the broad staircase to the living room three steps at a time, naked as he usually was when around Nessa, his jeans flapping in the air behind him. Across the living room he dashed, jeans hand behind him, free hand reaching out ahead, and got to the door and snapped the lock just as he heard the first footsteps echo across the veranda.
Pausing one millisecond, his back against the door, to pull on his jeans and study the living room, at first he saw nothing out of place, but then, there it was, a beer bottle he’d left behind on the coffee table after dinner last night.
Running again, he arced past the coffee table and grabbed the bottle on the fly, as he heard the key in the front door lock and heard the doorknob turn. The door started to open, and through the doorway he went, and hurtled down the broad corridor to the kitchen, the only other room on the ground floor that would contain evidence of their intrusion.
A voice behind him, back in the living room: “Well, this is some rustic.”
Who were those people? They come here, they have a chauffeur, they have keys, but they’ve never seen that incredible living room before?
It was, that living room, as Brady would agree, some rustic, and so was the rest of the house. The living room, thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep, with a huge stone fireplace on one end wall, was two stories high, with a cathedral ceiling, the whole thing done in rough wood, the beams with the bark still on, the walls rough–surfaced boards, the plank floor dotted with old Navajo rugs, the furniture large, deep, comfortable, what God would buy for His own weekend place. Suspended above it all was a huge chandelier that pretended to be a whole lot of kerosene lamps with glass chimneys but was actually electrified and on a dimmer.
Brady had run to the kitchen to try to clean it up before they came back here, but now his curiosity was aroused. He stood an instant, not knowing whether to sneak back and listen or proceed with his kitchen police, when the kitchen’s side door opened and Nessa appeared, dressed, having come down the back stairs.
Good. “Clean it!” he whispered, waving at the not–clean kitchen — they tended to go to bed immediately after meals, though they knew they shouldn’t — and tiptoed back down the corridor, now hearing a second voice say, with a kind of weary seen–everything sound, “I guess this is what you call your compound.”
A third voice, brisk, in charge, said, “Upstairs should be the best place to stash something.”
What? Brady crept even closer, just out of their sight. Meanwhile, the second voice said, “No, it isn’t.”
There was a little pause then, that might have been uncomfortable, and the third voice said, “Pembroke, why don’t you wait in the car?”
“Sir.”
Nobody spoke then until the front door opened and closed, and then the take–charge third voice said, “Upstairs. Farther from the doors and windows. More hiding places.”
“Too heavy,” said the weary second voice, “for one guy to lift.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, Johnny,” the first voice chimed in, much the most chipper of them, “we’ll find a good spot somewhere down here.”
“Then I suggest,” the third voice said, as though trying to recapture command here, “we might just as well sit over there by the fireplace a few minutes and think about it.”
“Fine idea.”
“Sure.”
Oh, good, Brady thought, and, scampered back to the kitchen, where Nessa was hurriedly shoving used plates, pots, silver, cups, glasses and cereal bowls into cupboards, drawers and the broom closet. “Stop!” he whispered. “Not there.”
In just as harsh a whisper, Nessa said, “Brady, we’ve got to hide all this.”
“Upstairs.”
“ What? ”
“They’re not going upstairs. They’re looking for a place down here to hide something, so they’ll open everything, and they’re sure to see all that stuff. Carry it all up, just out of
Pausing one millisecond, his back against the door, to pull on his jeans and study the living room, at first he saw nothing out of place, but then, there it was, a beer bottle he’d left behind on the coffee table after dinner last night.
Running again, he arced past the coffee table and grabbed the bottle on the fly, as he heard the key in the front door lock and heard the doorknob turn. The door started to open, and through the doorway he went, and hurtled down the broad corridor to the kitchen, the only other room on the ground floor that would contain evidence of their intrusion.
A voice behind him, back in the living room: “Well, this is some rustic.”
Who were those people? They come here, they have a chauffeur, they have keys, but they’ve never seen that incredible living room before?
It was, that living room, as Brady would agree, some rustic, and so was the rest of the house. The living room, thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep, with a huge stone fireplace on one end wall, was two stories high, with a cathedral ceiling, the whole thing done in rough wood, the beams with the bark still on, the walls rough–surfaced boards, the plank floor dotted with old Navajo rugs, the furniture large, deep, comfortable, what God would buy for His own weekend place. Suspended above it all was a huge chandelier that pretended to be a whole lot of kerosene lamps with glass chimneys but was actually electrified and on a dimmer.
Brady had run to the kitchen to try to clean it up before they came back here, but now his curiosity was aroused. He stood an instant, not knowing whether to sneak back and listen or proceed with his kitchen police, when the kitchen’s side door opened and Nessa appeared, dressed, having come down the back stairs.
Good. “Clean it!” he whispered, waving at the not–clean kitchen — they tended to go to bed immediately after meals, though they knew they shouldn’t — and tiptoed back down the corridor, now hearing a second voice say, with a kind of weary seen–everything sound, “I guess this is what you call your compound.”
A third voice, brisk, in charge, said, “Upstairs should be the best place to stash something.”
What? Brady crept even closer, just out of their sight. Meanwhile, the second voice said, “No, it isn’t.”
There was a little pause then, that might have been uncomfortable, and the third voice said, “Pembroke, why don’t you wait in the car?”
“Sir.”
Nobody spoke then until the front door opened and closed, and then the take–charge third voice said, “Upstairs. Farther from the doors and windows. More hiding places.”
“Too heavy,” said the weary second voice, “for one guy to lift.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, Johnny,” the first voice chimed in, much the most chipper of them, “we’ll find a good spot somewhere down here.”
“Then I suggest,” the third voice said, as though trying to recapture command here, “we might just as well sit over there by the fireplace a few minutes and think about it.”
“Fine idea.”
“Sure.”
Oh, good, Brady thought, and, scampered back to the kitchen, where Nessa was hurriedly shoving used plates, pots, silver, cups, glasses and cereal bowls into cupboards, drawers and the broom closet. “Stop!” he whispered. “Not there.”
In just as harsh a whisper, Nessa said, “Brady, we’ve got to hide all this.”
“Upstairs.”
“ What? ”
“They’re not going upstairs. They’re looking for a place down here to hide something, so they’ll open everything, and they’re sure to see all that stuff. Carry it all up, just out of
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