But he only smiled. Not this time. You're not going to do it to me again. Never again.
He looked behind him and judged the distance. She sounded close, but he still had a chance. Quick and cat-like, he slunk down the passageway and around the corner, gripping the trigger of his gun firmly. Morris flattened himself against the wall and listened. His lungs felt ragged, but he managed to keep his breath quiet so he could hear. After a moment, footsteps tapped on the tile floors, scurrying, then stopping, as the hunt continued.
“Come on out, Morris. You know I’ll find you,” she said, a little closer this time.
He looked around the room he had entered. A spacious library, the open floor plan with a large oak table and wingback chairs did not favor concealment. Damn. Morris eyed the draperies. Long, brocade panels brushed the wood parquet. Not an ideal hiding spot, but it would have to do.
Positioning himself behind the furthest drape that still allowed access to the door, he crouched and waited.
The sound of footsteps changed from a ceramic tap to a hollow drumming as she entered the room. Then they stopped, and the sound of bare feet padding was barely audible. She’s good, Morris thought, taking off her shoes to sneak up on me.
He strained to listen, his gun at the ready. He could make out a soft creak in the wood occasionally, and her breath, in long, slow sighs as she slowed her pulse.
And then all was still, too still, like the place in the movie when the hero thinks he is safe, before the killer leaps out at him. The hair stood up on the back of Morris’ neck, as he tried to sit quietly. Running, screaming, into the night did not seem like a good plan.
"Morris," she said softly, her voice closing in on him.
He slowly opened his lips and breathed through his open mouth so she could not hear the sound his nose sometimes made when he was breathing rapidly.
His back pressed against the wall, Morris wrapped both hands around his gun to steady it. He would have only once chance to get her before she got him.
Within a heartbeat, the stillness was over and the battle resumed. A hand swept the curtain aside, revealing his location. Morris rolled to his back and shot up at his opponent. It was a direct hit, knocking her backward in surprise.
“Morris, you’re ruining my make-up,” she protested. “I wish Daddy had never given you that water pistol.”
His mother gathered him up and walked back down the hall. “Sweetie, you need to go to bed now. It’s already an hour past your bedtime.”
Morris did not want to go to bed; he fought it with every beat of his heart. But Mommy smelled of peaches and lavender and her skin invited him to lay his head against her shoulder. Her swaying movement hypnotized him, lowering his eyelids against his will. He surrendered to her charms and fell into slumber.
He felt the softness of two lips, kissing his cheek as she laid him in his crib. Tonight you may have won, he thought, but tomorrow I fight again.
The End.
