A Block of Broken Houses

The Visit (Part Three)

Mason thought to tell the truth and then dismissed it. His mind scrambled, searching for an acceptable lie; he could think of nothing.

"I asked you a question." Her tone had not changed—cool and firm. "Would you like me to ask it again?" She raised the gun to his belly and drew back the hammer, her aim true and her hand steady.

"In the basement," he answered.

She hesitated, only for a moment but it was enough for him to know that she was surprised—shocked even—that he would keep something so valuable so close. It was a careless move, perhaps even a stupid one, but the most obvious spot was sometimes the best.

"Move," she said, pointing to the wall nearest the kitchen with her pistol while stepping aside—toward the dead man on the floor—and keeping her distance.

And that was when his heart froze. She would search the intruder and find nothing, then search Mason and find the gun. She would not kill him immediately, but when the case was hers she would, taking enjoyment in it because of how he had deceived her.

She bent and began to frisk the limp body on the floor while both her gaze and weapon remained trained on Mason. When she found no weapon the questions would come. He thought to pull the gun from his waistband to see how far he could get. The odds were not in his favour, but if he were fast enough, and lucky...

His right hand flexed while his left ached distantly. The thought of killing her (as always in the few adrenaline-filled seconds before a life was taken) caused his heart to race and his pupils widen. Obscured by the surrounding shadows, his hand crept closer to his weapon. Her eyes appeared to grow wider, although that could have only been his imagination because her gaze was also shadowed. Only he was nearly certain her eyes had widened. And now it was too late because she was on to him—no time to act; no time for self-defence; no time to pull his weapon and fire. He inhaled slightly and accepted a death that was long overdue.

Mason caught the brief glint of moonlight on something in her hand. There was a beat of silence, and another, and then she held it in front of her: the blade that had probably cut and then killed Amanda, had cut him. She tossed it to one side and there was a deafening clatter as it skittered across the kitchen floor. Mason exhaled. And then she moved to him, gun aimed at his chest, poised and ready to fire a second time, and all breath was stolen from him.

"Get moving," she ordered. She pulled open the door to the basement and then stepped wide, allowing him to lead the way.

He could breathe again and was thankful for it. And then he thought about the gun stuffed into the waistband of his pyjamas and realized that with her behind him, and with him not wearing a shirt (at least in the proper sense; he still wore it wrapped around his hand), there was a strong possibility of her noticing it. Mason did not turn on the light to the basement stairs and hoped she would do the same.

"Why did you give yourself away like that?" he asked, and started down the steps. She followed, and after a few steps he was relieved that she had also chosen to leave the light off.

"That cat of yours is quick. It didn't like me. And you shouldn't leave dishes lying around." Her tone was even and without emotion; to her it was an uncomplicated conversation. Soon she would have what she had come for and be gone. She touched his shoulder and urged him forward.

Mason could still here the faint ticking of the kitchen clock, and the importance of each passing second was not lost on him. He would wonder later (if he were allowed the luxury) who the woman was, and instead attempted to focus on a plan that was too close to improvised to offer any sort of comfort. He knew that any wiggle room would only be what he managed to create for himself.