A row of little hemlocks had been planted at the entrance to the road,
screening it. I darted around the hemlocks and stopped.
There was Riccio.
He was busily trying to rape Naomi Gardner.
Naomi lay on the ground, naked. Her dark hair was flying in every
direction and her breasts rose and fell wildly as she struggled to keep
Riccio away. He was kneeling above her, naked too, looking like some
wild satyr, his maleness aroused, and he was desperately trying to
force her legs open and keep her from screaming and prevent her from
kneeing him in the groin, all at the same time.
He had one of his knees forced between her tightly-clamped thighs, and
slowly, inexorably, he was forcing her legs apart. In another moment
he would be able to thrust himself between her legs and take the girl.
Roughly, brutally, a searing experience that would remain imprinted on
her brain the rest of her life.
I'm not exactly the hero type, as I may have already made clear. But
there are certain times when even the most pacifistic of men doesn't
stop to weigh the ifs and buts. This was one of those times.
"Riccio!" I yelled, and I hardly recognized the sound of my distorted
voice. "Riccio, you drunken bastard, get off that girl!"
And I went plunging forward.
Riccio saw me and looked up, scowling, his dark, long-beaked face a
mask of utter hatred. For a moment it almost seemed as though he would
ignore me and continue forcing the girl, now that he had practically
succeeded in prying open her legs. But I kept on coming, and he rose
from her to turn to me.
I had him by fifteen or twenty pounds, but that was where my advantage
ended. He was a couple of inches taller, a whole lot longer of arm, and
ten times as mean. He was younger and tougher, too.
Naomi rose to a sitting position, her eyes blank with terror.
I screamed at her to run and get help, but she just sat there
uncomprehendingly. In a state of shock, I guess.