Could she move her legs?
Could her body respond, if she tried to throw herself off the far side of the bed? Could she—
The blade flicked; the hand tensed. The knife was turning aside. The white-fisted hand was moving away from her. His foreshortened arm swung toward the open bedroom door. Had a sound come from the hallway? Was Josh out there? As the murderer’s shoulder turned toward the hallway, his face caught the dim light from the hall. He was—
Leonard
Leonard, the stockboy
Leonard Talbot, who seldom spoke, could hardly lift his eyes. Leonard, who never smiled. Funny Leonard.
Had he heard her sharply catch her breath?
The knife was moving again, returning to hover just above her face. Now his hand was once more steady; his features were once more lost in shadow, invisible.
Suddenly her eyes were tear-flooded. Her body was convulsed, wracked by a spasm of sobbing that tore at her throat, jerked spasmodically at her legs, doubled her torso as she wailed:
“Leonard! Please, not me. Please, Leonard. Not—”
A figure loomed in the doorway, leaping into the room.
“Joanna! Get out!” It was Kevin’s voice.
As the knife slashed down, she heard herself screaming, felt her body whipping, bucking, struggling toward the far edge of the bed. Savage hands clutched at her naked flesh, clawing. As she rolled, she saw the knife flash up, down, up again. Other voices were mingled with hers, all screaming. Had the knife found her? Where was the pain? Flailing, her arm struck the far wall. Her legs were—
She was falling, finally free.
But as she fell, she felt darkness closing in, surrounding her. She was tumbling into a long, endless void.
Would Josh obey him?
He couldn’t look back—couldn’t risk turning his head. Crouched, Kevin was advancing down the hallway, keeping close to the wall, on the left side. He was beyond the bathroom, within a few feet of Joanna’s open door. From inside the darkened bedroom he could hear her speaking in a dull, terror-numbed monotone. Had she been speaking steadily, since the first moment he’d arrived beneath her window? How long had she been trying so desperately to soothe the monster that threatened her? Had she—
Underfoot, a floorboard squeaked—a sharp, sudden wood-shriek. Clutching the bat, he stood motionless, flattened against the wall as he strained to see into the darkness beyond her door. In the glow of the night light, he was exposed, helpless. If the murderer had a gun and shot from inside the bedroom, he’d be—
“Leonard! Please, not me.” It was Joanna, wailing. The safety of silence was shattered. She knew her attacker, was threatening him with her screams. In an instant, she could die.
“Please, Leonard. Not—”
“Joanna! Get out!”
He was leaping for the doorway. On the bed, Joanna’s naked body was rolling away, toward the far wall. Above her, a knife flashed up, down. A rectangle of window light falling across the bed revealed blood on the sheets, blood streaking her body. A dark-clad figure arched across the bed above her. The knife was gleaming, raised high, poised. As she tumbled to the floor, the knife flashed down. Her screams died.
The bat swung, striking the figure across the small of the back. Falling face down, the figure writhed, twisted, flailed. As the murderer twisted to come face up on the blood-stained bed, the knife slashed upward in a wide, deadly swath. Legs bunched, the murderer was struggling to rise and attack him. From beyond the bed where Joanna had fallen, there was no sound, no movement. Nothing.
“You bastard. You son of a bitch. You killed her.” As the knife slashed again, he swung the bat at the motion-blurred arm. The wood of the bat crashed into the flesh of the forearm. As bone snapped, the intruder screamed. Against the wall, metal clattered. It was the knife, falling.
“You son of a bitch. You goddamn murderer.” As the bat rose and fell, crashing once, twice, three times across the pale, contorted face, he realized that the obscenities he screamed were strangled in helpless sobs. A wash of tears clouded the image of the blood-flecked face that now lay on the bed, eyes closed.
The obscenities were hysterical whispers now, garbled by a querulous, meaningless mumbling. Exhausted, sobbing for breath, he gripped the bat with both hands, raising it for the final blow.
She was looking into a strange face, into a stranger’s eyes.
“Lie still, Mrs. Rossiter.” As the stranger spoke, a small flashlight moved elliptically above her. “Keep your eyes open. That’s it. Look over my shoulder.”
It was a doctor’s voice. Unmistakably, it was a doctor’s voice. As she looked up at the ceiling, she saw that the bedroom was lighter. Someone had switched on the lamp. She could hear the sound of voices—a garbled, busy murmuring of many voices.
Voices?
Who could witness her nakedness?
With great effort, she arched her neck, looked down at herself. A gray woolen blanket was tucked decorously beneath her chin. It was an institutional blanket—a hospital blanket.
Was she in a hospital, not her bedroom? Were the ceilings the same? Who were these strangers, then, crowding around her? Where had she—
The remembered images of the gleaming sliver of steel flashed like fire before her eyes. She’d been in bed, hysterically whispering. In the doorway she’d seen Kevin—heard his voice, shouting. At the sound, Josh would have—
Josh
Struggling, she couldn’t move. Her arms, her legs were helpless, immobilized.
