“Kaplan!”
… and dashed out of the room.
Janice dashed to the telephone. (teamwork)
—snatched it up and, the number burned in her brain, quickly dialed it from memory.…
“HOTHOTHOTHOTHOThothothot—”
Agony rose and fell as the bedroom door opened and closed.…
“Yes?” Kaplan, thank God!
“Doctor, it’s Janice Templeton, please come right away!”
“I’ll be right over.”
Janice stumbled forward into the hallway, zooming toward bedlam—
“Hothothothothotdaddydaddydaddy—”
—opened the bedroom door—
“HOTHOTHOTHOT—”
—saw Ivy, head thrown back, howling up at Bill, standing staunchly between her and the window, arms akimbo, legs outstretched, the Colossus of Rhodes, the human barrier to her ravening need—
“HOTHOTHOTHOT—”
—bandaged fists flailing and pelting him, ripping at shirt and trousers with a strength that brought beads of sweat popping to his face—
“Kaplan’s coming!” Janice encouraged.
“HOTHOTHOTHOTHOT—”
—Ivy’s face a raging mask of fear and anguish, fists pummeling Bill with maniacal force and accuracy; thudding impacts collecting him in sensitive regions of belly and groin, causing him to wince in pain and seize the thin arms to stay the vicious hammerblows—
“HOTHOTHOTHOT—”
Janice gasped as Ivy’s teeth sunk into the soft flesh of Bill’s arm.
“Janice! Help me!” he croaked, wrenching his arm from her bloodied lips.
Janice charged toward her daughter’s back, arms extended, and threw herself at her legs, engulfing them in a viselike embrace.
Bill grabbed Ivy’s arms.
Wriggling, struggling, squirming, they carried her screaming to the bed, eased her down, and lay upon the small, convulsing, jerking body to still it.
Gradually, the volcano abated, the body relaxed, the screaming imprecations became soft, plaintive cries, childlike: “Mommydaddy mommymommydaddy hothothot—”
Gently conveying the relaxed arms to the strong grip of his left hand, Bill grasped the sheet with his free hand and quickly bound her wrists. His face was dripping sweat, and he was breathing hard. Clinging to the legs, Janice watched the shocked face of her husband as he tied the end of the sheet to the scrollwork of the carved headboard, then rose to repeat the same process with her legs.
Shortly, their daughter, in all her pale perfection, lay trussed and suspended between the two corded sheets firmly secured to the bed. Both sheets were bespeckled with Bill’s blood.
For a long time, neither spoke. They stood by the bed gazing down at the gently twisting body, in mute horror.
“My God,” Bill groaned hoarsely.
The doorbell rang.
Kaplan!
“Stay with her,” Bill ordered brusquely, and bounded out of the room and down the stairs, flicking on light switches in living room and hallway … twisting two locks … removing the chain bolt … opening the door to—
Hoover. Standing pale, smiling nervously, hand extended in a semi-offering gesture, noting the bleeding arm and the sweated face filled with shock—
“Hello,” he ventured unsurely.
“H-how the hell did you get up here?” Bill choked out in a haggard whisper.
“I—” Hoover began.
“Who allowed you up?”
“I … live here.”
Stunned, stupefied silence.
“What?” breathed Bill.
“I sublet a small apartment on the fifth floor—while you were gone. We’re neighbors.”
A film of red drew a veil across the pale face as Bill felt the throb of blood in his temples and a spasm of rage gorge his throat.…
“You son of a bitch!” Bill exploded, and thrust his hands at the thin neck, seeking to enclose it, to squeeze it, to tear it apart—
“No, please—” the face begged, falling away from Bill’s grasping, flexing fingers, falling backward, downward, floatingly—causing Bill’s hands to grapple with air, a mirage, unattainable. A foot in Bill’s groin, assisted by his own forward momentum, sent his hulking body into the air in a gentle arc, suspending it in space for a fleeting instant, then dropping all one hundred and eighty-two pounds of it onto the hard tile floor with a sickening, brain-rattling thud.
Bill felt his head bursting and knew there were broken parts inside him. Tricky bastard, he thought in his agony, vaguely aware of doors opening and closing down the hallway.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Templeton.” Hoover’s voice came through an echo chamber. “Here, let me help you—”
Bill felt a steellike grip on his arm, as Hoover assisted him to a sitting position. The sight of Mrs. Carew’s round face, watching solicitously from a distance, completed the indignity, sending a jolt of adrenaline pumping through his damaged body, rekindling energy, recharging rage.
“I’ll kill you, you prick,” he groaned, and with a sudden lunge and cry, grabbed Hoover’s legs, wrenched him off his feet, and pulled him down on top of his own body. Rolling about on the floor, Bill’s arms encircled the lean, hard waist in a tight hammerlock and started to apply pressure, when a sudden electrical shock coursed up his spine, immobilizing his body and sending star bursts shooting across his darkening vision. He sensed Hoover’s strong fingers digging into the nape of his neck, impinging on a particular artery. Totally paralyzed, Bill felt himself slipping from consciousness, as Hoover’s agitated voice begged, “Please, Mr. Templeton—I hear Ivy—”
“DADDYDADDYDADDYDADDY—”
Her shrieks, tunneling their way through the apartment and down into the hallway, were partially obscured by Janice’s frantic scream: “Bill, my God!”—all vaguely apprehended, as was Janice’s drained, shocked face staring down at Hoover in unblinking disbelief and hostility.
“Let go of him!” she screamed, and began tugging at Hoover’s arm with a strength that was fierce.
“DADDYDADDYDADDYDADDY—”
“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” Hoover answered, releasing the artery in Bill’s neck and plunging toward the open door.
Blood gushed back into Bill’s head, causing his vision to pulsate with reds and blacks, as the life force slowly returned to the stunned brain.
“Bill, Bill!” Janice cried, on her knees beside him, cradling his thickly throbbing head against her breast.
Other doors opened, other people emerged, some in robes—faces Bill didn’t recognize—remained watching mutely, as Bill coughed and gasped for breath and tried to bring his eyes to focus on the door of their apartment, which was now closed.
“Get a cop!” he shouted in a rasping voice. “That son of a bitch’s got my kid!”
A movement of neighbors, complying, as Bill struggled to his knees and, with Janice’s help, stood up on legs that seemed to belong to someone else.
His face ashen and wild, he stumbled forward toward the door, using Janice’s body as a crutch, and tried the knob, needlessly since he knew the door would be locked, then started to pound on the metal facing with both fists.
“Son of a bitch, bastard! Open the door, you goddamn bastard!”
The stream of obscenities overflowed the banks of reason, punctuated by battering blows against the door, sending shuddering waves rebounding down the length of the hallway.
“Somebody get a passkey!” he hurled back over his shoulder. “The guys a kook, a psycho, hurry!”
Mrs. Carew detached herself from the small knot of onlookers and quickly waddled down the hallway toward the elevators.
Janice could only watch helplessly, attempting to keep her own hysteria from bursting loose, as Bill continued shouting, cursing, and pummeling the door with his fists.