Soft yellow light was spilling through the sliding glass doors. A silhouette darkened the panel I’d left open. Not tall, not short. Holding a long, slender object with both hands.
My body began to mainline adrenaline.
Moving as gingerly as I had with the bird, I stepped toward my chair. Toward my mobile.
Suddenly, I was choking, hard steel pressing my throat. I felt myself lifted off the tile. Not much, maybe an inch. But enough. I couldn’t inhale. Couldn’t get traction under my bare feet.
“You and your friends have been busy,” a voice whispered in my ear.
“Let me go,” I rasped.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?”
“Please.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
I felt myself jerked upward and backward. Dragged inside and thrown onto the bed. My attacker’s body fell heavy on my back.
It wasGroundhog Day, island style.
“Go ahead. Scream for help.” Did I recognize the voice? “Your friends aren’t coming.”
“I won’t.” Barely choked out.
“Good answer.”
“Can’t breathe.”
The pressure on my trachea was replaced by the hard steel of a gun muzzle jammed to my temple.
“I’m going to step back and you’re going to sit up. Don’t try anything funny. I’ve got nothing more to lose by spraying your brains on that wall.”
I nodded.
The weight shifted from my back.
Chest pounding, I palmed myself up and turned.
Unlike the night of the previous attack, this time I had light. Dim, but sufficient to recognize my assailant.
I forced myself to breathe evenly to slow my heartrate. To hide my shock.
Joe Benjamin was holding a Beretta 92 pistol in his right hand, a slender, curved sword in his left, the smaller of the Samurai pair I’d seen on his shelf.
Throat on fire, I forced myself to swallow.
“The blade of your wakizashi is damaged,” I squeaked.
“What do you know about my Daisho?”
“You have the traditional duo, a large katana and a smaller wakizashi, the one you’re holding. That one is damaged.”
“How could you know that?” Benjamin asked, dumbfounded.
“I saw them on your shelf.”
“How could you know my wakizashi is damaged?”