Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [133]
She went back to the bedroom and looked again at the wireless set. To one side of the main cabinet, hidden from her previous cursory glance, was a microphone.
If she could talk to them, they could talk to her.
The sound of another human voice—a normal, sane, mainland voice—suddenly seemed the most desirable prospect in the world.
She picked up the microphone and began to experiment with the switches.
Bob growled softly.
She put the mike down and reached out her hand toward the dog in the darkness. “What is it, Bob?”
He growled again. She could feel his ears standing stiffly upright. She was terribly afraid—the confidence gained by confronting Henry with the gun, by learning how to reload, by barricading the door and nailing down the windows…all evaporated at one growl from an alert dog.
“Downstairs,” she whispered. “Quietly.”
She held his collar and let him lead her down the stairs. In the darkness she felt for the banister, forgetting she had chopped it up for her barricades, and she almost overbalanced. She regained her equilibrium and sucked at a splinter in her finger.
The dog hesitated in the hall, then growled more loudly and tugged her toward the kitchen. She picked him up and held his muzzle shut to silence him. Then she crept through the doorway.
She looked in the direction of the window, but there was nothing in front of her eyes other than the deep blackness.
She listened. The window creaked—at first almost inaudibly, then louder. He was trying to get in. Bob rumbled threateningly, deep in his throat, but seemed to understand the sudden squeeze she gave his muzzle.
The night became quieter. Lucy realized the storm was easing, almost imperceptibly. Henry seemed to have given up on the kitchen window. She moved to the living room.
She heard the same creak of old wood resisting pressure. Now Henry seemed more determined: there were three muffled bumps, as if he were tapping the window frame with the cushioned heel of his hand.
Lucy put the dog down and hefted the shotgun. It might almost have been imagination, but she could just make out the window as a square of grey in the blank darkness. If he got the window open, she would fire immediately.
There was a much harder bang. Bob lost control and gave a loud bark. She heard a scuffling noise outside.
Then came the voice.
“Lucy?”
She bit her lip.
“Lucy?”
He was using the voice he used in bed—deep, soft, intimate.
“Lucy, can you hear me? Don’t be afraid. I don’t want to hurt you. Talk to me, please.”
She had to fight the urge to pull both triggers there and then, just to silence that awful sound and destroy the memories it brought to her.
“Lucy, darling…” She thought she heard a muffled sob. “Lucy, he attacked me—I had to kill him…I killed for my country, you shouldn’t hate me for that—”
What in the world did that mean…? It sounded crazy. Could he be insane and have hidden it for two intimate days? Actually he had seemed saner than most people—and yet he had already committed murder…though she had no idea of the circumstances…Stop it…she was softening up, which of course was exactly what he wanted.
She had an idea.
“Lucy, just speak to me…”
His voice faded as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Bob would surely warn her if Henry did anything more than talk. She fumbled in Tom’s tool box and found a pair of pliers. She went to the kitchen window and with her fingertips located the heads of the three nails she had hammered there. Carefully, as quietly as possible, she drew them out. The job demanded all her strength.
When they were out she went back to the living room to listen.
“…don’t cause me trouble and I’ll leave you alone…”
As silently as she could she lifted the kitchen window. She crept into the living room, picked up the dog and returned once again to the kitchen.
“…hurt you, last thing in the world…”
She stroked the dog once or twice and murmured, “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to, boy.” Then she pushed him out