Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [87]
I can see why: around the knee is a cord of some kind. An electrical cord.
In an instant, I understand. Pete somehow has wrapped the lamp cord around the killer’s leg and tripped him, aggravating the knee injury.
Remarkable. For once, my penchant for snap diagnoses has actually helped me.
He starts to rise again. I leap towards him as I pull the wine opener out. I aim for the top of his back, piercing the tender, nerve-filled skin between his scapulae.
“AHHH. FUCK!”
He flails his arms behind his back, reaching for the opener.
It is the strangest moment for me to think: Canadian accent. Not Swiss. Canadian.
Then I see that the knife has spun free. It is a few feet to the intruder’s left, at the base of the bookshelves. I rush to it. I grab the warm handle, slick with sweat.
I walk to the would-be killer. He’s craning his neck my direction, looking now at me. Despite having the opener still in his back, he’s responding to the more immediate danger. He inches away from me.
I hear sirens. Police, maybe an ambulance, headed in our direction.
I look at the electrical lamp cord still wrapped around the man’s knee. I follow the cord where it leads—to the stubby porcelain lamp lying next to Pete. It survived the fall from the desk. It won’t survive the next impact. Without taking my eyes from him, I set down the knife beside Pete and lift the lamp.
I walk to the assassin and hold it over his head, as he struggles to scoot away and extricate the protruding wine opener.
“Where’s my grandmother?”
“He doesn’t know,” Pete rasps. “He asked me.”
“How can he not know? He’s the bad guy!”
The man has succeeded in dislodging the wine opener. He’s getting his bearings, looking around for a weapon.
“Lights out,” I say.
I slam the lamp over the man’s head. The porcelain shatters. The intruder slumps, unconscious.
“DSM,” Pete mutters.
“Thank you, Pete. Unbelievable teamwork. Hang on. The ambulance is almost here.”
“DSM.”
He’s jutting his pale chin across the room. I follow his gaze to a small, round coffee table with ornate legs. On top of the table sits a hefty medical book. The DSM—The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
The intruder moans.
I look back at Pete. He nods.
I hustle over to the manual. I look back at Pete. “Dementia,” Pete says.
I open the book to D. I flip through pages, until I come to the loose piece of paper.
The sirens are nearing. They’ve certainly reached Sea Cliff, maybe our block.
Pete says something I can’t understand. He’s too weak to make his voice heard. I step closer to him and can make out his meaning. “Get them,” he whispers. “Stop them.”
“Who is them? Who is this man? Who does he work for?”
His head lolls. He’s fading.
“Pete!”
His chin droops. I feel his pulse. It’s weak, but blood continues to pump.
I take the piece of paper, and fold it into my pocket.
I look at Pete’s attacker, who is blinking on the edge of consciousness. The police will be here soon enough. I hate to leave, but I can’t stay. There is little I can do for Pete.
I slip out the back door into the moonlight.
Chapter 48
If I hop over the white picket fence, I’ll find myself in the strobe lights of local law enforcement. That means getting detained, explaining the mess inside, losing the piece of paper Pete gave me, and, most important, not following up on my impulse: I know where I can find Grandma. Or, at least, I have an idea who might have taken her. And the extraordinary reason why.
I shuffle two houses down to a residence that has the lights off. I hoist myself onto its lawn. I edge along the side of the house.
Minutes later, I climb into the Cadillac, start the engine, and drive out of Sea Cliff.
Six blocks later, I pull over. I turn on the car’s inside light. I pull out the piece of paper from Pete’s DSM.
What I see is a laundry list of items:
1/0
Yankees/Dodgers
Cursive/Block
12/7; Radio/Word-of-Mouth
Chevrolet/Cadillac
Standard/Automatic