LITMIR.BIZ

       1.

      It was just after midnight and the last guests had gone home. Ray Shepard sat at his desk in the upstairs study, fingers pressed against his forehead. There was a dull throbbing there, a headache brought on by the combination of too much wine at the party and his wife’s bizarre exit afterwards. He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. One window was open, and through it came the sound of the spring peepers. Were they always this noisy? The sound was painfully high—sharp, almost. Ray rubbed his forehead, and this was what he knew: one minute he was sitting at his desk, wincing at the decibel level of frogs, and the next second he was—where?

      His eyes were closed. He opened them; saw that his head was pressed against the knees of his khakis. His arms gripped his shins. The plane crash position, he thought, and realized there had been some sort of crash: his ears were full of a terrible splintering sound that had just ended. He lifted his head a few inches. Across the room, the window had been smashed. The picture window, his beautiful, curved, 1864 Queen Anne picture window. Long shards of glass lay on the floor directly beneath the sill; smaller pieces had flown farther. There was glass on the desk in front of him, glass on his papers, and one large shard that jutted out from the well of typewriter keys like a small transparent iceberg.

      His Tiffany desk lamp had flown halfway across the room and landed on the rug; its pearly glass shade now hung from the bronze armature in pieces. And beside the smashed lamp lay a smooth gray rock the size of his fist. The rock looked familiar, though he could not think why. He shook his head and stood up, then had to hold onto the desk while his vision darkened, cleared again.

      Something was tickling his cheek—he brushed at his face and his palm became warm and sticky. The sight of so much blood on his hand sent a surge of adrenaline through him that cleared his mind: was whoever threw the rock going to break in? He stuck his head out the window and listened. A car—was that Evelyn, changing her mind and coming back? Or was it someone leaving? He went across the hall to the bedroom and looked out the window. The driveway was empty. Wherever his wife was, it was not here. She, at least, was safe.

      Ray went downstairs and switched on the backyard floodlights. Lit up, the lawn furniture looked slightly unreal, as if it were part of a movie set. The rock, he realized, had come from the border of his herb garden. In the bright lights, he could see the exact spot it had been; the gap in the border looked like a smile with one tooth knocked out. A soft breeze moved the tiny new leaves of the maple, but nothing else stirred. Whoever had thrown the rock had run or driven away, and he was alone.

      A drop of blood splashed on his shoes. He checked his face in the bathroom mirror. There was a lot of blood, a wet coagulated mess that began at his hairline, along his temple just where he was going gray, and then dripped down over his cheek. He washed the blood off, looked again. The cut was long and clean: a piece of flying glass must have done it, not the rock. He wrung out a washcloth and held it to his head and sat on the lip of the bathtub for a while. He was cold, and his heart was thumping so hard in his chest it was painful. It occurred to him that he should do something more than just sitting here waiting for Evelyn to return. So he called the police.

      The two officers who arrived on his doorstep seemed to have been chosen for a visual sight gag of comedic opposites: One was young, short, with dark hair and the build of a middleweight boxer. He came into the house with the eagerness of a young dog straining on a leash. The other officer was tall and weary, with thinning gray hair and watery blue eyes. He entered slowly, and once in the study, surveyed the room with an indifferent expression that made Ray think of a museum guard.

      Broken

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