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Holding the stake two-handed like a dagger, Fowler dropped on him. Garreth
caught Fowler's wrists with the point bare inches from his chest. With every
ounce of his evaporating strength, he struggled to hold it there . . . long
enough to lash up with his good leg and sink the toes in Fowler's groin.
Fowler curled up into a squeaking ball of agony and toppled sideways.
Garreth rolled one more time to throw an arm around Fowler's throat. The choke
hold tightened. Fowler went limp.
Now, tit for tat, quid pro quo. Getting even. Garreth dug through Fowler's
pockets. There was his gun. He shoved that back in its holster. And there was
the perfume dispenser. He dropped that in his pocket, too. Then here was what
he really wanted . . . more cable ties. Heaving Fowler over onto his stomach,
Garreth secured both wrists and ankles with the ties.
If he could breathe, he would have sighed in relief. Now he could strip off
this coat and- But the thought cut off there. He found he could not sit up.
His strength had all run out. Maybe his blood, too. It seemed to be
everywhere, soaking his trousers, soaking his coat and turtleneck, streaking
the hardwood floor.
He closed his eyes. Rest. That was what he needed. At sunset he would feel
better. Surely by then the garlic would have dispersed enough for him to start
breathing again.
Part of him prodded the rest sharply. Sunset is hours away, you dumb
flatfoot. What do you think Fowler will be doing in the meantime? Waiting
politely for you to work up the strength to arrest him?
No of course not. Garreth forced his eyes open again. He could not lie
here. He would only lose the war when he had fought so hard to win the battle.
He needed help, though. It furthers one to appoint helpers.
Where was the phone? He peered around him, straining to see through
red-hazed vision. There . . . on a table near the kitchen door.
He never asked himself if he could reach it. Never stop fighting. Don't let
the scum win. He used his good arm to drag himself on his belly toward toward
the phone, praying Lane kept it hooked up while she was away.
Standing was impossible but a pull on the cord brought the phone crashing
down from the table to the floor beside him. To his relief, the receiver
buzzed at him. Carefully, he punched Lien's number. Calling Harry would also
bring Girimonte. Better to have Irina coming with Lien.
"Hello?"
Would he be able to make her hear him? He struggled to breath out just a
little more. "Li . . . en," he whispered.
He heard her breath catch on the other end, then, quickly, anxiously:
"Garreth? What's happened? Where are you?"
"Lane's . . . a . . . part . . . ment," he forced out.
Across the room, Fowler groaned and stirred.
"Hur . . . ry."
No time for more. No strength to waste hanging up, either. He left the
receiver lying and dragged himself back to where he could keep choking Fowler
into unconsciousness until help arrived.
12
It seemed like an eternity before Garreth heard the door downstairs open.
From where he lay stretched on the floor with his hand on Fowler's throat, he
listened to two sets of footsteps ran up the stairs. Three sets. The third
were just a whisper of sound. They all echoed as though from a great distance
through the thick fog enveloping him.
A rap sounded at the door. "Garreth?" Lien called. The knob rattled. "Damn!
It's locked. What are we going to do?"
"Irina . . ." his grandmother's voice said.
"Is a difficulty. This is a dwelling and I have never before been invited-
Nichevo. I will tend to it."
She had discovered the barrier gone. Garreth's pulse jumped. Now she knew
Lane was dead. Would she guess how?
"Holy Mother!"
He twisted his head toward the door. Her voice came from this side of it
now. She stood just inside. But stood only for a second, then she jerked open
the door and ran for the bay window.
"Lien, Grania," she called in a voice turned to a hoarse rasp. "Take him
into hall away from this garlic."
Footsteps raced into the room toward him. And halted in two gasps.
"Garreth!"
"Mother of god." Grandma Doyle dropped to her knees beside him. "The
devil's killed you. I knew it. When you left I felt a wind between me skin and
me blood."
Garreth shook his head. He was not dead yet.
Each of them grabbed an arm and began dragging him toward the door.
He pulled against them, shaking his head again. "Coat," he whispered. Being
in the hall would not help a bit as long as he wore these clothes.
Irina had the drapes pulled wide and all three windows in the bay open.
Coming back to them, she stopped short, too. "Is on him. Quickly; remove his
coat and shirt."
They sat him up and stripped him to the waist. Irina removed the two pieces
of clothing, carrying them to the kitchen like someone with a bomb, held as
far away from her as possible.
Gradually the unbearable pressure in Garreth's chest released. Air trickled
in. Nothing had ever felt quite so good before. He leaned back against his
grandmother and closed his eyes.
Her arms tightened around him. "He looks like a corpse, Lien."
"I'll call an ambulance." Her footsteps moved in the direction of the
telephone.
"No," Irina's voice said firmly. "You cannot."
He opened his eyes to see her holding Lien's wrist with one hand and
blocking the dial face with the other.
"But you can see he's seriously hurt. He needs a doctor."
