82 Desire

counter,” she said, obviously trying to make it easy on him.
    “Oh, no,” he said, “this stuff’s heavy. Be glad to put it wherever you want.”
    For a moment, she looked a little confused. “Well, let’s see. The pantry, I guess.”
    He was bent over the goods when high heels clicked into the kitchen. “Marka? Someone’s spilled iced tea on the sofa.”
    Aha. Dream come true, he thought, as Marka sped to the rescue. Quickly, he checked the kitchen windows. They were out of view, unencumbered by alarm sensors, and equipped only with standard closings. A twelve-year-old could open them—but it might be noisy. Still, it was a start.
    He didn’t dare go up the stairs, and guests prowled everywhere on this floor. He checked the door itself. It had one of those standard push-button locks set in the locked position. He imagined it was probably kept that way, so the door couldn’t be opened with a casual turn when the dead bolt was off.
    He punched the button, moving it to the unlocked position. And then he put away the wine. He was just coming out of the pantry when Marka returned.
    “Beautiful house,” he said, and the maid teared up.
    “It’s a sad house now,” she said. “It’s a real sad house.”
    She’d evidently been fond of Beau. “I’m real sorry,” Ray said, and found that a part of him was. No doubt Beau had been a rotten little bastard—a rotten little criminal, actually, who’d made other people suffer and had gone scot-free. But Ray was sorry for Mrs. Cavignac. He could no more imagine losing Cille than losing the sun.
    That night he made love to her like they were newlyweds.
    And the next day found him outside the Cavignac house an hour before the funeral. He made sure he saw the widow and children leave—along with a knot of black-clothed relatives—and then gave them ten minutes to come back if they’d forgotten something. Nobody did.
    He stepped to the back of the house and listened. There was a clatter of kitchenware—Marka loading the dishwasher, probably. And then a mechanical roar. Yes, the dishwasher. He stepped closer, actually sticking his face up to the window, just in time to see Marka disappearing. He waited a minute to see if she’d come back. When she didn’t, he pulled on latex gloves and his ski mask, and tried the door.
    It opened. Miraculously, it opened. Whoever had locked up the night before had probably just put the dead bolt on without trying the lock.
    He ducked into the pantry to get his breath and let Marka come back, in case she’d heard him enter. He waited ten minutes, trying to figure out a plan. Actually, if she did come back, he could step out and explore the rest of the house while she was in the kitchen.
    On the other hand, he had to be out of here before they got back from the funeral. He waited another five minutes, and shrugged. Five more, then full speed ahead—if he ran into her, he’d deal with it. He was wearing shorts, a polo shirt, and sneakers. Except for the ski mask, he could be anybody at all—no reason to connect him with yesterday’s delivery.
    She didn’t come.
    He was halfway to the second floor when he ran into her. Because the stairs were carpeted, neither had heard the other till it was too late.
    Without uttering a sound, she turned to run. Good. She’d be upstairs, which would make the whole thing easier to deal with.
    He caught her in about five strides, holding her from behind, one hand over her mouth. “I’m not here for you,” he whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you.” She was a black woman, about fifty-five and very dignified. He thought she must be scared to death, but he didn’t know what to do about it, except whisper to her while she breathed hard and whimpered. He stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth (brought specially for the purpose) and pulled a roll of duct tape out of his pocket, along with a Swiss Army knife. He taped her hands behind her back before she could get the gag out, and then taped her mouth, meanwhile whispering, “Sorry I have to do this to you, but nothing bad’s going to happen. I’m just here to steal something. You’re going to be fine.”
    There was a sofa with a lamp table in a landing at the top of the stairs. He led her over there. “I want you to be nice and comfortable. You just sit down and I’ll tape your ankles real gently, and then I’ll leave you alone. You okay now?”
    Her eyes told him she wasn’t, but she sat down obediently, pressing her legs firmly