security light I spot Roger a few feet beyond, legs wide and both hands grasping the oar of a canoe. He takes aim at the assailant and swings the oar, delivering a blow so powerful, I hear wood crack. Or maybe bone. It’s the second blow, I realize. The man teeters for a few moments and finally collapses, faceup on the ground.
“Ally, are you okay?” Roger calls out, racing toward me.
“Uh, I think so,” I say, though my cheek is throbbing and I’m shivering like crazy. I struggle to a standing position, noticing that the top of my pajamas is sopping wet.
Roger reaches my side and wraps his free arm around me.
“We need to get you inside, but first I have to tie him up.”
He passes me the oar and hurries toward the nearby dock.
“Can I help?” I call out, my teeth chattering.
“Just stand guard, okay?”
I glance back at my attacker, making sure he’s not moving. His chest rises and falls a little, so I know he’s breathing. I can see he’s six feet or more, on the stocky side. There was no way I could have fought him off on my own.
“What about the fire?” I call out, looking back toward Roger.
“I put it out already.”
He unwinds a length of rope from a post on the dock and then returns to my side. Crouching down, he binds the man’s ankles together, then yanks the rope a couple of times to make sure the knot is tight. I watch, weirdly detached, as if the experience is happening to someone else. Next, Roger tugs the guy’s arms upward, overhead, and starts to secure his wrists together.
“Do you think . . . do you think he might have followed me from the city?” I ask, almost in a whisper. “Or knew I was going to be here?”
“What are you saying? That this might be the guy who killed the private eye?”
“Right. Can we take off the ski mask?”
He hesitates and then shakes his head. “Better to let the cops do that.”
He finishes the knot with a jerk. After rising, he steps toward me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder again. I toss the oar to the ground and let him lead me up the embankment. The skin on the soles of my feet is raw from being dragged, and every step hurts.
“The river side door’s locked, so we need to go in by the kitchen,” Roger says.
We hurry along the perimeter of the house, and though we’re on the opposite side from the garden shed, the air reeks with the smell of wet, smoldering wood. The kitchen door, I notice, is still open. Roger ushers me inside and double-locks the door behind us. It’s chilly in the house from the door being ajar. Dark, too. Roger flicks on extra lights besides the one in the hall.
“You need warm clothes,” he says. “Can you manage on your own while I call the cops from the kitchen?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine . . .” Emotion overwhelms me and I choke back tears. “Roger, you saved my life. He was going to kill me.”
“Oh, Button,” he says, enveloping me into a hug. “It was terrifying to see him shoving your head down like that. I—” His voice breaks and I realize he’s as shaken as I am. “I’ll meet you in the den in a minute, okay?”
As Roger enters the kitchen, I head up the back stairs to my room. I change into the sweater and jeans I’d worn that day and dig a pair of socks out of my roller bag. My feet hurt too much for shoes, so I don’t bother. The shivering, I notice, has eased but not fully subsided.
It’s only when I’m in the en suite bathroom, grabbing a towel for my hair, that I’m afforded a look at my face for the first time. The right side is bright red and starting to swell, as if it’s being inflated with a tire pump. I gingerly rest a finger on my cheek. The skin feels incredibly sore, but my cheekbone doesn’t seem to be broken.
Before heading downstairs, I sit for a minute on the edge of the bed, trying to get a grip. Is the man tied up on the riverbank really the same person who killed Mulroney, who possibly shoved me into traffic? If so, what could I have seen or done that compelled him to hunt me down? And how did he know my whereabouts?