House by Frank Peretti Read Free Book Online

sure?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œI can get you some more.”
    â€œNo, thanks; I’m fine.”
    Randy asked, “So you do listen to the radio?”
    â€œDon’t have one,” Stewart replied.
    â€œNo radio. No telephone either?”
    Stewart met Randy’s eyes as if challenged. “We have what we want. We don’t need what we don’t want.”
    Jack said, “Well, we could sure stand to talk to somebody in the outside world. We’ve both had our cars damaged—”
    â€œâ€”by spikes someone left in the road,” said Randy. “You did hear me mention that, didn’t you?”
    â€œ He did it,” said Betty.
    â€œWho?”
    Betty just chewed.
    â€œUm, maybe you have some neighbors nearby who might have a phone?” asked Jack.
    Betty swallowed and stood. “Let me get you some ice, sweetie.”
    â€œNo, thank you,” said Stephanie. “Really, you don’t have to; I’m fine.”
    But Betty headed for the kitchen.
    Pete pointed at Leslie again. “I want her to be my wife.”
    Leslie sighed.
    â€œYeah,” said Stewart, “she probably wouldn’t mind too much, considering where she’s been.”
    Leslie paled just a shade. “I’m taken,” she said.
    â€œMakes me wonder how many times she’s been a ‘wife’ before.”
    â€œShe’s taken,” said Randy a little louder, and Jack could see the veins and muscles in Randy’s neck restraining curses.
    â€œTaken once, taken again.”
    â€œStewart.” Randy leaned toward Stewart, gesturing with his fork as if it were a dart. “I’d like you to make it clear to your son Pete that Leslie is not interested in being his wife, and we would both appreciate it if you and he would drop this subject—and while you’re at it, try looking at something else.”
    â€œRandy, it’s oka—”
    â€œAnd just whose table are you sitting at, young man?” Stewart bristled.
    Stephanie said, “Pete, I can sing a song for you.”
    Jack and Pete looked at Stephanie. Uh-oh.
    â€œThat’s a very good question,” Randy said, rising now. “Just what kind of innkeepers don’t use matching silverware and glasses, aren’t even here when their guests arrive, don’t have a telephone . . .”
    Stephanie started singing. “Hold my hand, walk me through the darkness . . .”
    Jack hated that song too.
    â€œRandy.” Leslie put her hand over his.
    He brushed off her cautionary touch. “. . . and then put the guests to work. What kind of low-overhead excuse for an inn are you running here?”
    â€œ. . . we can make it, dear, if we make it together . . .”
    â€œAs long as your feet are under this table,” Stewart growled, “you will watch that mouth of yours or button it!”
    â€œAnd let’s talk about the cars!” Randy demanded. “Pretty strange for both our cars to be spiked not far from your establishment, don’t you think?”
    â€œ. . . we can make it through the night . . .”
    Oh, Stephanie, just stop.
    The tendons on Randy’s neck were showing. “And stranger still that you and Betty won’t say a word about it.”
    Leslie winced and touched her left cheek. Jack noticed a spot of blood. She examined the tines of her fork.
    Pete looked curiously—then hungrily—at Leslie.
    â€œAnd you think you can just help yourself to anything in this place anytime you want?” Stewart said, dropping clenched fists on the table. “Take our rooms, take our lamps, drink our tea, use our bathroom . . .”
    â€œAm I a guest here, or aren’t I?” Randy shouted. “Who do you think the rooms and lamps and tea are for? And as far as that bathroom goes—”
    Jack was in no mood to referee, but he was getting a bad taste in his mouth. He set down his silverware. “Hey, listen,