Prayers to Broken Stones by Dan Simmons
I turned to my right and stepped to the bow of a bobbing inboard cruiser. Five steps and I was in the small, covered space that passed for a forward cabin. I closed the flimsy access panel behind me and peered out through the streaked Plexiglas.
Mr. Thorne’s third kick sent the door flying inward, dangling from long strips of splintered wood. His dark form filled the doorway. Light from a distant streetlight glinted off the blade in his right hand.
Please. Please hear the noise. But there was no movement from the office, only the metallic voices from the radio. Mr. Thorne took four paces, paused, and stepped down onto the first boat in line. It was an open outboard and he was back up on the concrete in six seconds. The second boat had a small cabin. There was a ripping sound as Mr. Thorne kicked open the tiny hatch door and then he was back up on the walkway. My boat was the eighth in line. I wondered why he couldn’t just hear the wild hammering of my heart.
I shifted position and looked through the starboard port. The murky Plexiglas threw the light into streaks and patterns. I caught a brief glimpse of white hair through the window, and the radio was switched to another station. Loud music echoed in the long room. I slid back to the other porthole. Mr. Thorne was stepping off the fourth boat.
I closed my eyes, forced my ragged breathing to slow, and tried to remember countless evenings watching a bowlegged old figure shuffle down the street. Mr. Thorne finished his inspection of the fifth boat, a longer cabin cruiser with several dark recesses, and pulled himself back onto the walkway.
Forget the coffee in the thermos. Forget the crossword puzzle. Go look!
The sixth boat was a small outboard. Mr. Thorne glanced at it but did not step onto it. The seventh was a low sailboat, mast folded down, canvas stretched across the cockpit. Mr. Thorne’s knife slashed through the thick material. Blood-streaked hands pulled back the canvas like a shroud being torn away. He jumped back to the walkway.
Forget the coffee. Go look! Now!
Mr. Thorne stepped onto the bow of my boat. I felt it rock to his weight. There was nowhere to hide, only a tiny storage locker under the seat, much too small to squeeze into. I untied the canvas strips that held the seat cushion to the bench. The sound of my ragged breathing seemed to echo in the little space. I curled into a fetal position behind the cushion as Mr. Thorne’s leg moved past the starboard port. Now. Suddenly his face filled the Plexiglas strip not a foot from my head. His impossibly wide grimace grew even wider. Now. He stopped into the cockpit.
Now. Now. Now.
Mr. Thorne crouched at the cabin door. I tried to brace the tiny louvered door with my legs, but my right leg would not obey. Mr. Thorne’s fist slammed through the thin wooden strips and grabbed my ankle.
“Hey there!”
It was Mr. Hodges’s shaky voice. His flashlight bobbed in our direction.
Mr. Thorne shoved against the door. My left leg folded painfully. Mr. Thorne’s left hand firmly held my ankle through the shattered slats while the hand with the knife blade came through the opening hatch.
“Hey!” cried Mr. Hodges and then my mind shoved. Very hard. The old man stopped. He dropped the flashlight and unstrapped the safety strap over the grip of his revolver.
Mr. Thorne slashed the knife back and forth. The cushion was almost knocked out of my hands as shreds of foam filled the cabin. The blade caught the tip of my little finger as the knife swung back again.
Do it. Now. Do it.
Mr. Hodges gripped the revolver in both hands and fired. The shot went wide in the dark as the sound echoed off concrete and water. Closer, you fool. Move!
Mr. Thorne shoved again and his body squeezed into the open hatch. He released my ankle to free his left arm, but almost instantly his hand was back in the cabin, grasping for me. I reached up and turned on the overhead light. Darkness stared at me from his empty eye socket. Light through the broken shutters spilled yellow strips across his ruined face. I slid to the left, but Mr. Thorne’s hand, which had my coat, was pulling me off the bench. He was on his knees, freeing his right hand for the knife thrust.
