Thunder roared down from the peaks, disturbing the birds in the apple trees.
They went north. They were taking the safest-and also the most roundabout-route to the back of the municipal building. Soon they came to a waist-high white picket fence that marked the end of the orchard and the verge of Main Street, where it became known to the locals as the mill road.
After he had looked both ways and had carefully studied the land to which he was running, when he was certain that there was no one to see him, Sam slipped over the fence. He was as agile as a young man. He sprinted silently across the lane and quickly disappeared into a dense stand of scrub pines, scraggly birches, and brush on the other side.
Paul tucked his revolver into his belt, put both hands on the fence, looked up and down the street as Sam had done-but was
suddenly arrested by a severe spell of uncontrollable shivering. His stomach twisted, and he was short of breath.
He tried to tell himself that the shakes were caused by his wet feet, but he knew that wasn’t true. The night was warm. His feet were wet but not cold.
He was shivering for only one reason: because he was going to kill a man.
Or be killed .
That was a possibility.
He felt sick.
Dizzy.
He followed Sam.
10:30 P.M.
Lolah Tayback stood before him, naked.
“I’m the absolute master,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Look at me, Lolab.” She stared at the floor. “Lolah?”
“Let me go.” Soft voice. Tears.
“What’s the matter?” “I’m scared.” “Don’t you like me?” She didn’t respond. “Do you like me, Lolah?” “Yes, sir.”
“Tell the truth, Lolab.” “I . . . don’t. . . like you.” He slapped her face. She fell against the desk. “Bitch.”
“Don’t hurt me.” “Animal.”
“Don’t hurt me. Please.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“Don’t-”
He struck her with his fist. Then he struck her again.
Twin arc lamps on ribbed aluminum poles bracketed the parking lot behind the municipal building. In the stark blue-white light the needles of nearby pine trees resembled feathers. The lamps made the wet macadam shine like molten tar and transformed the puddles into broken mirrors. It glinted coldly on the windshields of several automobiles, including the town ambulance and the spare police cruiser.
When Sam opened the rear door of the building and Paul stepped into the first-floor corridor, two men looked up in surprise. Bob Thorp reached for the revolver in the holster at his hip. The other man, a uniformed deputy, raised his shotgun.
“I am the key,” Paul said quickly. They both said, “I am the lock.”
“Speak softly.” They nodded.
“Bob, leave your gun in the holster.”
“All right.”
“And you. Put down that shotgun.” The deputy obeyed.
Opening these men, using them, pushing buttons deep within their minds, Paul felt neither triumph nor the exhilaration of command. Instead, aware that their lives and sanity and dignity were in his hands, he had an almost overpowering sense of solemn responsibility; and for a moment he was paralyzed by it.
Sam opened the first door on the right, switched on the overhead fluorescent lights, and ushered everyone into a file room.
10:36 P.M.
Salsbury’s knuckles were skinned. His hands were covered with thin gloves of blood: his blood and hers.
He took a Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special from the firearms cabinet behind Thorp’s desk. He located a box of shells on the top shelf and loaded the handgun.
He returned to Lolah Tayback.
She was on the floor in the center of the room, lying on her side with her knees drawn up. Both of her eyes were bruised and swollen. Her lower lip was split. Her septum was broken, and blood trickled from her delicate nostrils. Although she was barely conscious, she groaned miserably when she saw him.
“Poor Lolah,” he said mock sympathetically.
Through the thin slits of her swollen eyelids, she watched him apprehensively.
He held the gun to her face.
She closed her eyes.
With the barrel of the .38, he drew circles around her breasts and prodded her nipples.
She shuddered.