She winced. “I remember now. And the engine was still running, wasn’t it? I tried to get up and passed out.”

“That’s about the size of it,” I said.

She looked up at me and shook her head. “I think you’re out of focus. You look like Spartacus, and sound like Sergeant Friday. Who are you, and how’d you get in here?”

“My name’s Foley,” I said. “And I broke in.”

“Oh. Then you must be the one they’re looking for. Those roadblocks out on the highway.”

“Are they searching the cars?”

“Just slowing them down, I think, and looking in. I was too busy being sober to pay much attention.”

I held out the coffee again. She drank a little more of it. “Why are they looking for you?” she asked.

“They think I killed a policeman.”

She glanced up quickly. “Oh. I think that was in the paper this morning. Something about a fight.”

“That’s it,” I said. I set the coffee on the dresser. “How do you feel now?”

“Terrible. But thanks for pulling me out of there. You saved my life, such as it is.”

“Is anybody meeting you here?” I asked.

“No. Why?”

“I had to know. Is this your cottage?” She nodded.

“Then you’re Suzy Patton?”

“That’s right. Suzy Patton, the has-been. The written-out writer.”

I wondered if she were still drunk. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” she said. “It’s something an ex-writer never attempts to explain to a non-writer. There’s no language, if you follow me.”

”I probably don’t,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter. Just keep quiet, and don’t try to call the police or get out of here.”

“Are you trying to threaten me?” she asked.

“Don’t get tough,” I told her. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I’ll tie you up if I have to.”

“What do you expect to gain by that?”

“Time. If I can hide out long enough, they may think I’ve got away, and I can get out.”

She had clear gray eyes that didn’t seem to be afraid of much of anything.