Black Dog

Thirty-Seven

Eddie and Mac finished their steaks, had a couple more drinks, then drove back to Further Lane.

“There are more lights on than when we left,” Mac said.

“They’re on a timer,” Eddie replied. “Keeps guys like you away.”

“Let’s go in easy,” Mac said. “These people could have a shotgun or something.”

“Maybe we just give it a pass,” Eddie said. “Go to a hotel.”

“Nah,” Mac said. “You just stay behind me. I’ll handle it.”

“Wait a minute, Mac...”

But Mac was already through the kitchen door. “Just stay behind me.” He drew a pistol from his jacket pocket.

“Where the hell did you get a gun?” Eddie asked.

“From your sock drawer,” Mac replied. “Shhhh.” He walked into the kitchen, looked around, then walked over to the bottom of the stairs. “Somebody’s up there,” he whispered.

“Mac, let’s get out of here!” Eddie whispered.

“Listen, you, down there!” A woman’s voice called out. “I’m armed. You leave the house right now, or I’m going to use it!”

Eddie froze in his tracks, but Mac was slowly climbing the stairs, the pistol held out in front of him. “If you’ve got a gun, you’d better drop it and come down here right now,” Mac yelled. “I’m not kidding!” He kept climbing, and Eddie lost sight of him.

“Freeze!” the woman yelled. “Or I’ll fire!”

“Yeah, sure, lady. You just come down here and be nice to me, and everything will be all right!”

Eddie took a few steps forward, until he could see Mac’s feet. Then there came a roar from above, and Mac flew backward down the stairs, firing his gun at the wall.

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran out the back door, got the station wagon started, backed out of his space, and gunned it down the driveway. He checked the rearview mirror, but nobody was following him. The house disappeared behind the trees. He reached Further Lane, turned left, and drove fast. There were no lights on in the houses, and no cars in sight. He slowed to a more legal speed. He didn’t need any tickets tonight. He made his way to the Long Island Expressway, set the cruise control to the speed limit, and concentrated on keeping the car in the correct lane.

He took deep breaths and, gradually, his trembling stopped, and he began to feel normal again.

Joan switched on the lights and looked down the stairs. She could see the bottoms of a pair of shoes. And as she crept down the stairs, her .45 held out in front of her, she saw the rest of him. His chest was a mess, and a couple of steps below him, a chrome, short-barreled pistol lay there, cocked. She edged her way past the man, watching for any signs of movement. His eyes were open, and there was an expression of mild surprise on his face, but he did not move or breathe. She reached the bottom of the stairs, went into the living room, turned on a lamp, picked up a phone, and called 911.

“East Hampton Police, Sergeant Bell speaking,” a woman’s voice said. “What is your emergency?”

“My name is Joan Robertson. I’m at the Charles home on Further Lane. There is an armed man in the house, and he has been shot in the chest. Please send police and an ambulance.”

“We know the house, Ms. Robertson,” the sergeant said. “Do you know if the man is dead?”

“He doesn’t appear to be breathing, and his eyes are open.”

“Someone will be right there.”

“Thank you.” Joan hung up and called another number.

“Hello,” a sleepy voice said.

“It’s Joan. I’m at the East Hampton house, and I just shot a man. I think he’s dead.”

“Hang up, call 911, then call me back. I’m getting dressed.”

“I’ve already called 911. They’re on their way.”

“Are you hurt in any way?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just scared.”

“Okay, I’m going to try to get a chopper out there. What’s the address?”

She gave it to him.

“Turn on all the lights, inside and out.”

“There’s a big lawn,” Joan said, “on the street side of the house.”

They both hung up, and Stone called Mike Freeman.

“Yes?”

“Mike, it’s Stone. Joan has shot an intruder in her house in East Hampton. Can you get a chopper to pick me up at the East Side Heliport and get me out there?”

“Sure I can. What’s the address?”

“It’s on Further Lane. All the lights, inside and out, will be on.”

“Get to the heliport,” Mike said. “I’ve got a pilot on duty.” He hung up.

Stone looked at his watch: 1:10 am. He started dressing, then buzzed Fred.

“Yes, sir?”

“Fred, I need you to drive me to the East Side Heliport right now.”

“Five minutes, sir.”

Stone didn’t wait for the elevator. He ran down the stairs.

Joan sat on the living room sofa, trying to put events in order.

“Joan?” A voice from upstairs. Betty.

“I’m in the living room, Betty,” she called back. “Come on down, and don’t trip over the corpse on the stairs!”

Betty tiptoed into the living room, clutching her nightgown around her. “There’s a corpse on the stairs,” she said.

“I know. Don’t worry, he won’t bother you.” Joan glanced at Betty. “You might want to get a robe on,” she said. “You don’t want to inflame some young police officer. They’re on the way.”

“Gotcha,” Betty said, and she went upstairs for a robe.