Smashed glass tinkled to the concrete, echoing, and Andy's screams were now sobs and pleas for help.
The truck pulled back, tyres squealing, gears grinding, for one last assault.
Andy saw this coming. He put both his hands squarely against the dashboard…
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our-
The truck backed all the way to the garage door. It was going to come at Andy from behind.
And then Andy looked down at the Magnum on the seat next to him.
Of course, My Lord.
He'd been so frightened, so disoriented, so worried about heart attack that he'd completely forgotten his own best defence.
Quickly he unlatched the seat belt, turned around so that he was facing the rear of the car, and set the Magnum on top of the seat.
He aimed directly at the windshield of the truck. You sonofabitch Dobyns. You psycho sonofabitch. Andy was ready.
And Dobyns was more than happy to oblige.
This time the truck's tyres created so much smoke, the rear end of the truck appeared to be on fire as it came piling toward Andy.
Andy opened fire.
It was like target practice on the range.
Even above the screaming tyres, you could hear the Magnum explode, each time Andy's hand and arm jerked back with the recoil.
Indeed it was like target practice.
The closer the truck got, its huge yellow eyes searching mercilessly inside Andy's car, the oftener Andy pulled the trigger.
By the time of the great crash, by the time the truck pushed Andy all the way to the back of the garage and smashed him into the rear wall… by that time, Andy was out of ammunition.
Nothing would have helped Andy in this situation. Not even a seat belt.
When the car met the wall, Andy was thrown upward into the skyliner. To him, it felt as if the impact broke his head apart in three ragged pieces. Then the impact hurled him forward against the dashboard, the edge of which came against the centre of his spinal column with the force of'a well-delivered karate blow. Even as he continued to tumble through the air, Andy could feel his legs go dead and he thought of a terrible word: 'paralysed.'
Then he drifted into blessed unconsciousness.
What he saw next gave him a curious peace. From somewhere high overhead-some unimaginable distance, really-he looked down on the scene in the garage. The smashed up car. The roaring truck. Dobyns racing from the truck now, bloody knife in hand.
And then Andy saw himself. He looked terrible. Covered with his own blood, and at least as smashed and broken as the car he was in.
Then Dobyns was in the car, checking out the body named Andy to see if it was still alive. When Dobyns found a pulse, he took his knife and slashed both of Andy's wrists so that blood flowed freely.
Then Dobyns took his knife and cut Andy's throat. He was very good at it by now, Dobyns was quite efficient. Just one downward cutting slash dragged across the Adam's apple, and the job was done.
Andy watched all this with a growing feeling of peace and security. He was glad that the body named Andy was unconscious because otherwise he'd be panic stricken beyond imagining. Gagging, trying to stop his throat from bleeding- No, the body named Andy had no understanding of the peace that awaited it. But the Andy that watched it all knew it well.
When Dobyns had cut Andy's throat, the fat man had sprayed blood all over himself and Dobyns.
Now, withdrawing from the car, Dobyns wiped blood from his eyes and mouth.
He ran back to the elevator again. It would take him to the floor nearest the tower.
11
"Did you notice anything about his stomach, Marie?"
"His stomach?"
"Yes. Anything strange?"
"No, I'm sorry. I guess not." Marie hesitated. "But there was a weird smell."
"Oh?" Emily Lindstrom said. "Can you describe it?"
Marie shrugged. "Well, I guess I don't know what to say except that it was-it smelled like rotten meat or something."
Chris Holland and Emily Lindstrom had been in the Fane apartment for fifteen minutes now. While Marie had looked and sounded remarkably good, Chris now saw that the girl was still in the throes of shock. Soon, she would come in direct contact with her feelings about the slaying tonight and then-
Right now, the girl was instinctively using this interview as a way of avoiding her feelings. Chris had seen this following many traffic accidents, how badly injured people suddenly developed this great need to talk-this was just another manifestation of their shock-before they came crashing down.
"Please think back to his stomach," Emily was saying.
Too intense, Chris thought. I've got to get her to ease off the girl or Marie will break for sure.
Kathleen Fane was starting to watch Emily, too. The beautiful blond woman sounded as if she too were on the verge of snapping.
Chris said, "Did he say anything to you while this was all happening?"
Marie's cheeks flushed. "Dirty words."
"I'm sorry."
"The same dirty words over and over again."
"And then he just grabbed Richie?"
"Yes. And-"
And Chris (so worried about Emily's insensitivity) saw that she'd asked exactly the wrong question at exactly the wrong time.
The question forced the girl to confront the images of her friend's murder again.
With no warning whatsoever, she began crying very softly, and then sobbing so hard that her entire body shook
Her mother was up from her chair in moments, and then sitting next to the girl and holding her with great tenderness.
"Please," Kathleen Fane said, "I think it's time you both leave."
While there was no malice in the woman's tone, there was certainly steel. This was not a request; it was an absolute command.
"I'm sorry if I made you mad back there."
"You got pretty intense."
"I just had to know about his stomach."
"I got the message."
"I'm sorry."
"I was just concerned about Marie."
Emily Lindstrom's voice softened. "The poor girl. She'll probably never really get over it."
Chris was headed back to the station. The harsh wind was blowing litter across the lighted drive of a service station. At a 7-Eleven people were getting knocked around by the same wind as they tried to run to their cars. For a moment Chris felt snug and warm inside her car, even if it was rocking slightly with every other gust.
And that was when, over the rock station that Chris was playing low in the background, they first heard about the killings at Hastings House.
"Two, perhaps as many as three employees of the mental facility have been killed tonight. This is all the information we have right now. But please stay tuned. We'll be updating this story every few minutes."
"To repeat-"
Emily snapped off the radio. "He went back to the hospital."
"But why? I thought he was trying to escape."
"There's only one reason I can think of."
"What's that?"
Emily Lindstrom said, "He wants to get into the tower."
For the second time tonight, O'Sullivan saw a section of the city turned into a kind of hell by the lights of emergency vehicles.
Hastings House had always had a quiet dignity for O'Sullivan-if you ever went crazy, this was clearly the place for them to take you-but tonight the dignity was being trampled by cops and reporters and onlookers roaming around the grounds, and by patients standing in heavily barred windows.
From the way the officials were running around, it was clear that they had no idea where Dobyns was.