But as soon as I take a good look at him, I’m paralyzed. I couldn’t run even if he were flat on his back, dead.
It’s him. It’s my killer. It’s the last face I see, over and over, back through time, back through decades. He has come here to murder me, and no small toy will stop him, in this life or any other.
“Bitch,” he says, and lunges for me.
This time I manage to scream as I fling my arms in front of me and try to scramble backward. I scream again, and he backhands me across the mouth before he grabs my shoulders and forces me to my knees. A second later, both of his hands are around my throat. I punch forward with all my might, aiming for his crotch but connecting with his thigh, and he hauls back and kicks me in the chest.
And then he slams against the wall as another body shoots between us and rips his hands away from me. I gasp and crawl backward as the newcomer punches my assailant again and again, each time bouncing his head against the unforgiving brick. But the killer is fighting back, and I see the flash of silver in his hands. A knife. The knife that usually cuts my throat.
“Help me!” I shriek, scrabbling out of the mouth of the alley, toward the street, toward sunlight, toward safety. “Help me!”
My vision is unreliable, but the sidewalk seems overfull of pedestrians. A woman screams, and a couple of men start shouting. A siren emits a single warning chirp, and suddenly two cops are charging toward me, guns extended.
“There! There!” I shout madly, pointing at the alley. “He tried to strangle me!”
They leap forward to position themselves on either side of the entrance. “Which one?” a cop asks. “There’s two. One in a blue shirt, one in black.”
I can still hear the sounds of the men punching each other, fists landing against flesh, grunts of pain puffing out of lungs. Still on my knees, I crawl over to peer into the alley. The man in the torn blue shirt is the figure from my nightmares.
The one in black is Armand.
“Blue,” I manage, so stunned I can hardly get the word out. “The guy in black is my friend.”
The cop nods once, then shouts into the mouth of the alley. “Hands up where we can see them! Both of you! Back off!”
Between the shadows and all the bodies in motion, it’s hard to tell what happens next. But it looks like Armand reels backward, hands over his head, while the other man falls to a defensive crouch. The cops start forward, and the killer lets loose a guttural snarl. He grabs Armand, flings him in the path of the police, and takes off running toward the other end of the alley. The lead cop crashes into Armand, shoves him out of the way, and races off in pursuit.
The second cop curses, holsters his gun, and dashes back out, already shouting into his handheld radio, requesting backup. “You—stay here,” he barks at me. Over his shoulder, he looks at Armand, who has stumbled out of the alley. “You too,” he adds, then pounds down to the corner and out of sight.
Armand has one hand to the back of his head and one to his waist, so I know he’s injured. I jump to my feet. “Are you all right? What did he do to you? Let me see!”
“I’m fine,” he says, but when his hand comes away from his waist, I see blood on his fingers.
“We should call an ambulance,” I say, bending over to try to get a better look. On the black fabric, it’s hard to tell, but he doesn’t look like he’s bleeding that badly.
“I’m fine,” he says again. “What about you? Did he hurt you?”
I don’t answer right away. I straighten up, and then I’m just staring at him. That serious face, just now purpling over with bruises. Those concerned blue eyes, focused on me as if they’d never been interested in looking away. “Did you follow me?” I ask wonderingly. “Were you watching out for me?”