“I don’t want you to move, Mrs. Rossiter.” With the flashlight gone, she could see the doctor’s face. It was a young, fleshy face with thick brown eyebrows and a matching brown moustache. The eyes were brown too. Brown and serious.
“Wh—where’s Josh? My boy?”
“He’s in the next room, with your husband. They’re all right. And you’re all right too. But you’re going to the hospital. Do you understand? You’ve had a shock, and you’ve lost some blood. So you’re going to the hospital.”
“But my—my arms.”
“You’re in a gurney, Mrs. Rossiter. You’re strapped in. I don’t want you moving around until we can X-ray you. Now, I want you to close your eyes and lie back. Because you’re going to sleep.”
“My—my husband, though. And Josh. What—”
“You’ll see them in the morning, Mrs. Rossiter. Now put your head back. Close your eyes.” Saying it, the voice was stern. It was safe, then, to close her eyes and surrender to the slow, stately spinning that was beginning around her. It was like a merry-go-round, just beginning—a roundabout circling of people and mirrors and walls, all of them slowly gathering momentum, whirling around her.
“No, Josh.” He drew the boy gently away from the closed bedroom door. “I don’t want you to go inside. Not now. Mommy’s all right. But she—”
“But I want to see her.” The boy’s pale, anguished face was tear-streaked as he twisted to stare at the closed door. “I don’t know what they’re doing.”
“They’re bandaging her back and her shoulder, where Tarot cut her with his knife. And they’re going to give her a shot, to—”
“A shot?” The boy’s eyes, turned toward him, were gravely accusing. “A shot?”
“To keep her quiet, Josh—to let her sleep. It’s because she’s had a bad shock. And shock can be very dangerous. So they want her to go to sleep. And when she wakes up, she’ll feel better.”
“Will they take her to the hospital?”
“For tonight, yes. Just for tonight. Tomorrow, though, we’ll probably be able to bring her home. Now—” He circled the boy’s shoulders, drawing him toward his own room. “Now, I want you to go into bed, Josh. I’ve got to talk to the policemen, just for a few minutes. And then I’ll bring the sleeping bag and the air mattress into your room, and I’ll sleep on the floor beside your bed.”
“All night?”
“All night.”
Step by step, Josh reluctantly allowed himself to be led down
the hallway. It was a half-hour since the first policeman had arrived, and more than fifteen minutes since they’d taken Tarot away. Yet the apartment was still crowded with uniformed patrolmen, detectives, photographers, and reporters. Connoly had arrived just moments before, and had gone immediately into Joanna’s room, closing the door behind him.
At the doorway to his own room, Josh stopped, solemnly staring at the technician who was dusting the kitchen for fingerprints.
“Tarot cut right through our bolt, Daddy.”
Suddenly struggling with the tittering beginning of half-hysterical laughter, he dropped to his knees. He was hugging his son. “Don’t worry about it, Josh. We’ll put on another bolt. Believe me, we’ll put on another bolt. Tomorrow. After we bring Mommy home, and put her to bed and make her some—some soup, or something, then we’ll put on another bolt. And then we’ll—”
Josh’s arms came close around his neck, drawing their faces together. It was the same silent, spontaneous embrace they’d shared earlier in the evening—hours, eons ago. But now there was no sadness. There was only a fierce, possessive pride—a commitment, and a command. This gesture could never be denied.
“You’re a good fighter, Daddy. But you sure did swear.”
Risking tears, he threw back his head and let himself laugh.
Thursday Morning
JOSH, SEATED BESIDE HIM, was vigorously swinging his legs forward and back above the gleaming gray linoleum of the hospital corridor. Impatiently, Kevin glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes ago, a nurse had told them that it would be “just a little while.” Since then, Josh had been to the bathroom twice and the candy machine once. Now, short on sleep, Josh was crankily asking when he could see his mother.
“It can’t be too much longer, Josh.” He hesitated, then decided to say, “Do you want another bag of chocolate-covered peanuts?”
“Yes.” Immediately the boy was on his feet, hand outstretched.
As he handed over a dime and a nickel, Kevin saw the squared-off figure of Sergeant Connoly coming toward them. Already, the detective’s rolling, bandy-legged gait was familiar to him. Had it only been two days?
Also seeing the detective, Josh remained motionless, staring open-mouthed. Between Connoly’s cops-and-robbers appeal and the lure of chocolate-covered peanuts, there was no contest.
“Good morning.” It was a gravely official greeting. But, looking down at the boy, Connoly’s expression softened. “Hi, Josh.”
Swallowing, Josh finally managed, “Hi.”
“Do you, ah…” Connoly looked toward the far end of the waiting room. “Do you mind if I talk to your father for a few minutes, Josh?”
As Josh began to frown dubiously, Kevin said, “You can go get your peanuts, Josh. Then sit over there.” He pointed. “Just for a while.”
Plainly reluctant, Josh moved away at a slow, foot-dragging pace.
“Nice boy,” Connoly said, sitting in Josh’s chair. “He reminds me of my kid at that age—very serious.”
“How old is your boy?”
“Twenty-six. He’s a veterinarian. They make more money than doctors, it turns out.”
