He hit his head on the Nerf ball as she ushered him in.

* * *

The police came five minutes later to dust the door and peer at the broken glass and gape at the sight of Dr. Alex Raymond calmly seated on a pile of Life magazines in the middle of the floor. Waiting until Timmie had made sure Meghan was still safe at Mattie's, they reluctantly asked Timmie if anything was missing, and agreed too quickly when she said no.

When they left, Timmie ushered a still-protesting Alex out right after them. And then, only bothering to board up her front door and take off the stiletto heels she'd pulled out for her famous date, Timmie spent close to an hour with the bat in her hand trying to knock that Nerf ball back off its line.

She was forty minutes into her therapy, her red dress hiked to her thighs and her stockings torn, when she saw the blinking light on her answering machine.

Nope. She didn't want to check it. After all, it was probably Jason calling to see if she'd checked his handiwork.

Nothing had been taken. Nothing moved. To Timmie's mind, that meant Jason. After all, if somebody'd broken in to rob her, they would have at least tried. She did have a few valuables tucked in her freezer. If it had been another one of those amateur threats, the perps wouldn't have settled for the front door.

No, it was Jason, which meant he was getting started again. He wouldn't hurt her. Jason considered violent men weaklings. His torture dujour was the subpoena, his chosen calling card the simple hit-and-run attack.

And he wanted to stay in touch with Meghan. Timmie had to get the hell to a lawyer and stop him.

When she had finished working off her rage.

Smack! A three-bagger at least, with Willie McGee trundling along the bases ahead of her.

After a while she ran out of energy. Barb called at one, and Ellen shortly thereafter, evidently having been contacted by the Mattie express. Then, finally, Cindy, who didn't understand when Timmie declined her offer to come over and sit.

"But I'm still at work," Cindy objected. "I can be right over there. I mean, my God, Timmie, you're there all alone. What if something else happens tonight?"

Timmie wasn't sure whether Cindy meant that she could help or that she didn't want to miss it. Either way, Timmie's answer was the same.

"Cindy, I lived in North Hollywood and worked in Central L.A. for almost ten years. I don't think the homeys here are quite so tough. So if everybody will stop calling, I'm going to bed."

She wasn't making Cindy happy. "I'm trying to be a good friend."

Timmie sighed, chagrined. "You are a good friend."

"I'll go right home. Call me if you need me."

"I promise." She'd made the same promise to Ellen and Barb. Maybe three promises like that was critical mass. By the time she shut off the phone Timmie had had it with just about everybody in this town. She was going to shut off the lights and go to bed and the hell with all of them.

She was halfway across the living room when she heard the creak.

The porch. The first board after the steps. It always creaked when people tried to walk too carefully on it. She knew. She'd tried to sneak past that board herself too many nights.

Her heart shouldn't thump like that. She shouldn't suddenly want to call Cindy.

It was nothing. Nobody. All those careful friends had succeeded in making her afraid, which was stupid. She'd survived more than a stupid B&E artist in a one-horse town.

Creak. Scrape.

How could silence be so loud? It seemed to roar in her ears, with only the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen to encroach on it. It was so quiet Timmie could almost hear herself sweat.

She should call for help. She didn't want to be laughed at again.

There was somebody at her front door.

Somebody who knocked.

It wasn't much of a knock. More like another series of soft scrapes. Syncopated and slow. For some reason, Timmie thought of every old urban legend, from the Hook to the hung guy with his shoes scraping the top of the lovers' car, all making slow, syncopated noises in the dead of night.

"Who's there?" she called out, feeling like an idiot.

All she had to do was check out the window. Make sure there was somebody on her porch. Call the police.

She took a step. She took another. She heard a muffled sound like a man's voice on the other side of her door. It was the Hook. She just knew it. Or worse. It was Jason, finally deciding to escalate the issue into insanity.

"What do you want?" she called more loudly, feeling really stupid now.

Timmie pulled back the curtain to check out front. She could see the porch, glossy gray flooring, clean white rails and wicker furniture. Empty sidewalk bordered by twin yellow columns of chrysanthemums. Some kind of large, lumpy shadow at her door.

"Move back so I can see you!" she yelled.

She got an answer. She just couldn't make it out. So she picked up the baseball bat and opened the front door.

And screamed.

The shadow hadn't been leaning over at her door. It had been leaning on her door. The minute she opened it, the weight forced it wide open. Timmie jumped back. A body landed on her floor with a smack and lay sprawled at her feet.

"Oh, for God's sake," she snapped in disbelief. "Murphy!"

That was when she realized that he hadn't fallen because he was drunk. He'd fallen because he was bleeding like a stuck pig.

Chapter 14

"Jesus, Murphy, what happened?"

M There was blood on his face, all down the front of his shirt, caked in his hair. There were bruises and scrapes on his knuckles, a couple of good rips in what was probably his only sports coat, and a funny catch to his breathing Timmie recognized all too well. Either Murphy had run afoul of the only grizzly in the state of Missouri, or he'd had the crap beaten out of him.

Timmie didn't even notice her nylon snag on the hardwood floor as she dropped to her knees next to him. "Murphy?"

"Nnngh."

At least he was getting his eyes open. Timmie tossed aside her bat to check his pulse. A little fast, but not thready. Not slow and bounding, which would have signaled a head injury. She lifted both eyelids to make sure his pupils were round and reactive to light. They were. Timmie also saw a spark of cognizance flickering in that deceptive green. He was in there, he just hadn't decided whether or not he wanted to make an appearance.

"Oh, Murphy!" she called as if he were a kid she wanted to come out and play. Unbuttoning his shirt and pulling his tie loose, she did a quick assessment with knowing hands to find a couple of lumps behind one ear, an impressive cut at his hairline, and more than one tender area over his left ribs and right kidney. "Come on. You got all the way to my house. Now tell me what happened."

He blew out a breath and flinched. So did Timmie. She could have stoked a Bunsen burner on that breath.

She sat back, disgusted with them both. With him for having evidently jumped off the wagon right into a bar fight and herself for feeling disappointed.

"Tell me what happened or I roll you right back out the door," she demanded, ready to get back up.

He didn't open his eyes again. "You're going to tell me... I had a drink."

"I don't think it'll come as a surprise to you."

He nodded his head fractionally and winced again. "Couldn't seem to... get here without a little painkiller."

"So you got beaten up before you got drunk?"