Nameless Night by G.M. Ford Read Free Book Online Page B

that world personal privacy turns out to be the price of security and. . . .”—he wagged an amused finger her way—“and you would be amazed how many of your fellow citizens are delighted to make the exchange.”
    “You listen to me—” Helen began.
    He put his face right in hers. “And thirdly . . . you need to divest yourself of the notion that you have rights here.” His breath smelled of licorice and stale coffee. “I can take this house apart piece by piece and leave it lying on the ground.” He gestured toward Ken.
    “I can hold the two of you for as long as I please . . .”—he made a gesture of dismissal—“without a warrant, without habeas corpus, without having to explain it to a living soul.”
    He flicked the piece of paper in her hand. “Would you care to explain this?”
    “It’s just a name,” she said. She started to say it. “Wesley Al—” He put a finger to her lips. “No,” he said again and then laughed in her face. “You haven’t been listening, have you?” He smiled and then directed himself to the weight lifter. “Bring her. Bring her computer. Check with the staff as to what they’ll need in order to continue in her absence . . . then—” Ken stepped in. “What absence? She’s not going anywhere with you. I’m calling my attorney. You just—” and one of the assistants had him by the elbow and was dragging him backward. Ken pulled his elbow free. Another agent grabbed his other arm. “You fascist bastards are not going to—” And then one of the agents had Ken in a chokehold and was pulling him to the floor. Ken hacked and gagged and clawed at the forearm as he was brought to his knees, mouth agape, eyes bulging from his head.
    Helen moved his way, screaming, “Stop it! Stop it!” as she tried to step around the weight lifter to get to Ken. She was a step slow. The big guy took a slide to the left and let her run into his chest. Helen bounced off and took a step backward.
    It was her worst nightmare. The knock on the door. The Kafka moment where you were accused of something and nobody would tell you what it was. The system gone wild in a universe gone mad. Maybe that’s why her resolve slipped. Why she lost it for a second and looked up, the heavenward glance as much to confirm the reality of the moment for herself as it was to see whether Paul was taking it all in. He was. His eyes met hers. She stretched her lips and mimed a single syllable word. “RUN,” she mouthed. The good news was that Paul picked it up on the first try. The bad news was that the gorilla picked up on it, too. As King Kong made a dash for the stairs, with a pair of agents hard on his heels, Paul bolted off down the hall and out of sight.
    8
    Like most grand houses of its era, the Jensen Mansion had a set of what were known as “service stairs,” a narrow zigzag of treads and risers at the extreme back of the house, running from basement to attic, a contrivance designed to provide the staff easy access to all floors and at the same time to keep the hired help out of the public sphere as much as possible, particularly inasmuch as both Winnie Jensen and Harriet Garrison had preferred to maintain the illusion of running the mammoth house on their own, gracefully as it were, without ever so much as breaking a sweat.
    Paul had the urge to lock himself in his room and pull the covers over his head, but got sane on the fly and sprinted for the door at the end of the hall, a door that was always locked from the inside . . . always . . . except he’d left it open last night when he’d come down the back stairs from Helen Willis’s room. He said a silent prayer, grabbed the knob, and turned. The metal fire door opened, and Paul stepped inside. He slid the bolt closed and waited, listening as the voices began to work their way in his direction, rattling doorknobs, demanding people open their doors, screaming questions and directions as they checked the ten rooms lining the second-floor