Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

I unlocked the delivery door and Trane barged in, shoving me back inside, slamming the door behind him.

“Hold on, you can’t—” He hit me! No warning, a hard right, flush on the jaw. Then something slammed into my face. The floor, I think. I was on my hands and knees, trying to clear the haze. Still had the phone in my hand. Couldn’t remember why.

Grabbing my shirt, Trane hauled me upright, his face an inch from mine. Red-eyed, pupils dilated, twitching, he was barely two clicks from insanity.

“I need my stuff back,” he snarled. “Where is it?”

“What stuff?”

“From the house! I need all of it! Right frickin’ now!”

“But I don’t have it, I—”

“Don’t jack me around! I ain’t doin’ no time over this! Where the hell is it?”

“I’ve already sold some—”

The front doorbell jingled, freezing both of us. Karla again.

“Okay, I’ve cooled off and — hey, what’s going on?”

“Get out of here!” I yelled, hammering Trane with the phone, knocking him off me, gashing open his cheek. His face was streaming blood but he scarcely noticed. Scrambling to his feet, he went charging through the shop after Karla.

She ducked out into the street, yelling for help, fumbling for a cell phone.

I reeled after them, still wobbly from Trane’s sucker punch, bouncing off the displays.

Outside, Trane and Karla were struggling over her cell phone, Karla still screaming for help. Tearing her phone away, Trane backhanded her, knocking her down.

And I snapped! Howling, I slammed into him, tackling him chest high, the rush carrying us across the hood of a parked car into the street. I came down on top as we crashed to the pavement, flailing wildly, landing a couple of punches, spraying us both with his blood. But he was too wired, too strong!

Clubbing me off him with a forearm, he wrestled me against the car, pinning me with his weight, his hands gouging my throat, cutting off my air. The world shifted to red, then to black. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t break his hold.

Tried to twist free, brought my knee up, hard, into his groin. Grunting from the impact, he lost his hold, stumbling back. As he lunged again I jammed my foot into his chest, kicking him off me.

Karla’s scream was drowned in a shriek of rubber, then an earthquake crunch of metal bucked me into the sky! For an endless instant I was soaring, airborne, then I crashed down, bouncing off parked cars like a pinball. Landing hard on the concrete.

Tried to get up. Only made it to my hands and knees, dazed, looking around. Trane was sprawled a few feet from me, his legs pinned under a wrecked car, eyes sightless, blood streaming from his nose and mouth.

But it wasn’t Trane. It was Tiffany! God! Tiff was bleeding! I crawled to her, cradling her head in my arms, crooning her name. But she didn’t answer...

Snow. Slowly swirling clouds of misty white. Couldn’t quite see through it. Blinked, trying to focus. The blizzard slowly morphed into a ceiling tile. Not snow. A white ceiling tile. Heard a voice, far away. Faint, metallic. Asking Dr. Somebody to report somewhere. Didn’t recognize the name. But the sound was very familiar.

Hospital. I was in a hospital. Tried to sit up. My head was hammering. Phil Barrett was there, sitting in a plastic chair by the bed. He looked rumpled, his tie askew.

“Easy, Stu,” he said. “Just relax, I’ll get a nurse.”

“No, wait,” I mumbled, grabbing his wrist. “Tiff was bleeding. Is she all right?”

He stared at me without answering. Which was answer enough. I lay back on my pillows. And faded away.

The second time I came out of the fog my head was a little clearer. Which was a good thing. Phil was still beside my bed but he wasn’t alone. Chief Liske was there too, in uniform, leaning against the window frame, arms folded. Watching me.

“How do you feel?” Phil asked quietly.

“Like I fell off a mountain. A big one,” I said, blinking, taking in the room, trying to gather my wits. “What happened?”

“We were hoping you could clear that up for us,” Liske said.

“When you woke earlier, you seemed pretty confused,” Phil said quickly. “Are you sure you’re all right now?”

I considered that, remembering. “There was a... crash. I guess I had a flashback. Something like that. I thought... Hell, I don’t know what I thought. I’m okay now.”

“What went down out there, Mr. Kenyon?” Liske pressed.

“I just remember... bits and pieces. Trane came to my shop. Angry. Wired up on something. I think he’d been in a fight.”

“Why do you say that?”

“His face was marked, fat lip, scratch under one eye. He was raving, then he decked me. We were mixing it up when Karla came in. He chased her. I went after him and... tackled him, I guess. I’m not clear about the rest of it. There was some kind of a crash and... here we are.”

“You were fighting in the street,” Phil said. “A car swerved to avoid you and lost control. You’re lucky to be alive—”

Liske waved him to silence. “Why were you fighting with Mr. Trane? Did you two have a falling out?”