and finally he wouldn’t get out of bed. Except to go to the bathroom. I assume he would get out of bed to go to the bathroom.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“He was editing a magazine where people walked around on the moons of Jupiter, but he couldn’t get out of his own bed. And finally the men in the white coats came and took him away, and I don’t think he ever did make it back.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen to you.”
“Probably not. But I bet there are lots of people like that, never going out the door. You don’t have to in New York, you can get everything delivered.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “you know how they keep trying to sell us home delivery of the Times?”
“ ‘Available at no extra cost now for a limited time only.’ ”
“I never saw the point,” I said, “but if we’re going to stay cooped up like this, maybe I ought to call them.”
“Where are you going? Oh, to get the paper? You want to bring me . . .”
I waited, but the sentence didn’t come to an end. “Bring you what?”
“Nothing,” she said. “There’s got to be something I want, but I can’t think what it is.”
I gave her a kiss. She held on to me for a little longer than usual, then let go.
37
He is completely tuned in, perfectly focused, and he hears the turning of the lock. There are several doors closer than 14-G, but he knows that’s the one he’s just heard, and without having to think about it he flicks his wrist and opens the knife. It makes a noise equal in volume to the lock, but he knows no one will hear it, because no one is listening for it.
The door opens. Scudder? Elaine?
It is Scudder, grim-faced, and he draws the door shut, then takes a moment to look this way and that, assuring himself that the hallway is empty. If he notices the slight gap between the stairwell door and its jamb, he pays it no mind.
He turns, walks to the elevator, reaches out a finger and jabs the button. He’s wearing a short-sleeved sport shirt and a pair of dark trousers.
His shoes are canvas slip-ons.
Is he carrying a gun? His shirt’s tucked in, which suggests he’s left the gun at home.
Should he take him now? The man’s unarmed, with only his bare hands to defend against the knife. And he’s not expecting anything, either.
He’d hear the approach, though, hear his nemesis rushing the length of the hallway at him. He’d turn, he’d prepare himself, and he’d cry out to summon help. The hue and cry would certainly alert Elaine.
Still . . .
All the Flowers Are Dying
273
The elevator arrives and spares him the decision. Scudder steps inside.
The door closes and whisks him away.
Now.
He listens for a moment at the closed door. Then he draws back his fist and pounds on it.
Her voice: “What is it?”
He notes the pronoun—What, not Who. Good.
He hammers on the door again, puts his other hand in front of his mouth to muffle his voice. Lowering it to a pitch close to Scudder’s, in-fusing it with urgency, he says, “Let me in. He’s in the building, he got past the doorman. Let me in!”
Nothing but the truth, he thinks.
She’s saying something, he can’t make it out, but it doesn’t matter, because the lock is turning. The instant it begins to open he hurls himself against it and it flies back, catching her shoulder and sending her reeling.
He flings the door shut, turns to her. She’s staggering backward like a drunk in high heels. The wall stops her and she’s trying to get her balance, and her face is something right out of a horror movie, a study in terror, and he holds the knife so she can see it.
Oh, this is going to be lovely . . .
She reaches into a pocket of the robe, comes up with a gun. Holds it in both hands, points it his way.
“Now put that down,” he says, his voice ringing with authority. “You little fool, put that down this minute.” She’s shaking, trembling violently. He takes a confident step toward her, speaking gently to her, telling her to put the gun down, that her only chance is calm cooperation. It’s going to work, he knows it’s going to work, and—
She pulls the trigger.
He feels the punch of the bullet before his ears register the sound of the gunshot. It hits him high on the left shoulder, and he knows at once that it’s broken the bone. There must be pain, and doubtless there will be eventually, but the pain hasn’t come yet.
274
Lawrence Block
He rushes her. The gun’s pointing at the ceiling, the recoil must have elevated it, but she’s lowering it, bringing
