Murphy's Law

Damn it, she couldn't remember!

No, wait, she must have locked it. The door hadn't opened, had it? Surely it would have by now if it wasn't locked.

Her attention shifted to the telephone hanging on the wall to her left. The kitchen was small—a narrow, glorified pantry, really—making the phone within arm's reach.

Clunk, creeeeeeak.

The noise didn't come from the direction of the front door. This time, it came from around back. Murphy traced it to the sliding glass doors leading out from the living room onto a redwood deck, where Tom had left an ample supply of firewood stacked and covered with a tarp to keep it dry.

Thunk! Crash!

Murphy grabbed the phone.

Her fingers were shaking so badly she had to force them around the receiver to lift it from its cradle. The number pads on the phone were oversized, embedded in the receiver. Without bothering to listen for the dial tone, she punched in the numbers she'd memorized as a kid.

9-1-1.

Breathing hard, and clutching the skillet to her chest, she braced the phone between her shoulder and ear and listened to it ring. And ring. And ring.

She didn't realize Moonshine had come into the kitchen until she felt the press of his big, furry body against her jean-clad shins.

Murphy didn't scream. She knew she didn't because, while she'd opened her mouth to do exactly that, the only sound to come out of her fear-tightened throat was a soft, high-pitched squeal.

Moonshine glanced up, his blue eyes shining in the muted light. He meowed, rubbing his cheek against outer shin as though offering comfort. This time Murphy was prepared for the contact and no sound escaped her.

What she wasn't prepared for—not even close to prepared for!—was what she saw out of the corner of her eye.

Another shadow passed closely by the sliding glass doors in the living room. The silvery rays of moonlight glinting off snow distorted the shape until it looked inhumanly big and menacing.

And male. The shape was unquestionably male.

The phone continued to ring in Murphy's ear. She could barely hear it over the erratic throb of her heartbeat. “C'mon. Someone answer. Please.”

Someone did. The voice was feminine and nasally. “New England Telephone. What city, please?”

“Damn it!”

“Excuse me?”

Murphy shook her head. Her voice a shaky, raspy whisper, she said, “Patch me through to the police.”

The tinny voice sounded bored, as though used to terrified women demanding police assistance, and demanding it now. “Did you know you can dial that number yourself, ma'am?”

What little supply of patience Murphy had retained until now burned away in a hot flare of anger. “Of course I do!” She ground her teeth together, and through them replied sharply, “Unfortunately, I can't dial a number I don't know. Please, either patch this call through directly, or send the police to…”

Oh, no, what was the address? Murphy's mind went blank. Again. This was starting to become a very annoying habit.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the shadow pass outside the sliding glass doors. Was it closer this time? She couldn't tell; she hadn't been paying enough attention, and it came and went too quickly for her to assess the distance.

She pressed her back hard against the wall.

A stroke of brilliance—or was it luck?—made her remember the directions her brother had jotted down before Murphy had left Providence, Rhode Island early that morning. The sheet of paper was still tucked in the back pocket of her jeans.

“Ma'am? Hello? Are you there?”

“Yes, I…hold on a sec.” Murphy couldn't hold the phone and skillet, and at the same time fish the directions out of her pocket. Since she was afraid to accidentally cut the connection with her chin if she pressed the receiver the wrong way, she tucked the frying pan under her arm and reached behind her, groping for her back pocket.

The folded sheet of paper was, of course, in the opposite pocket. She dug it out by only slightly contorting her shoulders, back, and hips. The muscles in her right arm and shoulder would be sore from strain come morning.