Free Scratch Fever by Max Allan Collins Page A

the lawn until he was parallel to the corner of the house—some lights on, upstairs—and then, keeping low, made for the sliding glass doors off the patio.
    It had taken him just under an hour-and-a-half to get here; he’d come via Interstate 80, and no Highway Patrol had stopped him despite his speeding. He was grateful for that much. Whoever had Sherry in the house wouldn’t expect him back this soon. He was grateful for that, too. But he wished he had a gun.
    Somebody inside the house had a gun. He saw the concave pucker in the glass where the bullet had gone through. Beyond it he saw the slumped form of his small dog. The door’s lock had been jimmied, so he didn’t bother with his key. He just slid it carefully open. And stepped inside.
    No lights on down here. But his night vision was in full force, and moonlight came in the doors behind him, and he could see the big open room, which would be a game room when he got around to putting a pool table in. There was a fireplace, as there was upstairs, but no furniture yet. Nowhere to hide, unless it was in one of the rooms off the hallway directly across from him: the two guest bedrooms, extra john, furnace room. He stood silently for a good minute. He heard muffled sounds upstairs. Nothing down here.
    He slid the door shut behind him.
    He knelt and gave his dog a pat.
    He didn’t have a gun. He didn’t have a goddamn gun. He’d been in such a goddamn hurry to get here, he hadn’t even stopped to ask Wagner for something. And he didn’t have anything stashed down here, no weapon of any kind. He always went to the precaution of coming in the back way, but he hadn’t bothered with stashing a gun. Stupid. He looked at the boxes stacked over against one wall. What was in those? Anything useful?
    Still kneeling, he smiled to himself. Patted the dog’s warm body. Got some blood on his hand but didn’t wipe it off.
    Some of that stuff in the boxes was Sherry’s. She’d told her father she was getting an apartment when she moved here, so he’d given her some things: pots, pans, and so on. Also silverware.
    He slipped out of his shoes and moved soundlessly across the carpeted floor to the boxes. Very carefully he sorted through the first box; the wooden case with silverware in it was under some Tupperware. He removed one stainless steel steak knife with a four-inch blade. He held it tight in a fist wet with the animal’s blood.
    There was only one way up, and that was the stairs, coming right up into the living room, at the back. Half a flight, a landing, then, to the left, another half a flight, and bam. If they were waiting for him, watching for him, he was dead. If they weren’t, he had a chance. The stairs were carpeted, and he was quiet. He went up the first half-flight and waited, just one step below the landing. Listened.
    Music.
    “I think she’s coming around, Sally,” a voice said. An immature voice.
    “Doesn’t matter,” another, older voice said. “She doesn’t know anything else we want to know.”
    “Maybe we should ask her how he comes in. There’s more than one way in.”
    “You may have a point.”
    “You want me to hold her feet again?”
    “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
    Music—they were playing music on the goddamn stereo. Barry Manilow, wasn’t it? Crazy.
    “She’s awake, Sally.”
    That name Sally, again. A man named Sally. Sal. Sal and Infante. The two bodyguards working for Hines, the local Family man.
    “Which way does he come in?” he heard Sal asking.
    “Front door,” Sherry’s voice said. Hurting.
    “Maybe you better hold her feet again, Infante.”
    “No!” Sherry said. “It’s the garage way. Doorway’s in the hall.”
    “You telling the truth? Hold her feet, Infante.”
    “It’s the truth!” Sherry all but screamed.
    Actually, Nolan would have preferred Sherry really tell the truth. That would send at least one of them down here. Well, maybe there was a way. . . .
    He stepped onto the