"But how did you know? How could you know what was happening?"
Her gaze wavered and she seemed to hesitate. The words tumbled out in
a rush. "I heard noises--I got up to see what was going on and--and
I saw someone trying to break into your trailer, so I--I called the
police. That's all."
For a second I frowned at her, trying to read her eyes. She was not
frightened at all, I thought with surprise. Elusive. Evasive. Hiding
something.
I heard a bellow of rage behind me and turned to see Mike Boyle
struggling to get to his feet while two policemen pinned him to the
pavement. I sprinted toward them. When I reached the group, Boyle's
struggles were growing weaker. There was blood on the paving and I saw
it seeping down his leg. He was mouthing unintelligible sounds and his
eyes had that strange, glazed, unseeing stare. I looked at the two
policemen holding him and recognized the pair who had questioned me
earlier. Sgt. Bullock's cold, hard face had regained its meanness. I
wondered what had become of the friendly puppy I had met the day before.
"What's this all about?" he snapped. "Who is he?"
"His name is Boyle," I said. "He's a student at the university--a
football star. He's--he's out of his mind."
"_Mike_ Boyle?" The sergeant's tone was incredulous.
"Yes. And Sergeant--" I weighed the words carefully, "I think he killed
Lois Worthington."
Slowly the sergeant stood up. His eyes were mean slits in the blunt
face. "You better know what you're saying," he said. "You goddam well
better know."
For an instant I faltered, less sure of myself. I had no real evidence
that Boyle had murdered the waitress, nothing but the faith I now had
in my own convictions. But I knew without question that he had been
ordered to kill her just as he had been directed to eliminate me. Yet I
couldn't tell the police how I knew. If I tried to tell them the whole
story, I would merely convince them that I was crazy.
The sergeant strode away. He reached the helicopter and pulled out a
hand mike. I looked down at Boyle. He lay still, no longer struggling.
Some of the bestial panic seemed to have drained out of his face. When
I glanced up the sergeant was charging back toward me.
"Well?" he barked as he reached me. "What makes you say he killed the
girl?"
"It was--something he said--when he was trying to kill me."
"Why would he try to kill you?"
I made my decision. "I think he blamed me--he was convinced that I had
had something to do with Lois."
"Yeah?" Sgt. Bullock's hard, narrow gaze held mine. "Funny you
should say that. I thought you were mixed up in this right from
the beginning--and I'm beginning to think so again. It's nice and
convenient for you to come up with another killer. The guy we were
holding--Harry Grayson--cleared himself. The truth tests proved it
right down the line. He's not guilty. He didn't kill her."
I stared again at Boyle. Handcuffed now, he was watching me. There was
fright in his small eyes and it seemed to me that there was something
stirring now in their depths that had been filmed over before, a
glimmer of reason.
"Boyle did it," I said. "But he wasn't responsible for what he did. You
can see that."
"Yeah? Maybe." The sergeant stared suspiciously at me. "What happened
to your head?"
"I was in an accident--in a car."
"Yeah? You seem to be in a hell of a lot of accidents. I think maybe
you better come downtown with us. You got quite a lot of explaining
to do. You keep popping up in this too often, Cameron. I don't like
coincidences."
"I killed her!" Boyle blurted out.
We all stared at him--Bullock, his lean partner, myself. The big youth
rolled over on his side. Tears spilled down his cheeks and he began to
beat his head against the pavement with a terrifying deliberateness.
"I killed her, I killed her," he moaned. "I killed her!"
The corporal bent down swiftly and jerked Boyle's head up. Sgt. Bullock
moved in quickly. Between them they held the big man immobile.
"Okay," the sergeant said after a moment, glancing at me over his
shoulder. "So he did it. So maybe that lets you out. We won't need you
tonight--but stay where I can find you. I've still got some questions
to ask you."
"What about him? What are you going to do with him?"
"There's an ambulance on the way." He looked past me, his gaze sweeping
in a circle. "If you want to help you can tell these people to go back
to bed. Then you might as well do the same."
I discovered that a large number of people had come out of their
trailers and were standing in clusters talking and staring curiously at
the tableau in the street. For some reason I was surprised. The whole
incident had happened so quickly and with so little noise that I hadn't
thought of anyone being aroused.
I moved toward the nearest group. "It's all over," I said quietly.
"Might as well go back to bed."
"What happened?"
"A man went--" I caught myself. "Just a drunk. A guy who had more than
he could take."
The groups of people gave way slowly, reluctantly. I stared back once
more at Mike Boyle. I felt only pity now. At the same time I was aware
of how timely and how lucky for me had been his guilt-ridden outcry
of confession. Without it, I would have been in more trouble than I
liked to think about, with Bullock eager to jump all over me, firing
questions which I couldn't answer.
Boyle would be cured. His illness was not a deep-seated mental
aberration but a temporary cracking under pressure. They would treat
him and, when he was rational, they would get a full confession out of
him about the murder of Lois. But they would never make sense out of
his story of being controlled by an inhuman mind. He would get off on
the plea of insanity. They would cure him and when they were sure that
he was well, he would be freed.
I wondered if he would remember or understand later what had been done
to him. Or who had done it.
Looking up, I saw the girl next door standing where I had left her. I
walked slowly toward her. In her eyes and mouth I read anxiety.
"He tried to kill you," she whispered.
I nodded. I felt an inexpressible tenderness. Gratitude, I thought. How
much I owed to her!
"Thanks for calling the police," I said. "And for--for being worried."
She blushed. Even in the darkness I could see the bright color in her
cheeks. She started to turn away and the movement of her hips brought
back, sharply and vividly, the image I had seen through her window so
long ago.
"Wait!"
She stopped, her face averted, and I caught once again the sense of a
bird trembling on the brink of flight.
"I don't even know your name," I said gently.