Comes a Horseman Read Online Free PDF Page A

globs of paint on her palette. Her mouth skewed with the admission. At least it was true that her artwork could be found in bathrooms all over the world, thanks to the propagation of online trading. So what if that claim represented only a few hundred sales, each barely enough to purchase a decent meal? Fewer people knew her name than, say, Julia Roberts’s, but now you were talking about matters of degree. She nodded at that and dabbed splotches of orange around bloodred flames.
    Her head jerked up at a sound from the back bedrooms. She listened but heard only the crackle of the fire. Outside noises were rare this far back from the road, which itself was dirt and infrequently traveled. Occasionally a salesman would find his way to the secluded homes that dotted the wooded foothills west of town, but not at—she looked at the clock on the mantel—not at 11:20 at night. And she would have noticed headlights if a car had driven up the drive. She concluded that the fire had simply made a peculiar noise and turned back to her craft.
    She set the brush aside and held the wastebasket in both hands, one underneath and one inside. Turning it away from the harsh light of the floor lamp beside her, she let the fire’s glow play against the glistening scene she had created. She nodded. “Snot rags today, the Louvre tomorrow,” she said aloud and jumped. Another noise—just as the last syllable had rolled off her tongue. A quiet scrape, like a window being opened or a shoe scuffing against the hardwood floor.
    Slowly she lowered the wastebasket to the floor and narrowed her eyes at the entrance to the hall that accessed the rear of the house. It was a dark rectangle in the corner of the room. She unraveled her legs and rose, grimacing at the achiness of her thighs and the pain in her lower back. Out of habit, she silently cursed her ex, the good-for-nothing who’d taken her best years and then moved on just as Cynthia was coming to understand that middle age paused for no amount of wrinkle cream or tummy scrunches. She guessed that he’d come to that conclusion sooner than she had. At least she was getting the house.
    She took a step toward the hall. The noise that reached her at that moment was more puzzling than frightening: a light click, click, click, click, click, click— quick and growing louder. Whatever was causing the sound was coming down the hall toward the living room.
    The telephone behind her rang, and her heart careened against her chest; a mousy yelp escaped her. Frozen, she stared at the dark hallway entrance. Silence . . . which the phone’s second ring shattered along with Cynthia’s nerves. Keeping a vigil on the doorway, she backed to the end table, groped for the handset, and raised it to her face.
    â€œHello?” she whispered.
    â€œCynthia! I didn’t see you at church Sunday.” The voice was whiny, as if Cynthia’s absence had been a personal affront. It was Marcie, a quasifriend who needed constant assurance from her acquaintances that they still thought highly of her, regardless of the time. “I brought you that book that we—”
    â€œI think there’s someone in the house.”
    â€œWhat? In your house? Someone’s there?”
    â€œI think someone broke in.” She pulled her eyes from the hall entrance to scan the room for something that could be used as a weapon.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œI said I think.”
    â€œCan you hear them? Are they moving around?”
    â€œI heard . . . I think I heard nails . . . claws clicking against the floor.”
    â€œA bear!” Marcie lived in town.
    â€œNot a bear, Marcie. A dog, maybe.”
    â€œA dog? Oh my heavens!”
    Cynthia could imagine Marcie’s next five calls: “ Cynthia Loeb thinks a dog broke into her home. And she didn’t attend church on Sunday. The poor thing’s not well.”
    â€œShould I call the police?”
    The