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«Nothing will happen. And if it does, I’d take care of it.»

«Oh no,» she said softly. «Don’t indulge in braggadocio.» It seemed to me in the uncertain light of a not too close streetlamp that she smiled condescendingly for a flickering moment.

I suppose I had just been talking. Kisses or no kisses, I don’t think I had really had any intention of walking into the park—but what could I do after that?

I said, «Don’t go by the fact that I’m 158 centimeters tall and 55 kilograms in weight.» (Damn it, if she was European she could understand that.) «I can take care of myself—and of you, too.»

We were passing one of the entrances and I said, «Come on,» and steered her toward it.

She tried to hang back. «Now, Darius, it’s not funny.»

«Come on. Don’t be afraid. We won’t be harmed. No one will bother us.»

I insisted. I used my not inconsiderable strength and she had to give in. I wasn’t actually feeling too good about it, and I was relieved when we found an empty bench perhaps twenty feet inside. It was just far enough from the street outside and the automobile road inside to give the illusion of isolation, and just near enough the edge of the park to give the illusion of safety, too.

«There,» I said. «Perfect!»

18 ANONYMOUS 9:00 P.M.

There was enough light from a lamp half hidden by the fresh new tree leaves to show me her face, and enough darkness to make it look very desirable. It seemed to me perfectly natural to kiss her. Why else had I come into the park? Why else was she here?

Yet somehow I lacked the self-assurance I generally had on such occasions. There are body signals one recognizes.

With experience and a certain amount of common sense at the game, one knows what is welcome and what is not and how far to go without suffering the humiliation of rejections or the greater humiliation of the use of force, however slight.

In Sarah’s case, I was confused. She had been friendly in a completely non-flirtatious way. Did she or did she not want to be kissed? To my chagrin, I found myself back in my teens.

I found myself slowly reducing the distance between my face and hers, watching for the first sign for a clear go-ahead—or a pull-back.

For a while, I though I’d make it, but then she pulled back—sharply, and without any sign of coyness or disapproval. It was a matter of sheer fright.

«Darius!» she cried out in a strangled scream.

I suppose I was more wrapped up in the game than she had been. She noticed; and I never would have. It is somewhat more soothing to my ego to put it this way, though: she was facing in the right direction and I wasn’t.

I turned quickly and was on my feet.

«What the hell do you want?» I demanded.

He was some fifteen feet away as best I could judge in the dimness, but I could tell nothing about him but that he was a man, a white man, moderately tall and stocky. He had on a dark jacket, dark shirt, dark pants, and if it weren’t for the pale light on his hands and face, he would have been quite invisible except as a shadow.

«It’s the man from the restaurant,» said Sarah in agitation.

«You can’t tell,» I whispered, never taking my eyes from him.

«The same shape. The same—something. I’m sure.»

«What do you want?» I shouted again. They might hear me in the street, but I had no great hopes of any hero dashing in to protect us. Everyone would hurry past, pretending not to hear.

«Don’t move,» I said.

But the shape was moving, with small steps, and now there was light glinting, more efficiently, in a new place.

Sarah whispered, «He has a knife.»

I didn’t need to be told that. I said, «Do you want money?»

There was no answer, and I could wait no longer.

I pushed Sarah roughly to one side. «Stand clear,» I said in a low voice. «If we start fighting, run.»

I stepped back onto the grass, putting the bench between us for just a moment while I kept my eyes on him and weighed the situation. At least he didn’t have a gun (or wasn’t using it if he had one) with which to shoot me down from a safe distance. But then a quiet killing would give him a longer time to get away.

I was sure it was a killing that was intended. A funny thing. You meet and know so many men in your life, so many women, so many names. And then you may meet one person whose interaction with you is the most intimate of all—killer and killed—and you don’t know him at all. All the names of your life trickle by one by one and the whole thing ends at last with Anonymous.

Gingerly, Anonymous was circling the bench, to get at me.

He wasn’t going to throw the knife, I was sure. Throwing a knife is something that requires more skill than you might think and very few have it—and if your knife misses, you are left unarmed.

I backed as gingerly away, but let him get round the bench. I knew what I would try to do and I wanted the empty space between us.

I said, in as near to an ordinary speaking voice as I could manage, «Just move behind him, Sarah.»

I knew she wouldn’t move. How could she? She was probably frozen in terror; helpless—or running away, perhaps, though I had heard no rustling of grass, no cries. I was sure Anonymous would know she wouldn’t move, but people are human. However completely the man with the knife knew there would be no one moving toward his rear, his eyes would have to flick in the direction of Sarah and it was for that moment of inattention that I waited.

With a loud cry, I lunged forward, my right foot shooting out straight for his testicles. I was well out of range (he had the knife, after all) and I couldn’t have trusted the accuracy of my thrust anyway, so I had neither the hope nor even the intention of scoring a bull’s-eye.

It is, however, difficult to control the reaction when a foot darts out toward that delicate region, particularly when an unexpected scream accompanies the move. Anonymous bent his hips backward, quite without conscious intention, I’m sure, and his hands shot downward in automatic and quite unpreventable defense.

But my right-foot lunge became a leap and I charged with perfect timing. (I had practiced this particular form of attack many times, and I was delighted to see it work out so well—it takes much longer to tell than to do.) I seized the wrist of the downward-moving, knife-carrying arm, twisted it roughly, and continued its motion, reinforcing it with my own—making it move backward and upward, as hard as I could.

The knife went flying, as I knew it would, and that arm had to be dislocated at the shoulder, from the scream he gave—and he went down.

The trouble is, though, that he weighed at least sixty pounds more than I did, and while I could be quick enough and clever enough to pull his arm out of its socket, there was no way I could keep his faffing mass from pulling me down with it. I had to let go quickly not to be pinned under him, and I went staggering forward, head first, into a tree.

I’ve got a pretty hard skull, but it won’t compare to the trunk of an old, firmly rooted tree, so I saw a lot of pretty-colored lights, and went down and all but out.

I couldn’t move for a while. I was almost unable to think—only slow convoluted thoughts. She had warned me—Sarah—and I hadn’t listened. Had she maneuvered me into the—park—conscience twinging, so she warned me—set up—outfoxed—outplayed—and now—I would lie here and he would—get up—knife me—other hand—or she would.

«Darius—»

It was a scream and I heard it at last.

I could move and I forced myself to my feet, but my knees felt unhinged and I found myself clinging to the tree.

«Wha—»

I was dizzy and in pain and I had difficulty focusing.