Three Bedrooms, One Corpse - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,73
his direction.
He laughed. He really did. Wrapping the scarf around both hands in a practiced move, he held out the taut length so I could admire the shine of the blue silk. “This is Terry’s scarf. I think I’ll leave it on you so maybe they’ll think Terry killed you because Eileen had the hots for you. What a hoot.”
Ha ha. “Martin will kill you for this,” I said with absolute assurance.
“Your latest honey? I think not.”
And before this could go any further, I charged at him with all my strength and yelled as loud as I could, which was pretty damn loud.
I was short and he was tall, and I was bent over in my charge.
I caught him just in the pit of his stomach. Actually, a little lower.
He shrieked, his arms flew up linked by the scarf, and he began to double over. I reeled back from the impact, staggered, went down on my face.
He fell right on top of me.
I fought to get him off, though the air had been mostly knocked out of me. I bucked and pushed and heaved, but he was too heavy. He was growling now, a horrible animal sound, and the glimpse I caught of his face was terrifying, if I could have been any more frightened than I was. He had apparently never been hurt before, because he went berserk with rage. He’d let go of one end of the scarf. He was tearing at any part of me he could get hold of, and I heard a rip and then some clinking, rolling sounds as one of my pockets was absolutely torn off my coat, its contents spilling out.
He grabbed my mass of braided hair and banged my face against the hardwood floor. For a moment of blinding pain my brain went dark, and I heard a cracking sound I couldn’t understand. Then he lifted himself on his knees to get a good swing at my head, and I seized the second to turn over. Now I had one free arm, but he came down on the other one. When I tried to bite him, his suit coat prevented me. He grabbed my hair again and banged the back of my head against the wooden floor. I had another moment of darkness, and then with the little energy I had left I grabbed his ear with my one free hand and pulled and pulled, though he tossed and twisted to shake me off. My other arm, trapped between our bodies, hurt dreadfully, though I had no time to think about that.
I realized I was losing consciousness, the weight of him pushing the air out faster than the struggle was letting me take it in. I dug my fingernails into his ear to mark him, since I was losing, and had the satisfaction of feeling wetness under my fingers. But it almost made me lose my grip on his ear. He’d remembered the scarf now, wrapped it around his free hand, and then put it around my neck. I had the wooly scarf pinned there, though, and the collar of my coat, too. But I began to feel myself blanking in and out, like a flickering picture on a black-and-white television. My hand finally lost its grip and slipped to the floor. My fingers landed on a rough lump. My souvenir rock. I forced my fingers to curl around it, and with my last strength I swung the rock and made direct contact with the side of Franklin’s head. The sound was dull and nauseating.
The weight on top of me went limp. There were some oddly peaceful moments, because of the silence, the stillness; most of all the cessation of fear. Then I became aware of hearing noise again. Was someone talking to me?
“Let go,” said a fuzzy voice, urgently.
Of what? I wondered if I was barely clinging to my life. Should I let go of it? I wanted it.
“Let go of the rock.”
It was a voice I could trust. I let go, moaning at the sudden pain in my cramped fingers.
I heard sounds, sort of—dragging sounds, and something bumped down the length of my body. Franklin Farrell’s head, as someone dragged him off me. I tried to focus, but achieved only a blur.
“I can’t see,” I whispered.
“It’s me, it’s Martin, Roe. Lie still.”
Now that I could do.
“I’m going to call the hospital.” Footsteps retreated and came back. At some point. Everything was fuzzy and blurry and vague.