Little Longer