The younger man did not react to this abuse. He did not even seem to hear it. Watching, Jupiter wondered whether Pilcher was in the habit of insulting his friends this way.
But then Jupe heard one of the guests murmur an explanation to a companion. “The young guy is Ray Sanchez,” he said. “He’s Old Man Pilcher’s personal secretary.”
“Jobs must be scarce these days” was the second man’s dry comment.
“Upstairs!” Pilcher ordered now. “Want to go upstairs and rest. I’ll be okay in a few minutes.”
Ray Sanchez looked around at the guests. His eye fell on Pete, who stood near the buffet table in his too-small waiter’s outfit. “You,” said Sanchez. “Give us a hand, huh?”
Pete put down his tray and went to the old man’s side. He and Sanchez lifted Pilcher from his chair and began a slow, staggering progress toward the front hall where a staircase went up to the second floor. Marilyn Pilcher went ahead of them, and the guests stepped back to let them through.
Jeremy Pilcher felt like a dead weight as Sanchez and Pete lugged him up the stairs. They were both breathing hard by the time they reached Pilcher’s bedroom. It was at the front of the house where the windows looked out toward the mountains.
Sanchez and Pete eased Pilcher down onto the bed, and Marilyn bustled into the adjoining bathroom to get a glass of water for her father. When she offered the water, Pilcher just pushed the glass aside. Water splattered across the bedclothes. “Nitro!” cried Pilcher. “Where’s my nitro?”
“Right here.” Marilyn Pilcher yanked open a drawer in the bedside table and took out a prescription bottle.
“Well, open it, open it!” scolded the old man. “Don’t just stand there like a cow!”
“Dad, one of these days I’m going to get my hands on some strychnine — and then won’t you be in for a surprise!” She shook a pill into her father’s outstretched hand.
“I blocked you on that move,” said the old man. “You know good and well what’s in my will — if anything funny happens to me you’re out on your tail!”
He put the pill under his tongue and lay back.
Pete was embarrassed by this barbed exchange between father and daughter. He began to back out of the room, but Marilyn Pilcher saw and caught him by the sleeve. “You stay here with my father,” she ordered. “I have to go back to the guests. Come with me, Ray. I need you to help.”
Pete felt a prick of panic. He did not want to be left with this sick, nasty old man. “Miss Pilcher,” he protested. “I can’t. I’m supposed to be —”
“You’re supposed to be doing as you’re told.” At that moment Marilyn Pilcher sounded much like her father. “But what if he… if he stops breathing? If his heart —”
“He won’t stop breathing. It’s not a heart attack,” Marilyn said impatiently. “It’s only angina. His blood vessels have gone into spasm, that’s all. His heart isn’t getting quite enough oxygen, so he’s in pain right now, but the nitro will take care of that. It isn’t serious.”
“I wish it was you who had it!” snapped Pilcher. “You wouldn’t be so quick to say it isn’t serious.”
“Sure, Dad,” said the girl, and she turned and went out of the room.
Ray Sanchez smiled at Pete, shrugged, then went after Marilyn.
Jeremy Pilcher lay still. His eyes were closed. Pete sat down in an armchair near the bed and watched the old man. Pilcher’s face was gray except for the places where small veins made purple patterns on his skin. The nose was high and thin, the cheeks were sunken. Pete’s gaze shifted to the hands.
They were skeleton hands with the bones clearly visible through the flesh. They were crossed on Pilcher’s chest, almost as if the old man were laid out for burial.
The thought scared Pete. He looked away quickly and began to examine the room where he sat. He saw a fireplace that hadn’t been cleaned since winter; gray ash was heaped up behind the tarnished brass fender. A brass basket on the hearth held a few sticks of wood and a pile of yellowing newspapers that could serve as kindling. A model ship and a pair of dusty candles in china candlesticks decorated the mantel above the fireplace.
Pete took a deep breath. He was sure he smelled dust. He imagined it drifting from the walls and the drapes, rising like fog from the faded, stained carpeting. Did anyone ever clean in here, he wondered.
