Chapter Twenty-one

shoulder, then slipped around the side of the house and disappeared at once Into the shadows there.
He moved quickly; his activities here were carefully planned. They were dangerous. Occasionally people
such as these had guns; occasionally they called the police.
They never understood. Always, there was resistance.
Franklin Titus began to work on the basement door.
Inside the house nine thirty came and went. Letty Coch­ran sent little Jerry to bed. She and George
settled back to watch the second half of the Garry Moore show.
"Mom?"
Frank Fontaine was starting to sing, "Maytime"; Letty had just closed her eyes. She sighed. "Why aren't
you in bed, dear?"
"There's someone in the house."
George lit a cigarette, did not stir. Letty got up and went to their boy. She was concerned. Jerry was not
a fearful child. He was spunky. Seeing him standing before her, wide-eyed, full of his innocent fright, she
felt great sympathy and love for him.
"Just us, dear."
"It's a man. He was coming up from the basement, but when I saw him he stepped back into the pantry."
This was not baseless fear. Jerry was terrified. "Come on, Jer, let's go see if we can shoo him out."
Jerry followed her into the hall, tugging at her arm. "No, Mom, don't go in there. He was a real person. I
wasn't dreaming."
"Jerry, honey, are you all right?"
Before he could answer she heard a sound from the basement—a short, bitter remark, like a curse. She
gathered her boy into her arms.
"George! I think Jerry's right. There's someone in the basement."
Her husband was beside them in an instant, his big hand covering her shoulder. "I'll go take a look.
Probably a cat."
He opened the basement door, reached into the darkness, and tightened the light bulb that hung over the
stairs. "Noth­ing down there."
"I certainly heard something."
"I'll go down." As soon as he started descending the stairs Letty was seized with foreboding. Fear battled
cau­tion; she wanted to stay with George, but she didn't want to go down those stairs. "Hey," he said, "you
two really are scared!" He held out his arms, took Jerry. "Come on, big boy, let's us check this thing out."
As he clumped down he swayed from side to side with the weight of his nine-year-old.
"Daddy, don't! Don't take me!"
Couldn't he see he was scaring the poor child even more? Letty started down after them, her heart going
out to Jerry.
"George, honey, let him—"
"I know what I'm doing!"
George was only a month back from Viet Nam. He felt Letty had pampered their son during his absence,
that the boy was growing up soft. Easygoing George had come home to her with deep hurts, dark and
violent things inside him that Letty was learning to fear. The war had wounded him, and his pain was
leaking out all over his wife and son.
He put the boy down beside the old black furnace. "You see, son, nobody here, not even behind it. The
room's empty."
Jerry did not answer; instead he simply looked up. Letty followed his eyes. All three of them fell silent.
One after another the floorboards above their heads were giving under weight. Someone was walking, very
softly, from the kitchen into the living room. The footsteps stopped in front of the TV.
"George, listen!"
"Shut up!"
Garry was just starting the "That Wonderful Year" seg­ment of the show. His voice stopped. The TV
had been turned off.
"What in hell—" Leaving Letty and Jerry behind, George mounted the steps three at a time. Letty was
terrified now. She grabbed her son by the arm and rushed up right behind George.
The living room was empty. George stood in front of the couch, staring at the old DuMont.
It was off.
"What the hell's going on here, some kind of a prank?"
"Shouldn't we call the police?"
"What's the complaint? Somebody turned off our TV? Big deal." He flipped it back on.