He looked down at it, more puzzled than pained, then struck her a backhanded swipe that had her stumbling back towards the door. Blood was running from the wound, but he didn't waste time pulling the fork out.
"You fucking slut!" he said, coming at her like a driverless truck. She backed out into the hallway. The front door was still open. If she made a dash she might still outrun him. But that meant leaving Joe here while she found somebody to help her, and God alone knew what Morton would do to him in the meantime.
"Stand still," he said to her, his voice dropping now to a pained rasp.
"You've got this coming." He almost sounded reasonable. "You know you got this coming."
She glanced down the narrow hallway towards the bathroom, and as he lunged at her she threw herself through the door, turning to close it before he reached her. Too late. His arm shot through the gap; grabbed hold of her hair. She threw her weight against the door, slatnming it on his arm. This time he yelled, a stream of obscenities rising into a howl of rage and pain. He started to push against the door, pulling his bloodied arm out again and wedging his leg in the gap when it was wide enough.
Her bare feet slid on the tiles; it was only a matter of moments before he had the door open. Then he would kill her, she was certain of it. She started to scream at the top of her voice, her din filling the tiny bathroom. Somebody had to come quickly, or it would be too late.
His face appeared at the opening now, white and clammy as the tiles.
"Open up," he said, pushing harder. "You know how to do that." And with a final shove he threw the door wide. She had nowhere to run and he knew it. He stood in the doorway, bleeding and gasping, looking her up and down.
"You're a whore," he said. "A fat, fucking whore. I'm going to rip your fuckin' tits off."
"Hey!" Joe shouted.
Morton looked down the hallway. Joe was up and hanging onto the frame of the living room door.
"You not dead yet?" Morton said, and strode back towards Joe.
to the end of her days, Phoebe would never be exactly sure what happened next. She went after Morton to hold him back, or at least delay him long enough for Joe to get to the front door-that much was sure-but as she grabbed his shoulder, Joe stepped or slipped into his path. Perhaps he struck Morton; perhaps Morton stumbled, weak from blood loss; perhaps her weight was enough to topple him. Whichever it was, he fell forward, reaching to snatch hold of Joe even as he did so. As he struck the ground there was a snapping sound, followed by something like a sob from Morton. He didn't get up. His legs twitched for a moment. Then he lay still.
"Oh... my... God..." Joe said, and turning from Phoebe started to vomit violently.
Still afraid Morton could get up again, she approached him cautiously. There was blood seeping from beneath his chest. The fork! She'd forgotten the fork!
She started to roll him over. He was still breathing, but his breaths were like spasms, shaking him from head to toe. As for the fork, it had snapped halfway down its length. The rest, maybe three inches of it, was buried in his chest.
Joe was getting to his feet now, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Gotta get a doctor here," he said, and disappeared into the living room.
Phoebe went after him. "Wait, wait," she said. "What are we going to say?"
"Tell 'em the truth," he said. He pulled the phone out of the debris.
It had been dragged out of the wall. Grimacing with every move he made, he stopped to plug it back in, while Phoebe pulled on her underwear.
"They're going to put me away for this, baby."
"It was an accident," she said.
He shook his head. "That's not the way it works," he went on. "I've had trouble before." "What do you mean?"
"I mean I've got a record," he said. "I would've told you-"
"I don't care," she said.
"Well, you should," he snapped, "because that screws erything." He had found the end of the phone line, but it ended in sheared wires. "It's no good," he said, tossing the phone down amid the trashed furniture. Then he got to his feet, tears filling his eyes. "I'm so sorry... " he said,
"I'm so... sorry."
"You'd better go," she said.
"No.
"I can take care of Morton. You just go." She'd pulled on her skirt, and was buttoning up her blouse. "I'll explain everything, he'll be looked after, then we'll just get out together." There was faulty logic here, she knew, but it was the best she could do. "I mean it," she said. "Get dressed and go!"
She went back to the door. Morton was muttering now, which was an improvement on the spasms: obscenities mingled with nonsense, like baby talk, except that there was blood coming from between his lips instead of milk and spit. "He's going to be all right," she said to Joe, who was still standing in the middle of the wrecked room looking desolate.
"Will you please go? I'll be fine."
Then she was out into the sunlight, and down the stairs. The kids had stopped playing in the street, and were watching from the opposite sidewalk.
"What are you looking at?" she said to them in the tone she took to latecomers at the surgery. The group dispersed in seconds, and she hurried along to the phone at the corner of the street, not daring to look back for fear she'd see Joe slipping away.
"I bet you thought this was a quiet little town, right?" Will Hannick said, sliding another glass of brandy the way of his sober-suited customer. "Is it not?" the fellow said.
He had the look of money about him, Will thought; an ease that only came when people had dollars in their pocket. Hopefully, he'd spend a few of them on brandies before he moved on.
"There's been some kind of bloodshed across town this afternoon."
"Is that so?"
"A guy comes in all the time, Morton Cobb, sits at the table by the wall there," Will pointed to it, "been carted off to the hospital with a fork in his heart."
"A fork?" said the man, plucking at his perfect moustaches.
"That's what I said, I said a fork, just like that, a fork, I said. Big man too' "
"Hmm," said the man, pushing the glass back in Will's direction.
"Another?"
"Why not? We should celebrate."
"What are we celebrating?"
"How,about bloodshed?" the fellow replied. This struck Will as tasteless, which fact must have registered on his long, dolorous features, because the drinker said, "I'm Sorry. I misunderstood. Is this fellow Cobb a friend of yours?" :'Not exactly."
'So this attempt upon his life, by the wife, or her lover, her black lover-2'
"You've heard."
"Of course I've heard. This bloody, scandalous deed is really just something to be... savored, isn't it?" He sipped his brandy. "No?"
Will didn't reply. The fellow was spooking him a little, truth to tell.
"Have I offended you?" he asked Will.
"No.
"You are a professional bartender, am I right?"
"I own this place," Will said.
"All the better. You see a man like yourself is in a very influential position. This is a place where people congregate, and when people congregate, what do they do?"
Will shrugged.
"they tell tales," came the reply.
"I really don't-2'
"Please, Mr.-"
"Hamrick."
"Mr. Hamrick, I've been in bars in cities across the world-Shanghai, St. Petersburg, Constantinople-and the great bars, the ones that become legendary, they have one thing in common, and it isn't the perfect vodka martini. It's a fellow like you. A disseminator."
"A what?"
"One who sows seeds."
"You got me wrong, mister," Will said with a little gfin "You want Doug Kenny at Farm Supplies."
The brandy drinker didn't bother to laugh. "Personally," he said, "I hope Morton Cobb dies. It'll make a much better story." Will pursed his lips. "Go on, admit it," the man said, leaning forward, "if Morton Cobb dies of a fork wound to the chest will it not be a far better story for you to tell?" "Well... " Will said, "I guess maybe it would."