A mirror hanging over a big dresser was spotted and yellow. In places the silver had peeled away from the back of the glass. A pair of small armchairs had been set on either side of the dresser; the upholstery on the chairs was faded. So were the watercolor pictures on the walls — pictures of sailing ships and of stormy seas breaking on rocky coasts.
Everywhere there were bookcases. They lined the walls and nudged close to the dresser and crowded the chairs. They were all filled to overflowing. Pete saw paperbacks and hardcovers, small books and volumes so big they had to be put on the shelves sideways. There were papers, too, some stacked in piles, some rolled into cylinders. Here and there manila folders and big brown envelopes had been slipped in on top of the books.
Pete glanced at the bed. Old Man Pilcher appeared to be asleep. His breathing was hoarse, but it was regular and even. The skinny hands no longer clutched each other; they were open and relaxed on his chest.
Pete got up and went to one of the bookcases. He read the titles on the backs of the books. Bloody Murder was one. Another was Shark Hunter. There was a collection of stories by Edgar Allan Poe and a book titled Polaris. Pete slid it off the shelf and opened it. It was a guide for seafarers, telling how to navigate a ship by the stars.
Pilcher let out a sound that was half a groan and half a snore. Pete jumped as if he had been caught doing something forbidden. He slid the book back onto the shelf and waited, watching the old man and listening to the voices of the guests below. How long would the party go on? How long would he be stuck here watching this cranky old codger sleep?
He looked at his hands. They were smudged and dusty. Probably the bookcase hadn’t been cleaned for months or even years.
Pete went into the bathroom and closed the door. There were books here, too. They were heaped on a low table between the old-fashioned claw-foot tub and the washbasin. One was a collection of cartoons; another was a copy of a book on atomic energy. Evidently Pilcher would read anything and everything. Jupiter Jones was like that. He was a voracious reader who remembered most of what he read. But it was strange to think that Mr. Pilcher, obviously a world-class grouch, shared an interest with Jupe. Jupe might be sort of pompous and preachy at times, but he wasn’t a grouch, ever.
Pete turned on the water and began to wash his hands, using the sliver of soap from Pilcher’s soap dish.
Suddenly, sharp and clear, there came the sound of a key turning in a lock.
“Hey!” Pete grabbed a towel and flew to the door. He turned the knob and pulled. The door didn’t budge. It was locked tight.
Pete called softly, “Mr. Pilcher? Mr. Pilcher, open the door, please.”
No one answered.
Pete rattled the knob. “Mr. Pilcher?” he said more loudly.
Footsteps went away from the door. Pete put his ear to the wooden panels. He could hear the guests talking and laughing downstairs. The musicians were no longer playing. A door opened nearby and the party sounds grew louder.
“Mr. Pilcher?”
Still no one came. No one answered.
Pete felt himself getting warm with embarrassment, with fright. Was Old Man Pilcher mad because Pete was using his bathroom? Perhaps he thought Pete meant to harm him. He might have gotten confused and decided that Pete was a burglar. Had he gone to call the police?
Pete sat down on the edge of the tub and waited. If the police came, it would be okay with him. In fact he would be kind of glad to see the police about now. But then there were footsteps again. They were the same footsteps, and they were coming back to the bathroom door.
Old Man Pilcher must have decided Pete was harmless; he was coming back to unlock the door and let Pete out. But he didn’t touch the door. Instead he gasped, and Pete heard a scuffling sound as if Pilcher had stumbled, or as if he were struggling with someone just outside the door. There was a grunt, then a thud.
Pete leaped toward the door. He rattled the knob. “Mr. Pilcher?” he yelled.
At that second the rock group down in the living room burst into a number called “Baby, Why Ain’t You My Baby No More?” It was very loud, heavy on the drums, with lots of amplification.
“Mr. Pilcher?” Pete shouted, but he could scarcely hear himself. “Mr. Pilcher, are you okay?” The music thundered on.
Sweating now, near panic, Pete pounded on the door.
Pilcher didn’t respond. A heart attack! He must be having a real heart attack, and not just some kind of spasm that wasn’t important. He might be dying now, right outside the door.
“Got to get out!” cried Pete. He stamped and stamped on the floor.