Now! Mr. Hodges’s second shot caught Mr. Thorne in the right hip. He grunted as the impact shoved him backward into a sitting position. My coat ripped, and buttons rattled on the deck.
The knife slashed the bulkhead near my ear before it pulled away.
Mr. Hodges stepped shakily onto the bow, almost fell, and inched his way around the starboard side. I pushed the hatch against Mr. Thorne’s arm, but he continued to grip my coat and drag me toward him. I fell to my knees. The blade swung back, ripped through foam, and slashed at my coat. What was left of the cushion flew out of my hands. I had Mr. Hodges stop four feet away and brace the gun on the roof of the cabin.
Mr. Thorne pulled the blade back and poised it like a matador’s sword. I could sense the silent scream of triumph that poured out over the stained teeth like a noxious vapor. The light of Nina’s madness burned behind the single, staring eye.
Mr. Hodges fired. The bullet severed Mr. Thorne’s spine and continued on into the port scupper. Mr. Thorne arched backward, splayed out his arms, and flopped onto the deck like a great fish that had just been landed. The knife fell to the floor of the cabin, while stiff, white fingers continued to slap nervelessly against the deck. I had Mr. Hodges step forward, brace the muzzle against Mr. Thorne’s temple just above the remaining eye, and fire again. The sound was muted and hollow.
There was a first-aid kit in the office bathroom. I had the old man stand by the door while I bandaged my little finger and took three aspirin.
My coat was ruined, and blood had stained my print dress. I had never cared very much for the dress—I thought it made me look dowdy—but the coat had been a favorite of mine. My hair was a mess. Small, moist bits of gray matter flecked it. I splashed water on my face and brushed my hair as best I could. Incredibly, my tattered purse had stayed with me although many of the contents had spilled out. I transferred keys, billfold, reading glasses, and Kleenex to my large coat pocket and dropped the purse behind the toilet. I no longer had Father’s walking stick, but I could not remember where I had dropped it.
Gingerly I removed the heavy revolver from Mr. Hodges’s grip. The old man’s arm remained extended, fingers curled around air. After fumbling for a few seconds I managed to click open the cylinder. Two cartridges remained unfired. The old fool had been walking around with all six chambers loaded! Always leave an empty chamber under the hammer. That is what Charles had taught me that gay and distant summer so long ago when such weapons were merely excuses for trips to the island for target practice punctuated by the shrill shrieks of our nervous laughter as Nina and I allowed ourselves to be held, arms supported, bodies shrinking back into the firm support of our so-serious tutors’ arms. One must always count the cartridges, lectured Charles, as I half-swooned against him, smelling the sweet, masculine shaving soap and tobacco smell rising from him on that warm, bright day.
Mr. Hodges stirred slightly as my attention wandered. His mouth gaped open and his dentures hung loosely. I glanced at the worn leather belt, but there were no extra bullets there and I had no idea where he kept any. I probed, but there was little left in the old man’s jumble of thoughts except for a swirling tape-loop replay of the muzzle being laid against Mr. Thorne’s temple, the explosion, the …
“Come,” I said. I adjusted the glasses on Mr. Hodges’s vacant face, returned the revolver to the holster, and let him lead me out of the building.
It was very dark out. We moved from streetlight to streetlight. We had gone six blocks before the old man’s violent shivering reminded me that I had forgotten to have him put on his coat. I tightened my mental vise, and he stopped shaking.
The house looked just as it had … my God … only forty-five minutes earlier. There were no lights. I let us into the courtyard and searched my overstuffed coat pocket for the key. My coat hung loose and the cold night air nipped at me. From behind lighted windows across the courtyard came the laughter of little
Mr. Hodges went in first, with the revolver extended. I had him switch on the light before I entered.
The parlor was empty, undisturbed. The light from the chandelier in the dining room reflected off polished surfaces. I sat down for a minute on the Williamsburg reproduction chair in the hall to let my heart rate return to normal. I did not have Mr. Hodges lower the hammer on the still-raised pistol. His arm began to shake from the strain of holding it. Finally I rose and we moved down the hall toward the conservatory.
