“Please.. .” he implored his fingers. “Please!”
Innocent as two school children caught stealing, his hands relinquished their burden and leaped up in mock surprise. Ellen tumbled to the carpet, a pretty’ sack of death. Charlie’s knees buckled. Unable to prevent his fall, he collapsed beside Ellen and let the tears come.
Now there was only action. No need for camouflage, for clandestine meetings and endless debate-the truth was out, for better or worse. All they had to do was wait a while. It was only a matter of time before he came within reach of a kitchen knife or a saw or an axe. Very soon now; very soon.
CHARLIE lay on the floor beside Ellen a long time, sobbing. And then another long time, thinking. What was he to do first? Call his lawyer? The police? Dr. Jeudwine? Whoever he was going to call, he couldn’t do it lying flat on his face. He tried to get up, though it was all he could do to get his numb hands to support him. His entire body was tingling as though a mild electric shock was being passed though it. Only his hands had no feeling in them. He brought them up to his face to clear his tear-clogged eyes, but they folded loosely against his cheek, drained of power. Using his elbows, he dragged himself to the wall and shimmied up it. Still half-blinded with grief, he lurched out of the bedroom and down the stairs. (The kitchen, said Right to Left, he’s going to the kitchen.) This is somebody else’s nightmare, he thought as he flicked on the dining-room light with his chin and made for the liquor cabinet. I’m innocent. Just a nobody. Why should this be happening to me?
The whisky bottle slipped from his palm as he tried to make his hands grab it. It smashed on the dining-room floor, the brisk scent of spirit tantalizing his palate.
“Broken glass,” rapped Left.
“No,” Right replied. “We need a clean cut at all costs. Just be patient.”
Charlie staggered away from the broken bottle toward the telephone. He had to ring Jeudwine. The doctor would tell him what to do. He tried to pick up the telephone receiver, but again his hands refused; the digits just bent as he tried to punch out Jeudwine’s number. Tears of frustration were now flowing, washing out the grief with anger. Clumsily, he caught the receiver between his wrists and lifted it to his ear, wedging it between his head and his shoulder. Then he punched out Jeudwine’s number with his elbow.
Control, he said aloud, keep control. He could hear Jeudwine’s number being tapped down the system. In a matter of seconds sanity would be picking up the phone at the other end, then all would be well. He only had to hold on for a few moments more.
His hands had started to open and close convulsively.
“Control he said, but the hands weren’t listening.
Far away-oh, so far-the phone was ringing in Dr. Jeudwine’s house.
“Answer it, answer it! Oh God, answer it!”
Charlie’s arms had begun to shake so violently he could scarcely keep the receiver in place.
“Answer!” he screeched into the mouthpiece. “Please.”
Before the voice of reason could speak his Right hand flew out and snatched at the teak dining table, which was a few feet from where Charlie stood. It gripped the edge, almost pulling him off balance.
“What. . . ….. . you. .. doing?” he said, not sure if he was addressing himself or his hand.
He stared in bewilderment at the mutinous limb, which was steadily inching its way along the edge of the table. The intention was quite clear: it wanted to pull him away from the phone, from Jeudwine and all hope of rescue. He no longer had control over its behavior. There wasn’t even any feeling left in his wrists or forearms. The hand was no longer his. It was still attached to him-but it was not his.
At the other end of the line the phone was picked up, and Jeudwine’s voice, a little irritated at being woken, said: “Hello?”
“Doctor…”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Charlie-“