“Oh my dear God.”
Alison heard a quiet clatter. She looked over her shoulder. Dr. Teal’s cane was clamped between his knees. He held the pale handset of the wall phone and spun the dial. “Police emergency,” he said, his voice as firm and vibrant as if he were standing at the lectern in a hall packed with enthralled students. He waited a few moments, then said, “We have bloody murder at 364 Apple Lane, and the cur is among us. Get here immediately.” He hung up the phone.
“Come away from the door,” he ordered.
Alison backed away, unwilling to take her eyes from the windows. She halted when the professor’s hand curled gently over her shoulder.
“It’s all right now, darling. He won’t hurt you. The police will be here shortly, I’m sure.”
“He killed Helen,” she said. Her voice came out squeaky and tears filled her eyes.
Professor Teal patted her shoulder. “Stay here.” He slipped past her. He walked toward the door, his cane swinging at his side like a nine iron. Glass crunched under his slippers. He eased the door open.
“Maybe you shouldn’t do that,” Alison whispered.
Ignoring her, he leaned outside. His head turned, tilted back. Then he brought his head back through the opening and looked around at Alison. “You say that you injured him?”
“I…gouged one of his eyes.”
“Bully for you. Perhaps you incapacitated the rotter, I’ll bash his head to pulp if…what about Celia?”
“She’s not home.”
“Thank God for that.”
“I don’t know. I’m…I think maybe he got her last night.”
“Dear God, no.”
“She went on a date with his roommate and never came home.”
“Two of my girls. Two of my sweet, darling…oh, he shall pay dearly, dearly…” Professor Teal threw the door open wide and stepped out.
“No!” Alison yelled.
She ran after him, leaped the area of broken glass, and came down on the flagstone outside the door. Professor Teal was already at the bottom of the stairway. “Wait inside,” he told her.
“Wait for the cops!” Alison cried out. “Please!”
Ignoring her, he began to trot up the stairs. Alison darted beneath the stairway, reached between the risers, and grabbed the old man’s ankle.
“Unhand me!”
“He’ll kill you, too!”
“We shall see about that.” He tried to shake his foot free.
Alison almost lost her grip. She wrapped her other hand around the man’s bony ankle and hung on.
Brakes screamed. Through the gap in the stairs, Alison saw a squad car lurch to a stop, red and blue lights spinning. A man raced around the front of the car. He pulled a pistol from his holster and he ran straight over the lawn toward Alison.
“You win,” the professor said.
She didn’t trust him. She kept her grip on his ankle until the policeman jangled to a stop, crouched, aimed at him, and shouted, “Freeze, cocksucker, or I’ll blow your fucking brains from here till yesterday!”
“He’s not the one!” Alison yelled.
She stepped out from under the stairway.
Professor Teal turned around slowly. “I am the owner of this house,” he said. “We have every reason to believe that the killer is upstairs.”
“Who’d he kill?”
“My roommate,” Alison said. “And he tried to get me.”
“Is he armed?” asked the burly policeman.
“I don’t know. Not that I saw.”
“He’s still up there?” Without waiting for an answer, he started up the stairs. Professor Teal stepped out of his way and came down as the officer continued to the top.
Alison went to the professor’s side and put an arm around his back.
“Silly old bear,” she said.
He smiled sadly.
They both flinched as a gun blast shocked the night. Alison’s head jerked sideways. She saw Roland at the top of the stairs, arms out. The policeman flopped backward over the rail, yelling with alarm, flapping through the air. His yell stopped short when he hit the ground. For a moment, he seemed to be performing a weird headstand, legs kicking at the sky. Then he toppled. He lay on his back, twitching. There was a knife in his chest.
Roland, at the top of the stairs, turned slowly. He was no longer naked. He wore jeans and an open shirt. The left side of his face was slicked with red from his empty socket, red that dribbled onto his shirt and chest. With zombielike slowness, he lifted his left hand to study it with his one eye. The policeman’s bullet hadn’t missed Roland completely. Alison saw that his forefinger was gone entirely. His middle finger dangled by a strip of flesh, swinging like a pendulum. He clutched it with his other hand, tore it loose, and sailed it down at Alison like a blunt dart. It dropped into the grass at her feet.
He began to descend the stairway.
Professor Teal pushed Alison away and stepped almost casually to the foot of the stairs. He raised his cane overhead, prepared to strike when Roland came into range.
Alison rushed toward the policeman. He looked dead. She pictured him falling. Had he been holding the revolver? She didn’t know. But it was not in either of his hands. She scurried around his body, trying to find the gun.
Where
She looked toward the stairway in time to see Roland leap. He dove from high above Professor Teal. The old man swung his cane at the flying body. It missed Roland’s head and broke across his shoulder. Roland slammed the professor to the ground.
Alison jerked the knife from the policeman’s chest, whirled and ran at the sprawled, struggling men. Roland hammered the professor’s nose with a fist. He rolled off. He was on his back, pushing himself up with his right arm. He raised his injured hand as if signaling Alison to halt.
Alison flung herself onto him. He fell back. He tried to push her away, fingers and stumps thrusting at her face. She drove the knife down hard. Roland squealed. Then his right hand clubbed her ear. Stunned by the impact, she felt herself being shoved off him. On her side, she saw Roland grab the knife handle. The blade had pierced his left nipple, but it hadn’t gone deep. A rib must’ve stopped it. Roland yanked the knife free.
His ravaged hand reached for Alison.
She rolled, scurried to her feet, and ran.
She ran for the street.
The dewy grass was slippery, but she ran all out, sprinting, flinging her legs out with long quick strides, pumping her arms. The loose cuff on the end of its chain whipped across her knuckles, her forearm, sometimes lashed her side or breast.
She heard Roland gasping and whimpering behind her. Not very far behind her. She didn’t dare to look.
Faint white plumes puffed from the exhaust pipe of the police car.
One foot pounded the sidewalk. The other foot landed in the grass at the other side. She sprang from the curb, rushed past the front of the car. Turning, she glanced over her shoulder. Roland hit the hood belly-first and slid across it, teeth bared, ruined hand reaching for her, knife clenched in his other hand. Alison spun away from the reaching hand. Its two fingertips grazed her belly. Stumbling backward, she grabbed the handle of the driver’s door.
She jerked open the door, leaped inside, and slammed the door shut while Roland was squirming off the hood. The window was open. She started to crank it up. Roland stumbled toward her. The glass slid higher. He stabbed. His knife blade pounded the window and skittered down with a grating whine like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Alison released the emergency brake.