Miss Kramer exploded out of the swinging door from the kitchen with the heavy iron poker already coming down in an arc. The gun fired harmlessly into the polished floor as the old man’s arm snapped from the impact. The gun fell from limp fingers as Miss Kramer raised the poker for a second blow.
I turned and ran back down the hallway. Behind me I heard the crushed-melon sound of the poker contacting Mr. Hodges’s skull. Rather than run into the courtyard I went up the stairway. A mistake. Miss Kramer bounded up the stairs and reached the bedroom door only a few seconds after me. I caught one glimpse of her widened, maddened eyes and of the upraised poker before I slammed and locked the heavy door. The latch clicked just as the brunette on the other side began to throw herself against the wood. The thick oak did not budge. Then I heard the concussion of metal against the door and frame. Again. Again.
Cursing my stupidity, I turned to the familiar room, but there was nothing there to help me, not even a telephone. There was not as much as a closet to hide in, only the antique wardrobe. I moved quickly to the window and threw up the sash. My screams would attract attention but not before that monstrosity had gained access. She was prying at the edges of the door now. I looked out, saw the shadows in the windows across the way, and did what I had to do.
Two minutes later I was barely conscious of the wood giving away around the latch. I heard the distant grating of the poker as it pried at the recalcitrant metal plate. The door swung inward.
Miss Kramer was covered with sweat. Her mouth hung slack and drool slid from her chin. Her eyes were not human. Neither she nor I heard the soft tread of sneakers on the stairs behind her.
Keep moving. Lift it. Pull it back—all the way back. Use both hands. Aim it.
Something warned Miss Kramer. Warned Nina, I should say, for there was no more Miss Kramer. The brunette turned to see little Kathleen standing on the top stair, her grandfather’s heavy weapon aimed and cocked. The other girl was in the courtyard shouting for her friend.
This time Nina knew she had to deal with the threat. Miss Kramer hefted the poker and turned into the hall just as the pistol fired. The recoil tumbled Kathleen backward down the stairs as a red corsage blossomed above Miss Kramer’s left breast. She spun but grasped the railing with her left hand and lurched down the stairs after the child. I released the ten-year-old just as the poker fell, rose, fell again. I moved to the head of the stairway. I had to see.
Miss Kramer looked up from her grim work. Only the whites of her eyes were visible in her spattered face. Her masculine shirt was soaked with her own blood, but still she moved, functioned. She picked up the gun in her left hand. Her mouth opened wider, and a sound emerged like steam leaking from an old radiator.
“Melanie …” I closed my eyes as the thing started up the stairs for me.
Kathleen’s friend came in through the open door, her small legs pumping. She took the stairs in six jumps and wrapped her thin, white arms around Miss Kramer’s neck in a tight embrace.
The two went over backward, across Kathleen, all the way down the wide stairs to the polished wood below.
The girl appeared to be little more than bruised. I went down and moved her to one side. A blue stain was spreading along one cheekbone, and there were cuts on her arms and forehead. Her blue eyes blinked uncomprehendingly.
Miss Kramer’s neck was broken. I picked up the pistol on the way to her and kicked the poker to one side. Her head was at an impossible angle but she was still alive. Her body was paralyzed, urine already stained the wood, but her eyes still blinked and her teeth clicked together obscenely. I had to hurry. There were adult voices calling from the Hodges’s town house. The door to the courtyard was wide open. I turned to the girl. “Get up.” She blinked once and rose painfully to her feet.
I shut the door and lifted a tan raincoat from the coat-rack. It took only a minute to transfer the contents of my pockets to the raincoat and to discard my ruined spring coat. Voices were calling in the courtyard now.
I knelt down next to Miss Kramer and seized her face in my hands, exerting strong pressure to keep the jaws still. Her eyes had rolled upward again, but I shook her head until the irises were visible. I leaned forward until our cheeks were touching. My whisper was louder than a shout.
