He liked that.
The file room was a cold, impersonal place. The fluorescent strip lighting, institutional-green walls, yellowed Venetian blinds, rank on rank of gray metal cabinets, and brown tile floor made it a perfect place for an interrogation.
Sam said, “Bob, is there anyone in your office right now?”
“Yes. A couple of people.” “Who?”
“Lolah Tayback-and him.” “Who is ‘him’?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“You don’t know his name?” “Gee, I guess not.”
“Is it Salsbury?” Thorp shrugged.
“Is he a somewhat chubby man?”
“About forty pounds too heavy,” Thorp said. “And he wears very thick glasses?”
“Yeah. That’s him.”
“And he’s alone with Lolah?”
“Like I said.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Sure.”
Paul said, “And his friends?”
“What friends?” Thorp asked.
“In the helicopter.”
“They aren’t here.” “Neither of them?” “Neither of them.” “Where are they?” “I don’t know.”
“Aren’t they at the mill?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will they be back?”
“I don’t know that either.” “Who are they?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
Sam said, “That’s it, then.”
“We go after him?” Paul asked.
“Right now.”
“I’ll hit the door first.”
“I’m older,” Sam said. “I’ve got less to lose.” “I’m younger-and faster,” Paul said.
“Speed won’t matter. He won’t be expecting us.”
“And maybe he will,” Paul said.
Reluctantly, Sam said, “All right. You first. But I’ll be damned close behind.”
Salsbury forced her to lie on her back. He parted her legs with one hand and put the cool steel barrel of the .38 between her silken thighs. He shivered and licked his lips. With his left hand he slid his glasses up on his nose. “Do you want it?” he asked eagerly. “Do you want it? Well, I’m going to give it to you. All of it. Every last inch of it. Do you hear me, you little bitch? Little animal. Bust you wide open. Wide open. Going to truly and really give it to you. . .”
* * *
Paul hesitated outside of the closed door to the police chief’s office. When he heard Salsbury talking inside and knew that the man was unaware of their presence in the building, he threw open the door and went inside fast, crouching, the big .357 Magnum shoved out in front of him.
At first he couldn’t believe what he saw, didn’t want to believe what he saw. There was a badly beaten, naked young woman lying on the floor, spread-eagled, conscious but dazed. And Salsbury: face flushed, sweat-filmed, spotted with blood, eyes wild, savage-looking. He was kneeling over the woman, and he seemed like a troll, an evil and disgusting bug-eyed troll. He was pressing a revolver between her pale thighs in a vile, grotesque imitation of the sex act. Paul was so mesmerized by the scene, so riveted by revulsion and outrage, that for a few seconds he forgot altogether that he was in terrible danger.
Salsbury took advantage of Paul’s and Sam’s inability to act. He stood up as if he had had an electric shock, pointed his revolver, and fired at Paul’s head.
The shot was a bit too high, an inch or two, no more than that. The bullet slammed into the wall beside the door. Chips of plaster rained down on Paul’s shoulders.
Still crouching, he pulled off two quick shots of his own. The first was wide of the mark; it smashed through the Venetian blinds and shattered one of the windows. The second struck Salsbury in the left shoulder, approximately four inches above the nipple. It caused him to drop his gun, almost lifted him off his feet, pitched him backward as if he were a sack full of rags.
He was thrown to the floor by the impact of the bullet, and he slumped against the wall beneath the windows. He clutched his left shoulder with his right hand, but for all the pressure he applied, blood still streamed between his fingers. Pain pulsed rhythmically within him, deep within him exactly as the power bad once done: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
A man came toward him. Blue-eyed. Curly-haired.
He couldn’t see very well. His vision was blurred. But the sight of those bright blue eyes was sufficient to catapult him