Skeleton Key by Lenore Glen Offord Page A

siren went off.
    There came the warden’s footsteps, down the road, pad, pad, pad, very stalwart and reassuring. There was no other sound. Georgine knew just when he stopped at the sight of the flagrantly illuminated number. The timbre of the steps changed; he was going in the Carmichaels’ gate, past their thick hedge, and a faint clanking bore witness to his attack on the metal holder of the number.
    After several minutes the steps were retraced. They grew more audible, but slower, as he prepared to cross the street, angling down toward the Paev house. They had a cautious sound now, as if Hollister were feeling his way across the rough pavement.
    Then the noise came.
    It was only a rush and a rattle at first; then, before the ear could define it, a dull crashing impact followed the first sound; and then, with a terrifying bang in which wood seemed to be splintering, the noise rose to a crescendo of shrieking metal: crash, bump, crash, into the ravine.
    Georgine found herself by the front door, her hand closed round the knob, her whole body clammy with terror. It must have been a bomb, the first of those bombs that had been expected for months. There had been no explosion, but maybe this was a different kind…
    Her breath whistled through a constricted throat, her eyes stayed fixed as if to pierce the blackness. She ought to be finding the staircase and crawling under it, but she could not seem to detach her hand from this doorknob. It’s all that’s holding me up , thought Georgine wildly, over a host of other chaotic thoughts. I’ve always wondered how I’d act if there were a real raid. Now I know; I’m so scared I can’t move… How long have I been standing here? What’s that funny noise in the street, not like the other one, more like someone groaning, or breathing?
    The knob turned silently under her fingers, and as silently the door swung inward. It was in defiance of all orders, but she couldn’t stay alone here in the dark, not knowing what had happened. Let the warden scold her if he liked, he was here to reassure people. That padding noise sounded rather like his footsteps again, but softer.
    â€œMr. Hollister,” Georgine said, her voice coming back with startling loudness from the echoing wall. “Is that you, Mr. Hollister?”
    The padding noise stopped.
    â€œPlease, what was it? Is anyone hurt?”
    There was no answer at all; no voice, no other steps.
    Only, from the middle of the street came the sound of harsh breathing.
    At a little distance across the road there was a dull glow, dim and tiny as fox-fire. It looked like the warden’s torch, but if he was holding it, why didn’t he answer her?
    Somewhere a chime struck the half-hour. The wind came up again slightly, but the odd breathing went on. It sounded—painful. There were no more loud sounds.
    â€œSomeone has been hurt,” Georgine whispered. She gritted her teeth and stepped out into the cool blackness, somehow darker even than that inside the house, because unconsciously one expected light from the sky.
    She was halfway across the street, making for the dim torch, when her foot touched something soft. She froze instantly, and for a moment not all her will-power could make her bend over to feel what lay beside her.
    In that moment all the sensations of the past week crystallized within her: the seemingly unfounded fears, the creeping uneasiness that she had tried so hard to overcome, the dreamlike warnings of her unconscious self. It was something like this that she had expected; it was the worst horror of all that she was not surprised.
    Yet to have it come at last was almost a relief. She bent over, and her hand found warm wet flesh. Whoever it was must be badly hurt, but not dead, for his hand beat weakly against the pavement as if he were trying to rise. Was it that sound she had heard, and mistaken for footsteps?
    Her groping hands went farther, and felt the round