Irina shook her head. "We're strong. We heal quickly. All he needs is [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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Holding the stake two-handed like a dagger, Fowler dropped on him. Garreth
caught Fowler's wrists with the point bare inches from his chest. With every
ounce of his evaporating strength, he struggled to hold it there . . . long
enough to lash up with his good leg and sink the toes in Fowler's groin.
Fowler curled up into a squeaking ball of agony and toppled sideways.
Garreth rolled one more time to throw an arm around Fowler's throat. The choke
hold tightened. Fowler went limp.
Now, tit for tat, quid pro quo. Getting even. Garreth dug through Fowler's
pockets. There was his gun. He shoved that back in its holster. And there was
the perfume dispenser. He dropped that in his pocket, too. Then here was what
he really wanted . . . more cable ties. Heaving Fowler over onto his stomach,
Garreth secured both wrists and ankles with the ties.
If he could breathe, he would have sighed in relief. Now he could strip off
this coat and- But the thought cut off there. He found he could not sit up.
His strength had all run out. Maybe his blood, too. It seemed to be
everywhere, soaking his trousers, soaking his coat and turtleneck, streaking
the hardwood floor.
He closed his eyes. Rest. That was what he needed. At sunset he would feel
better. Surely by then the garlic would have dispersed enough for him to start
breathing again.
Part of him prodded the rest sharply. Sunset is hours away, you dumb
flatfoot. What do you think Fowler will be doing in the meantime? Waiting
politely for you to work up the strength to arrest him?
No of course not. Garreth forced his eyes open again. He could not lie
here. He would only lose the war when he had fought so hard to win the battle.
He needed help, though. It furthers one to appoint helpers.
Where was the phone? He peered around him, straining to see through
red-hazed vision. There . . . on a table near the kitchen door.
He never asked himself if he could reach it. Never stop fighting. Don't let
the scum win. He used his good arm to drag himself on his belly toward toward
the phone, praying Lane kept it hooked up while she was away.
Standing was impossible but a pull on the cord brought the phone crashing
down from the table to the floor beside him. To his relief, the receiver
buzzed at him. Carefully, he punched Lien's number. Calling Harry would also
bring Girimonte. Better to have Irina coming with Lien.
"Hello?"
Would he be able to make her hear him? He struggled to breath out just a
little more. "Li . . . en," he whispered.
He heard her breath catch on the other end, then, quickly, anxiously:
"Garreth? What's happened? Where are you?"
"Lane's . . . a . . . part . . . ment," he forced out.
Across the room, Fowler groaned and stirred.
"Hur . . . ry."
No time for more. No strength to waste hanging up, either. He left the
receiver lying and dragged himself back to where he could keep choking Fowler
into unconsciousness until help arrived.
12
It seemed like an eternity before Garreth heard the door downstairs open.
From where he lay stretched on the floor with his hand on Fowler's throat, he
listened to two sets of footsteps ran up the stairs. Three sets. The third
were just a whisper of sound. They all echoed as though from a great distance
through the thick fog enveloping him.
A rap sounded at the door. "Garreth?" Lien called. The knob rattled. "Damn!
It's locked. What are we going to do?"
"Irina . . ." his grandmother's voice said.
"Is a difficulty. This is a dwelling and I have never before been invited-
Nichevo. I will tend to it."
She had discovered the barrier gone. Garreth's pulse jumped. Now she knew
Lane was dead. Would she guess how?
"Holy Mother!"
He twisted his head toward the door. Her voice came from this side of it
now. She stood just inside. But stood only for a second, then she jerked open
the door and ran for the bay window.
"Lien, Grania," she called in a voice turned to a hoarse rasp. "Take him
into hall away from this garlic."
Footsteps raced into the room toward him. And halted in two gasps.
"Garreth!"
"Mother of god." Grandma Doyle dropped to her knees beside him. "The
devil's killed you. I knew it. When you left I felt a wind between me skin and
me blood."
Garreth shook his head. He was not dead yet.
Each of them grabbed an arm and began dragging him toward the door.
He pulled against them, shaking his head again. "Coat," he whispered. Being
in the hall would not help a bit as long as he wore these clothes.
Irina had the drapes pulled wide and all three windows in the bay open.
Coming back to them, she stopped short, too. "Is on him. Quickly; remove his
coat and shirt."
They sat him up and stripped him to the waist. Irina removed the two pieces
of clothing, carrying them to the kitchen like someone with a bomb, held as
far away from her as possible.
Gradually the unbearable pressure in Garreth's chest released. Air trickled
in. Nothing had ever felt quite so good before. He leaned back against his
grandmother and closed his eyes.
Her arms tightened around him. "He looks like a corpse, Lien."
"I'll call an ambulance." Her footsteps moved in the direction of the
telephone.
"No," Irina's voice said firmly. "You cannot."
He opened his eyes to see her holding Lien's wrist with one hand and
blocking the dial face with the other.
"But you can see he's seriously hurt. He needs a doctor."
Irina shook her head. "We're strong. We heal quickly. All he needs is [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]