“Oh.” He hesitated, then added, “Good.”
“How’s Mrs. Rossiter?”
“I haven’t seen her yet, but the doctor says she’ll be as good as new. There were muscles cut, but no nerves or tendons or veins. I talked to her an hour ago, on the phone.”
“Were you able to clean up the bedroom?”
“I’m having the blankets and sheets cleaned. But we’ll have to get a new mattress, I’m afraid.”
“Too bad.” Connoly paused. Then, with the air of someone getting down to business, the detective said: “I’ve just come from the County Hospital. Talbot’s still unconscious. He’s in a coma.”
A coma—
Brain damage. Death, possibly.
Which blow had done it? Was it the two-handed blow—the one that crashed into the killer’s skull with the wet, hollow sound of a melon splitting?
Realizing that Connoly was watching him, he sharply shook his head, as if to dispel the memory of that final blow—the memory that would never leave him.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Connoly was saying. Speaking slowly and deliberately, Connoly studied the floor between his blunt-toed shoes as he continued: “It’s something that every policeman thinks about, believe me. But I saw your wife, last night. And I saw Grace Hawley, when Tarot finished with her. And I can tell you that you did the right thing last night. You didn’t even have the option of calling us, maybe. Don’t, ah, quote me, but—” Connoly cleared his throat before admitting, “but if you’d called us and we’d come busting in, your wife might’ve been killed. So you did the right thing. What’s more, it’s something that not many husbands would’ve done. They all say they would. Everybody’s a hero over a couple of beers. But that’s just talk. Doing it—going in—that’s something else. So you can be proud. Believe it.”
Remembering his nausea and his violently shaking knees during the endless moment that he tried to summon the courage to leave the darkness of the kitchen and step into the half-lit hallway, Kevin nodded. “I believe it.”
In silence, the two men watched Josh return to the waiting room, passing them with reproachful eyes as he went to the room’s far corner. The boy’s mouth was chocolate-smeared. Kevin futilely searched his pockets for a handkerchief. Before they saw Joanna, he must find the men’s room and get—
“There’s one thing,” Connoly said, “that I think you should keep in mind.”
“What’s that?” As he asked the question, he was aware of a sudden backwash of weariness. He’d hardly slept last night. Even with a pill, he’d hardly slept. Now his body ached. And, still, the memory of the ball bat crashing into the blood-smeared head wouldn’t leave him.
“Well, the D.A.’s going to want to question you, probably today. And when he does—” Again Connoly judiciously cleared his throat. “When he does, there’s one thing you want to think about.”
Turning to look squarely at the detective, alerted by the warning note in the other’s tone, he waited.
“What you want to keep in mind,” Connoly continued tonelessly, “is that Tarot was coming after you. Not your wife, but you. And that’s why you hit him—and kept hitting him. You had to put him out or he would’ve killed you. And that’s what you did.”
“But I don’t see what—”
“If you get a lawyer, which isn’t a bad idea, he’ll tell you that, legally, you’re only justified in using deadly force in order to save yourself from a more deadly force. Understand?”
“I’m afraid not.”
The detective’s hands jerked impatiently. “This guy could die, Mr. Rossiter. Now, it doesn’t matter that he’s already killed at least two women. Which, incidentally, we might have trouble proving, provided he recovers. And it doesn’t matter that he attacked his own mother yesterday, and left her for dead. What does matter—to you—is that you don’t want to get yourself in the position of having taken the law into your own hands. You don’t want the D.A. to get the idea that, to save your wife, you tried to kill Tarot. Because if you get yourself in that position, you’ve got problems. Believe me, you’ve got problems—Good Samaritan problems, which can be the worst kind. So what I’m telling you is that, if you tried to kill him in order to protect yourself from getting killed, then you’re in good shape. But if you killed him to protect your wife, or maybe to punish him for trying to kill your wife, then that’s something else. Legally you’re—”
“Mr. Rossiter.” It was the nurse, standing beside him.
“Yes?”
“You can see your wife now.” She was smiling at him. It was a clinical, institutional smile. She gestured down the hallway. “It’s room 307.”
“Thanks.” As he rose to his feet, Connoly rose with him. Across the room, Josh was also on his feet. With his hand raised to beckon the boy to him, Kevin hesitated. Then, turning to Connoly, he said softly, �
��Will you keep Josh with you for a minute, Sergeant? There’s something I’ve got to say to my wife. Alone.”
“It would be a pleasure, Mr. Rossiter.” As he said it, the detective smiled. It was a wide, warm smile that unaccountably transformed Connoly’s face, reconnecting habitual downcast wrinkles and creases into a new, upturned network of cheerful, almost grandfatherly geniality. “It would be a real pleasure. Believe it.”
“I believe it,” he answered quietly, returning the other man’s smile. As they shook hands, he was conscious of a special strength in Connoly’s grip.
You can be proud, Connoly had said, expressing his cop’s cryptic, man-to-man tribute.
Doing it—going in—that’s something else.
It was a good, authentic-sounding line. Someday, maybe, he could use it.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1976 by Collin Wilcox
Cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4804-4655-7
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Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
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