“I’m coming for you, Nina.”
I dropped her head onto the wood and walked quickly to the conservatory, my sewing room. I did not have time to get the key from upstairs, so I raised a Windsor side chair and smashed the glass of the cabinet. My coat pocket was barely large enough.
The girl remained standing in the hall. I handed her Mr. Hodges’s pistol. Her left arm hung at a strange angle and I wondered if she had broken something after all. There was a knock at the door and someone tried the knob.
“This way,” I whispered, and led the girl into the dining room.
We stepped across Miss Kramer on the way, walked through the dark kitchen as the pounding grew louder, and then were out, into the alley, into the night.
There were three hotels in this part of the Old Section. One was an expensive but modern motor hotel some ten blocks away, comfortable but commercial. I rejected it immediately. The second was a small, but homey lodging house only a block from my home. It was a pleasant but nonexclusive little place, exactly the type I would choose when visiting another town. I rejected it also. The third was two and a half blocks farther on, an old Broad Street mansion done over into a small hotel, expensive antiques in every room, absurdly overpriced. I hurried there. The girl moved quickly at my side. The pistol was still in her hand, but I had her remove her sweater and carry it over the weapon. My leg ached and I frequently leaned on the girl as we hurried down the street.
The manager of the Mansard House recognized me. His eyebrow went up a fraction of an inch as he noticed my disheveled appearance. The girl stood ten feet away in the foyer, half-hidden in the shadows.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” I said brightly. “A Mrs. Drayton.”
The manager started to speak, paused, frowned without being aware of it, and tried again. “I’m sorry. No one under that name is registered here.”
“Perhaps she registered under her maiden name,” I said. “Nina Hawkins. She’s an older woman but very attractive. A few years younger than me. Long gray hair. Her friend may have registered for her … a young, dark-haired lady named Barrett Kramer …”
“No, I’m sorry,” said the manager in a strangely flat tone. “No one under that name has registered. Would you like to leave a message in case your party arrives later?”
“No,” I said. “No message.”
I brought the girl into the lobby, and we turned down a corridor leading to the restrooms and side stairs. “Excuse me, please,” I said to a passing porter. “Perhaps you can help me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stopped, annoyed, and brushed back his long hair. It would be tricky. If I was not to lose the girl, I would have to act quickly.
“I’m looking for a friend,” I said. “She’s an older lady but quite attractive. Blue eyes. Long, gray hair. She travels with a young woman who has dark, curly hair.”
“No, ma’am. No one like that is registered here.”
I reached out and held his forearm tightly. I released the girl and focused on the boy. “Are you sure?”
“Mrs. Harrison,” he said. His eyes looked past me. “Room 207. North front.”
I smiled
“What’s your name?” I asked the child, gently stroking her hair. Her eyes moved left and right in confusion. “Your name,” I prompted.
“Alicia.” It was only a whisper.
“All right, Alicia. I want you to go home now. Hurry, but don’t run.”
“My arm hurts,” she said. Her lips began to quiver. I touched her forehead again and pushed.
“You’re going home,” I said. “Your arm does not hurt. You won’t remember anything. This is like a dream that you will forget. Go home. Hurry, but do not run.” I took the pistol from her but left it wrapped in the sweater. “Bye-bye, Alicia.”
She blinked and crossed the lobby to the door. I handed the gun to the bellhop. “Put it under your vest,” I said.
“Who is it?” Nina’s voice was light.
“Albert, ma’am. The porter. Your car’s out front and I’m ready to carry your bags down.”
There was the sound of a lock clicking and the door opened the width of a still-secured chain. Albert blinked in the glare, smiled shyly, and brushed his hair back. I pressed against the wall.
“Very well.” She undid the chain and moved back. She had already turned and was latching her suitcase when I stepped into the room.
“Hello, Nina,” I said softly. Her back straightened, but even that move was graceful. I could see the imprint on the bedspread where she had been lying. She turned slowly. She was wearing a pink dress I had never seen before.