It was in the same area that the green circle, two or three minutes after that, swam to the surface. Whatever position Jessup was standing in, it pointed that circle directly at Parker. Occasionally the thing dove back into the darkness, as Jessup moved—silently—one way or another, shifting position, but it always came back again, and Parker watched it, and waited for Jessup to do something stupid.
It would have a sweep second hand, that watch. By now Jessup would be feeling every second.
There had been no further sound or movement from downstairs. Had Manny heard Jessup? Had he done what Jessup wanted, or had he smiled and nodded and stayed lying there on the bed? Or was he coming upstairs, slowly so as not to make any noise, to find out what was going on? Parker’s right elbow extended into the doorway area, to warn him if anyone tried to move in or out.
From the location of the green circle swimming there, Jessup wasn’t against a wall. Unless he had a piece of furniture to lean on, he would be feeling tired by now.
“You still there, Parker? It is Parker, isn’t it?”
Parker took a sliding step forward while Jessup talked. He stopped when Jessup was silent.
The silence this time lasted no more than thirty seconds. “You’re the last one, you know that?” Jessup was trying to sound cocky and humorous, but he was nerved up and the sound of it was in his voice. “Did you see what we did to your friend Keegan? And Morris? Briley’s dead in the woods someplace, did you know that?”
Parker had covered half the distance to the watch; simultaneously, Jessup stopped talking and the watch disappeared. Parker stayed where he was.
The watch came back, disappeared again, came back again. Jessup was gesturing while he talked, making gestures in the dark. “You don’t fool me, I know you’re in this room. I can feel you. What do you think I am, a punk like Manny? A punk like you people?”
Parker was almost close enough to touch him. Another pace. Jessup was silent, and Parker stood there, looking forward into the darkness, knowing Jessup’s head was just there, a few inches beyond arm’s reach. He waited.
Was Jessup finished talking? Parker breathed shallowly through his nose; the automatic was away in its holster under his left arm, but his right hand hovered near it, in case things turned that way.
“You want to wait till daylight. That’s okay with—”
Parker’s left hand touched shirt, snaked upward, the fingers closed around throat. His right hand came around, closed, and when he hit he felt Jessup’s teeth against his knuckles.
Jessup was making a high gargling sound, and thrashing like a spider stuck through with a pin. Parker hit him again, holding him in place with the left hand around Jessup’s neck, hitting at the face in the darkness.
Fingers crawled along Parker’s left arm, hurrying toward his head. Parker stepped in close and brought his knee up and felt it hit. But Jessup wrapped his arms around Parker’s waist and lunged forward, and his weight forced Parker to take a backward step. His shin hit something, a chair or table or part of a bed, and his balance was gone, and the two of them toppled over through darkness and hit the floor.
Parker’s first grip was lost. He couldn’t let Jessup get free, he had to know where he was. He slapped outward, and touched cloth, and clung to it. Hands punched at him, they both shifted and rolled on the floor, their feet kicking at anonymous pieces of furniture, and suddenly they rolled directly into one another and both grabbed for leverage and control.
It was weight that made the difference. Parker was a little heavier, a little stronger, a little more sure of himself. He had Jessup’s throat again with one hand, and one of Jessup’s wrists with the other, and he was slowly forcing Jessup onto his back, pushing him backward and over and down. Jessup’s free hand punched out, the punches growing both wilder and frailer, and Parker tucked his head down to protect his face and bore Jessup steadily backward, and down, and flattened him on the floor. Then knelt on the wrist he’d been holding, freeing his other hand. But this time didn’t waste effort with fists; he put the second hand with the first, on Jessup’s throat, and clamped them there, and wouldn’t move.
Jessup kicked, and clawed with his free hand at the fingers around his throat, and scratched at Parker’s face and neck and arms. Parker knelt over him, one knee on Jessup’s wrist, the other leg stretched out behind himself for balance, and leaned his weight on his arms, outstretched, a straight line from his shoulders to Jessup’s throat, the weight of his body and the tightness of his grip pinning Jessup in place and holding the breath from his lungs.
Light. Orange-gray, faint, flickering. Parker saw it reflected in Jessup’s bulging eyes, and looked up to see the doorway framed with orange-yellow light, and then Manny padded forward into the doorway, barefoot, wearing only his slacks, carrying in his unwounded left hand the Chianti bottle with the candle in it, and in his right hand—despite the wound in that shoulder—a small pistol; it looked like a .22, a ladies’ purse gun.
Manny was smiling. His face seemed to flicker like the candlelight, his eyes grew larger and smaller, and moisture on his chin reflected the light like chrome.
If he’d been feeling anything at all, he wouldn’t have been able to hold the gun like that, or bend his arm like that.
His voice was very gentle, lamblike, the sweet child: “Let him go.”
At first, Parker didn’t move. Jessup was weakening beneath him, it would be a help to have at least one of them out of the play. He looked back at Manny, standing there in the doorway, and from the corners of his eyes he tried to find something to throw. To get rid of the light. In the darkness, they’d be more equal.
But there was nothing. This was a teenager’s bedroom—from the walls, rock posters gyrated in the candlelight—and the center of the floor was empty. A chair and small table that had been nearby were now kicked away into the corner by the bed, leaving nothing close enough to reach in a single lunge.
“Bang bang,” said Manny gently. He made a small lifting motion with the gun barrel. Get up, he was saying, or be shot where you are.
Parker moved, very slowly, shifting his weight back to his knees from his hands, but keeping the fingers clamped tight around Jessup’s throat till the last second. Jessup’s eyes were rounding out from his head, filming over. His hands had fallen to the floor on either side of his head. His legs were moving, but without purpose, like a dog when he dreams in his sleep.
Parker released him at last, and leaned back on his haunches. He kept watching Manny, because Manny was the danger now, but he remained aware of Jessup, who at first didn’t change his position, just continued to lie there on his back with his legs twitching. Then Jessup made a loud harsh grinding noise in his throat, and his whole body flopped like a fish: air, finding its way back into his body again.
Manny smiled sweetly at Jessup, as though Jessup had just done something cute and clever for his benefit. “There we are,” he said. “You’re all right now.”
But Jessup wasn’t all right. His own hands were at his throat now, and his mouth was open wide. His eyes still bulged, and his face was still mottled dark, and his tongue was still too thick in his mouth. Parker’s weight leaning on him like that had done him some damage; the regular channel for air was at least partially blocked.
Parker slowly moved the leg on the side opposite Manny, lifting the knee and getting his foot under himself, so he’d have more impetus if he had to make a sudden movement anywhere. Manny was concentrating most of his attention on Jessup now, and Parker kept the rest of his body still, his face turned toward Manny, his arms hanging down at his sides.
Manny’s expression, dulled and stupid-looking and childish, was gradually shifting from the smile of happiness to a puzzled frown. He said, “Jessup? You are okay, aren’t you?”