style="font-size:15px;"> In the window, his victim nervously lifted a short glass filled with whiskey to his lips.
Drink up, moron. Drink it all.
The man visibly swayed, caught himself by pressing a hand to the glass pane.
The Reviver grinned in the darkness. He’d spent so little time in the kitchen, just long enough to steal the phone and slip the small tablets into the open bottle of whiskey.
It had been so easy.
And now those pills were working their magic, making his victim sluggish.
“Bottoms up,” he mouthed, feeling a rush steal through his blood as the man stumbled away from the window, heading, no doubt, for his recliner.
No reason to wait.
He hurried to the back of the house and stole up the steps to the back porch.
The door to the kitchen was still unlocked.
Dr. Terrence Renner drained his glass, set it on the table next to his recliner, and tried not to panic. Someone had called him…using his own cell phone. Someone had been in the house. Probably the teenagers who lived about a quarter of a mile away; three boys, and hellions every one. Troublemakers.
All that talk about “information” was probably just part of a prank. Right? And yet he’d heard real menace in the caller’s voice. Determination.
It took him three attempts to place the portable receiver into its cradle. Then he half collapsed into his recliner and stared at the phone, expecting it to ring again. All the while Midnight Confessions, that ridiculous radio show with “Doctor Sam,” a pseudo-psychologist, was playing on the radio. The show and woman irritated him, but he hadn’t been able to stop tuning in. Pop psychology. Ridiculous.
So who had his damned phone?
“Stupid punks,” he muttered and told himself to calm down, enjoy his fire—perhaps the last crackling fire of the season—and the remains of his drink.
He flipped off the radio, couldn’t stand to listen to that damned fake shrink another minute.
Had someone been in the house?
When?
Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked at the phone again and considered calling the police but was just too damned dizzy. He’d think more clearly in the morning. Tonight he’d finish his crossword puzzle then go to bed. He pulled the folded newspaper onto his lap and forced himself to concentrate.
From habit, he reached down to pat Rufus’s old head then realized his mistake. The dog had been dead over two weeks, and it was amazing how much Renner missed the old terrier, who in his youth had chased rabbits, squirrels, and cars with the same enthusiasm. Fortunately, the stupid dog had never caught anything.
A soft footstep sounded in the back of the house.
What the devil now?
He looked up quickly, knocking the newspaper from his lap as he stared over the top of his reading glasses. The room seemed to rotate slightly, and he blinked a couple of times. His nightcaps had hit him hard. Harder than usual, and as he pushed himself upright, he wobbled slightly, his legs unable to hold him.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled as his buttocks landed on the worn cushion of his favorite chair. “Son of a goddamned—”
There it was again. That familiar creak of floorboards in the hallway running from the kitchen, the sound made when someone walked along its length.
But he was alone.
Wasn’t he?
The hairs lifted on the back of his skull.
Had the punks who’d stolen his phone returned?
“Hello?” he called, slightly nervous and feeling like a fool. No one was in the house. No one.
He strained to listen, to rise from the chair, to push up, but his arms were as weak as his legs, flaccid, useless appendages. Had he had a stroke? Was that possible?
Another footstep. Heavier this time.
His heart froze for an instant.
“Ith thum-one there?” he demanded and heard the slurred panic in his voice. “Inez?” he asked, calling out the housekeeper’s name though she wasn’t scheduled for another couple of days. “Franco?” But the farmhand who worked for him had left hours earlier, before the sun had gone down. For the first time in his life, he felt isolated out here.
Again he tried to push himself upright, his arms trembling with the effort, his legs wobbly.
Again he fell back.
Don’t panic. You’re imagining all this. The drinks were stronger than you thought…that’s all. Get up, damn it. Get up!
“Dr. Renner.” A deep male voice called to him from the darkened hallway beyond the French doors.
His eyes widened, felt stretched across his face.
He lunged for the phone, throwing himself from the recliner, knocking over the remains of his drink.
Ice cubes skittered over the gleaming hardwood floor.
Pain shuddered through him.
Pushing himself, he was determined to get to the phone, even if he had to crawl. But…but his arms wouldn’t drag him. His legs were useless. He was facedown on the floor when the light shifted. The glass doors opened, a shadow stretched in front of him, and he found himself looking at a pair of thick army boots.
He nearly lost control of his bladder as he slowly raised his eyes, up, up, up long, powerful-looking legs covered in camouflage, then farther upward past a matching jacket that covered a massive chest. Above the collar was a thick neck and a face concealed by a ski mask.
Startling blue eyes stared down at him.
“Who are you?…What do you want? I have money…in the safe….” Renner squeaked as panic closed his throat and constricted his lungs.
“Money.” The intruder spat the word. Moved his gloved hands.
Renner saw the knife—a long, wicked hunting knife, the blade catching and gleaming, reflecting the fire.
Terror grabbed him. “No,” he whispered. “Please…I beg you…”
“Retribution,” the big man whispered in a voice that cut through the air like a whipsaw.
“No…please…I don’t know who you are…what you want…but you’re making a mistake.”
“No mistake, Doctor.”
Fear blasted through him. He tried to scuttle away, to move anywhere, but his damned body…Oh hell, he’d been drugged. He realized that now. It wasn’t the booze…
His
