The clock had hidden it.
Ben stepped forward as Linski brought the weapon up, but he did not move quite fast enough. The bullet took him in the left shoulder and twisted him sideways, off balance, and into the floor lamp.
He fell, taking the lamp with him. Both bulbs smashed when they struck the floor, plunging the room into near-total darkness that was relieved only by the weak light from distant streetlamps outside and the faint glow from the kitchen.
“Fornicator,” Judge whispered.
Ben’s shoulder felt as if a nail had been driven into it, and his arm was half numb. He lay still, playing dead in the dark.
“Chase?”
Ben waited.
Linski stepped away from the mantel, bent forward as he tried to make out Ben’s body in the jumble of shadows and furniture. Ben couldn’t be certain, but he thought the killer was holding the pistol straight out in front of him, like a teacher holding a pointer toward a chalkboard.
“Chase?”
Weak, trembling, cold, sweating, Ben knew that shock accounted for his sudden weakness more than the wound did. He could overcome shock.
“How’s our hero now?” Judge asked.
Chase launched himself at Linski, ignoring the flash of pain in his shoulder.
The pistol fired – the whoosh of the silencer was clearly audible in such close quarters – but Ben was under the weapon by then, and the round passed over him, shattering glass at the other end of the room.
He dragged Linski down, past the fireplace, into the television, which toppled off its stand. It struck the wall and then the floor with two solid thumps, though the screen did not shatter.
The pistol flew from Linski’s hand and clattered into the gloom.
Ben bore Linski all the way down onto the floor and drove a knee into his crotch.
With a dry and nearly silent scream of pain, Linski tried to throw Ben off, but he couldn’t manage more than a weak shudder of protest.
Ben’s wounded shoulder seemed afire. In spite of the pain, he throttled Linski with both hands, unerringly finding the right pressure points with his thumbs, as he’d been trained, applying as little pressure as possible but enough to put Linski out.
Getting to his feet, swaying like a drunk, Ben fumbled in the darkness until he found a lamp that hadn’t been knocked over.
Linski was on the floor, unconscious, his arms out like wings at his sides, as if he were a bird that had fallen from the sky and broken its back on a thrust of rock.
Ben wiped his face with one gloved hand. His stomach, knotted with fear, now loosened too quickly, and he felt as if he might be sick.
Outside, a car full of shouting teenagers went by, screeched at the corner, sounded its horn, and peeled off with a squeal of rubber.
Ben stepped across Richard Linski and looked out the window. There was no one in sight. The lawn was dark. The sounds of the struggle had not carried any distance.
He turned from the window and listened to Linski’s breathing. Shallow but steady.
A quick examination of his shoulder indicated that the bullet probably had passed straight through. He wasn’t bleeding much, but he’d have to take a closer look at the wound as soon as possible.
In the half bath off the kitchen, he found two rolls of first-aid adhesive tape, enough to securely bind Linski. He dragged the killer into the kitchen and bound him to one of the breakfast chairs.
In the master bathroom, Chase took off his gloves and set them aside to avoid getting them bloody. He stripped out of his blood-soaked shirt and dropped it into the sink.
He took a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet. When he poured it into the wound, he nearly passed out in agony. For a while he bent over the sink, paralyzed by the pain.
When he could move again, he packed the wound with wads of paper towels until the bleeding slowed even further. He slapped a washcloth over the wound and then wound wide adhesive tape over the entire mess. It wasn’t a professional bandage, but it would ensure that he didn’t get blood over everything.