“The fuck you are.” Wicherly stepped across her path while at the same time reaching behind his back and turning the lock in the door.
“Get away from me now!”
He stood his ground, eyes bloodshot, pupils like tiny black bullets. She struggled against a rising panic. What would work: calm persuasion or stern command? She could smell his sweat, almost as strong as urine. His face had screwed itself up again in a series of spastic jerks, his right fist clenching and unclenching. He looked exactly as if he’d been possessed by demonic forces.
“Adrian, everything’s okay,” she said, working a soothing note into her trembling voice. “You just need help. Let me call for a doctor.”
More twitching, his neck muscles knotting and bulging.
“I think you might be having a seizure of some kind,” she said. “Do you understand, Adrian? You need a doctor immediately. Please let me help you.”
He tried to say something but instead he spluttered, spittle drooling down his chin.
“Adrian, I’m going to step outside now and call you a doctor—”
His right hand jerked up like a shot, striking her hard across the face, but she had been tensing for just such an attack and she managed to sidestep the main force of the blow. She fell backward. “Somebody help me! Guards! Call the guards!”
“Shut up, bitch!” He shuffled forward, dragging one leg, and struck at her again, wildly. She stumbled against the side of her desk, off balance, and he leaped on top of her immediately, slamming her down and sending her laptop crashing to the floor.
“Help! I’m being attacked!”
She stabbed at his eyes with the rigid fingers of her hand, but he swatted her arm away and dealt her a blow across the side of her head, while his other hand grabbed the top of her blouse and ripped downward, scattering buttons.
She screamed again and tried to twist away from his grip, but his free hand came around and wrapped around her neck with shocking force, cutting off the sound. She scrabbled with her legs, trying to find a purchase, but he scissored them in his own.
“So, you think you’re the boss?” He raised his other hand and together they began squeezing her neck harder. She flailed, tore at his hair, pounded his back, but he seemed not even to notice, so fixated was he on the grip of his hands, his sweaty, stinking, twitching face shoved into hers.
“I’ll show you who’s boss around here.”
Nora punched and clawed helplessly, her diaphragm heaving to suck in air that wouldn’t come. Her larynx felt nearly crushed under the awful pressure. He’d blocked the blood flow to her brain and she felt the strength draining away like water from a burst hose; her eyes were suddenly flecked with a million exploding stars, and a spreading stain of darkness began clouding the edges of her vision like ink poured into water.
“How does it feel, bitch?”
She heard sounds in the background, as if from far away; a violent hammering and splintering of wood; and then, from the furthest edge of consciousness, she felt the iron grip of his hands loosen and fall away. She was still swimming in a sea of dimness when she was jolted by a burst of shouting and an incredibly loud bang.
She rolled over, coughing violently and holding her bruised neck… and suddenly Menzies was there, cradling her in his arms and calling for a doctor. She felt utter confusion. There seemed to be a terrific commotion beyond the desk, a knot of museum guards, shouting… and then she saw a river of blood spreading out across the floor. What had happened?
“I had to do it, he came at me with a knife!” came a desperate voice, edging into her returning consciousness.
“… just a letter opener, you idiot!”
“… a doctor! Now!”
“… tried to strangle her…”
The cacophony of loud, panicky voices continued, the shattered phrases sounding in her head as it all began to come back… She coughed, trying to block it all out, trying not to think, while Menzies eased her down into the wing chair, whispering all the time: “You’re all right, my dear, everything’s fine, the doctor’s on his way. No, don’t look over there… Close your eyes and all will be fine… Don’t look, don’t look…”
36
Captain Hayward looked down at the huge puddle of blood on the linoleum floor of the office, all smeared about by the frantic and useless efforts of the EMTs trying to restart a heart that had been obliterated by a point-blank 9mm round fired from a Browning Hi. The scene was now being carefully examined, sorted, tagged, and bottled by the forensic teams and a variety of specialized crime scene investigators.