himself. He had Jessup’s throat again with one hand, and one of Jessup’s wrists with the other, and he was slowly forcing Jessup onto his back, pushing him backward and over and down. Jessup’s free hand punched out, the punches growing both wilder and frailer, and Parker tucked his head down to protect his face and bore Jessup steadily backward, and down, and flattened him on the floor. Then knelt on the wrist he’d been holding, freeing his other hand. But this time didn’t waste effort with fists; he put the second hand with the first, on Jessup’s throat, and clamped them there, and wouldn’t move.
Jessup kicked, and clawed with his free hand at the fingers around his throat, and scratched at Parker’s face and neck and arms. Parker knelt over him, one knee on Jessup’s wrist, the other leg stretched out behind himself for balance, and leaned his weight on his arms, outstretched, a straight line from his shoulders to Jessup’s throat, the weight of his body and the tightness of his grip pinning Jessup in place and holding the breath from his lungs.
Light. Orange-gray, faint, flickering. Parker saw it reflected in Jessup’s bulging eyes, and looked up to see the doorway framed with orange-yellow light, and then Manny padded forward into the doorway, barefoot, wearing only his slacks, carrying in his unwounded left hand the Chianti bottle with the candle in it, and in his right hand—despite the wound in that shoulder—a small pistol; it looked like a .22, a ladies’ purse gun.
Manny was smiling. His face seemed to flicker like the candlelight, his eyes grew larger and smaller, and moisture on his chin reflected the light like chrome.
If he’d been feeling anything at all, he wouldn’t have been able to hold the gun like that, or bend his arm like that.
His voice was very gentle, lamblike, the sweet child: “Let him go.”
At first, Parker didn’t move. Jessup was weakening beneath him, it would be a help to have at least one of them out of the play. He looked back at Manny, standing there in the doorway, and from the corners of his eyes he tried to find something to throw. To get rid of the light. In the darkness, they’d be more equal.
But there was nothing. This was a teenager’s bedroom—from the walls, rock posters gyrated in the candlelight—and the center of the floor was empty. A chair and small table that had been nearby were now kicked away into the corner by the bed, leaving nothing close enough to reach in a single lunge.
“Bang bang,” said Manny gently. He made a small lifting motion with the gun barrel. Get up, he was saying, or be shot where you are.
Parker moved, very slowly, shifting his weight back to his knees from his hands, but keeping the fingers clamped tight around Jessup’s throat till the last second. Jessup’s eyes were rounding out from his head, filming over. His hands had fallen to the floor on either side of his head. His legs were moving, but without purpose, like a dog when he dreams in his sleep.
Parker released him at last, and leaned back on his haunches. He kept watching Manny, because Manny was the danger now, but he remained aware of Jessup, who at first didn’t change his position, just continued to lie there on his back with his legs twitching. Then Jessup made a loud harsh grinding noise in his throat, and his whole body flopped like a fish: air, finding its way back into his body again.
Manny smiled sweetly at Jessup, as though Jessup had just done something cute and clever for his benefit. “There we are,” he said. “You’re all right now.”
But Jessup wasn’t all right. His own hands were at his throat now, and his mouth was open wide. His eyes still bulged, and his face was still mottled dark, and his tongue was still too thick in his mouth. Parker’s weight leaning on him like that had done him some damage; the regular channel for air was at least partially blocked.
Parker slowly moved the leg on the side opposite Manny, lifting the knee and getting his foot under himself, so he’d have more impetus if he had to make a sudden movement anywhere. Manny was concentrating most of his attention on Jessup now, and Parker kept the rest of his body still, his face turned toward Manny, his arms hanging down at his sides.
Manny’s expression, dulled and stupid-looking and childish, was gradually shifting from the smile of happiness to a puzzled frown. He said, “Jessup? You are okay, aren’t you?”
Jessup went on making the sounds. They were like dry heaves, only worse.
“We’d better get you a doctor,” Manny said. He was the follower, and the idea of losing his leader terrified him. “We’d better get you a doctor right away.”
Parker’s left foot was on the floor now, and he lifted his left hand and rested it on his knee.
Manny frowned at Parker. “I ought to shoot you,” he said poutingly. “I ought to shoot you in the balls.”
“You couldn’t carry him,” Parker said. “And he can’t walk. And you want to get him to a doctor.”
Manny’s frown deepened; he was working his way through the brambles of what Parker had said. ” You carry him,” he said. “That’s better, you can help fix things again. You pick him up and carry him.”
Parker reached down and slid one arm under Jessup’s shoulders and one under his knees.
Manny said, “And you be careful with him. If you hurt him, I’ll hurt you.”
Parker lifted Jessup into his arms, and then got to his feet. Jessup was still making the noises, but with long dry spaces of silence between them; then another grinding rasping intake of breath, and silence, and another tearing abrasive exhalation.
Manny backed out of the doorway as Parker approached him. Parker turned sideways to get Jessup through the doorway, and Manny moved back and to his left and gestured for Parker to go first down the stairs.
Jessup’s breathing started to get easier on the way down. With Manny three or four steps behind him, with no light but the candle, it was possible for Parker to reach his left hand around and close it over Jessup’s windpipe again. But this time he,didn’t want Jessup dead, not yet.
Jessup’s life was protecting his own right now. He simply didn’t want Jessup improving.
Manny was cautious and alert, within his limitations, but his limitations were severe. Parker had three chances at him before they left the house, going out the same back door they’d all entered by, but he didn’t want to take over from Manny yet. Manny didn’t know it, but he was helping Parker solve his problems.
The next step Manny came to on his own, without suggestions: “We’ll take your car,” he said when they’d gone outside. He blew out the candle and threw the Chianti bottle away; it hit grass, and didn’t break. “You’re the son of a bitch, this is all your fault, we can take your car.
