"You sure know a lot of fancy words," Cheryl said.

Her voice was noncommittal, and in the darkness Karen could not see her face. "I didn't mean," she began.

"Oh, hey, I like it." After a moment Cheryl added, "You don't talk down to me. I appreciate that."

Karen decided to park on the street that night rather than carry their purchases all the way from the garage.

She had to drive around the block several times before she found a legal parking space. Except for streaks of sullen crimson low in the west, the skies were dark; the streetlights sent shimmering reflection across the wet pavement.

Karen had not expected they would be so late, and she had neglected to leave any lights burning. As they felt their way carefully along the short stretch of sidewalk between the gate and the steps, the carton Cheryl carried slipped from her arms, spilling the contents onto the ground.

"Damn," Cheryl said. "Oh well, they needed washing anyway. Don't try to help me, Karen, you've got your arms full. How about turning on some lights so I can see what I'm doing?"

Karen ran up the steps, trying to find her key without losing her grip on the chairs and the armful of clothes. Cheryl was still crawling under the boxwood that lined the walk when Karen opened the door and stepped into the darkened hall.

Before she could reach for the light switch, something grabbed her. The attack was so unexpected that pure shock froze her for an instant-time enough for the fumbling, anonymous hands to find her throat and close around it. The door slammed shut with a crash like a rifle shot, and from somewhere in the house came the frenzied, muffled barking of a dog. Those sounds, and the thick hoarse voice whispering were all she heard before the roaring of the blood in her ears drowned out sound altogether.

Light dazzled her eyes when she forced them open. She was lying on her back staring up at the chandelier in the hall. No one else was there except Alexander. He was sitting a few feet from her, and although his eyes were invisible as usual, she deduced from his alert pose that he was staring at her. As she turned her head he let out a sharp peremptory bark and went trotting off.

Running footsteps heralded the arrival of Cheryl, breathless and pale. She knelt beside Karen.

"He got away, dammit! Are you all right? Just lie still. I called the police; they should be here any minute."

"Don't believe it." Karen clutched her throat. "I'm all right. Help me get up."

With Cheryl's assistance she staggered into the parlor and dropped onto the sofa. Cheryl peered anxiously at her.

"How about a cup of tea?"

"How about a stiff drink?" said Karen.

"Right." Cheryl went in search of refreshment and Karen rearranged her skirt, and her scattered thoughts. Physically she was not in bad shape. A lump on the back of her head and a sore spot on her throat seemed to be the extent of the damage. But for some reason she couldn't stop shaking. The sight of Alexander wandering nonchalantly around the room infuriated her.

Cheryl came back with a glass in each hand. "I could do with a little something myself," she announced. "But I'm not so sure about you. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"None. You've got all ten of them wrapped around those glasses. I don't have a concussion, Cheryl, I just bumped my head when I fell. There's nothing wrong with me except-except…"

"Shock," Cheryl said gently, steadying her shaking hand. "Here. Take it slow."

She had brought brandy-the conventional remedy for swooning females. Karen hated brandy, but she didn't say so. The beverage lived up to its reputation; after a few sips her hands stopped quivering.

She let Cheryl take the glass and then leaned back against the cushions. The color had returned to Cheryl's face; she had been as white as a bleached petticoat. Sipping her own brandy, she said, "We're going to make a great impression on the cops, both stinking of alcohol."

"Don't expect the cops to show up for a while. The weekend revelers are winding up their celebrations, and a little old break-in isn't going to impress the boys in blue."

However, it was not long before there was a vigorous pounding on the front door and Karen said in surprise, "Such enthusiasm. Cheryl, would you-"

Cheryl rose slowly. "I think maybe," she began.

"Oh, wait. Where's Alexander?"

"In the kitchen, I guess. Karen, I guess I should tell you-"

"You had better let them in before they kick the door down. I hadn't expected such zeal."

As she should have known, from the vehemence of the knocking and from Cheryl's hesitation, it was not the police. Naturally, she would call Mark, as well as the cops, Karen thought. He's her brother, after all.

There was another man with Mark, a muscular youngish man whose Hispanic ancestry showed in his olive complexion and opaque dark eyes. He was almost too handsome to be believable; one expected to see a makeup person hovering, and hear a director shout, "Ready for Take 2." A heavy mustache only partially concealed his delicate, finely cut lips. Like Mark, he was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. Compared to Mark he looked as dapper as the male model he resembled. Mark had not shaved that day and his shirt was streaked with stains. Beer stains, Karen thought, remembering Mark's habit of using a beer can as a baton, waving it in the air to orchestrate his arguments, banging it on the table to emphasize a point. He was always very apologetic when it splashed on the furniture and people's clothes…

No one spoke for a few seconds. Then, with an irritated glance at his silent, staring companion, the dark man smiled in an embarrassed fashion. "I'm Tony Cardoza-"

Karen was still shaky and disoriented. "You can't be. Tony the cop? Tony the rationalist? Tony who spends his spare time arguing about old murders?"

Cardoza's smile faltered, and Mark found his voice. "What's the matter with you, Karen?" His eyes moved to the two glasses side by side on the coffee table and his eyebrows rose. "I might have known. Sitting here getting sloshed-you never did have any head for liquor-damn it, Cheryl, don't you know better than to give alcohol to an injured person? She could be concussed, or-or-"

Karen interrupted with a yell. "Watch out! Cheryl- grab him-"

It was too late. Alexander had only hesitated for a moment because he could not decide whom to bite first. His leap was one of his best ever. He caught Mark square in the calf and hung there, slobbering and growling, while Cardoza stared and Mark swore and Cheryl burst into a peal of slightly hysterical laughter.

The police arrived shortly thereafter. Cheryl carried Alexander away in disgrace, and although Cardoza identified himself to the patrolmen, he effaced himself thereafter, following Cheryl to the kitchen. Mark sat stiff and scowling, his arms folded, while an officer took down Karen's statement. The dignity of his demeanor was only slightly marred by his scruffy cheeks and chin and by the loose flap of denim that bared a sizable patch of hairy leg.

The statement didn't take long. There was little Karen could add to the bare facts: "I walked in the door and somebody grabbed me by the throat." Mark followed the policemen out. He had not spoken to Karen since his initial outburst.

Left alone, she drowsed off, and did not awaken until she heard Cheryl say softly, "Poor baby, she's worn out. I'm going to put her to bed. Mark, could you-"

Karen's eyes popped open. "I don't need to be carried. Mark, if you dare-I'm too heavy-"

"That's okay, I've been working out." His smile recalled an old, almost forgotten joke between them. His slim build and lack of inches had caused a lot of people, including Karen herself initially, to underestimate his wiry strength. In spite of herself, her stiff lip curved in an answering smile. But she stiffened again when his arms lifted her and held her close. Mark's smile faded.