She waited for him to knock again, not wishing to appear too eager. It came quietly, almost as a scratch. Timid, like a schoolboy, not certain of the reception he would get. It made her feel even more powerful. She would not toy with him any longer. She would welcome him with all her warmth, and his timidity would melt and he would be as strong and vigorous a lover as she knew he could be.
Helen opened the door with just a hint of a knowing smile on her lips. Dyce grabbed her by the throat and propelled her backward, squeezing hard on her neck so she could not cry out. She hit her legs against the bed and tumbled down and Dyce was on her, his weight pinning her down, his fingers pressing into the flesh of her windpipe.
With his free hand Dyce scrambled across the floor, wincing with the pain in his injured arm, searching for one of the pillows that Helen had not yet replaced in anticipation of the agent’s return. He came up with the red and white checked cat with the whiskers and stuffed it into Helen’s mouth.
He sat on her chest, holding her down, and pressed his knees against her arms. She tried to roll her head from side to side, desperately seeking relief from the suffocation on her throat and in her mouth, but he put his free hand on her forehead and pushed her head down onto the bed.
He was saying something, but Helen could not hear it over the pounding of blood in her ears, the strangled sounds entrapped in the back of her throat.
“Calm down, Helen,” Dyce said. “I don’t want to hurt you, I just want you to be quiet.”
He eased the pressure on her throat and Helen gasped, then sucked greedily for air through her nose.
“Just hold still,” he said. He held his finger to his lips, shushing her. “Everything’s all right, you’re all right. I just wanted to keep you from yelling. You understand that, don’t you? Of course you do. You understand. There now, there now, just calm down. I’m going to remove the pillow, all right? I’m going to let you talk, but you mustn’t raise your voice, do you understand? Of course you do, of course you do. There now, calm down, Helen. That’s a girl, that’s a good girl.”
He smiled at her; his voice was oddly soothing and Helen felt herself relaxing. Again shushing her, he removed the pillow from her mouth, but held it close to her face. His eyebrows arched up in question, waiting for her reaction.
Helen wanted to speak but could only cough at first.
“I hope I didn’t scare you,” he said. “You know I’d never hurt you, Helen.”
She wanted to tell him that he was hurting her now, sitting on her chest, but something in his face told her he would do much worse if she complained.
“Are we all right now?” he asked. “Are we settled down? No need to talk yet. Just nod. That’s right, we’re fine. Now when you do talk, I want you to do it quietly, and when I tell you to do something, I want you to do it immediately and without question. Do you understand? Just nod. Good, Helen.”
Dyce leaned his weight back slightly and eased the pressure of his knees on her arms.
“Now tell me, why are there policemen at my house? Why was that man just here? I know that man. He knows me. Why was he visiting you, Helen?”
Dyce looked at her calmly, quizzically, a slight smile of encouragement on his lips. Helen stared at the blood stains on his shirt, trying to think what to say.
“I don’t know,” she said at last.
Dyce looked at her sadly. “That’s no good, Helen. That’s not a good answer. Do you know why?”
Helen shook her head no.
“Because it assumes I’m an idiot.” He smiled broadly, as if appreciating the joke. “We both know I’m not an idiot, don’t we?”
Helen nodded agreement.
Dyce moved his hand and Helen winced, but he reached past her and switched on the lamp on her night table.
“Now, I want to try this again. I’ll ask you why the police are at my house, and you’ll tell me the truth this time, all right? But I want you to think about something else first.”
Dyce unscrewed the shade from the lamp and dropped it onto the floor. He held the naked bulb next to her cheek. She could feel the heat. From several inches it was no more than a comforting warmth.
“Have you ever burned your fingers on a light bulb? Of course you have. Do you remember how much that hurt? And that was when you could pull your fingers away immediately. Now suppose you couldn’t pull away and that pain just grew and grew and spread all over your face. Just think about that for a moment, Helen, and then tell me what’s going on.”
Dyce moved the lighted bulb closer to her face.
“Shhh. Not yet. Just think about this first.”
He moved the bulb closer still. She could hear a faint humming sound from the electrical element in the bulb.
When she began to tremble and tears welled in her eyes, Dyce spoke again in the same soothing tone.
“Tell me now, Helen. We’ll start with the police. Why are they at my house?”
After she told him everything she knew, he led her to the kitchen and selected her best knife. Dyce was disappointed in the selection.
“A good knife is an absolute essential for a good cook,” he said. He had placed her on a stool in the corner of the kitchen so she could not leave without passing him. As he rummaged through the knife drawer, Helen glanced out the window. If necessary she would throw the stool through the window to get attention, but there was nobody out there.
“What do you cut things with, for heaven’s sake? Do you do all your work with a paring knife?” He held one up contemptuously, then tossed it back in the drawer. “You couldn’t bone a chicken with that,” he said.
He settled at last on an old and long-neglected carving knife with a handle formed of antler. The blade was dull and specked with corrosion.
“You don’t even have a proper whetstone,” he complained.
“Please,” said Helen in a voice so low she could barely hear it herself.
“This is not the way to live. You’ve got to have more pride in yourself This lack of self-esteem…” He waved his arm to encompass the whole room. “Well, it’s pretty sadly reflected in this kitchen.”
“Please, don’t,” she said, louder this time.
Dyce was sharpening the knife on an emery wheel that was part of the electric can opener, shaking his head at the neglect of good steel. The grinding drowned Helen’s voice.
“If you ever lived on a farm you’d learn something about keeping your tools in good shape,” he said, testing the knife edge with his thumb.
“I’ll do anything, anything,” Helen said.
“Get me a paper towel,” he said. He put the can opener back in its place, handling it with some difficulty because of his injured arm.
She looked at him, not comprehending.
“A paper towel, Helen.”
She tore one from the roll and held it toward him. With startling suddenness and violence, Dyce slashed at it with the knife. The lower half of the towel drifted to the floor.
“Now that’s good steel,” he said.
Helen held both hands over her face, and the upper half of the paper towel protruded as if she were a toddler grasping her favorite blanket.
“Please, what?” he asked, annoyed.
“Don’t kill me.”
He seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m not going to kill you, Helen. Why on earth would I do that? I thought we’d take a ride to Bridgeport together.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to take your car and because I would have trouble driving with my arm like this.”
Helen nodded, understanding nothing.
“And Bridgeport because I understand there are people there who can provide me with documents. It’s awfully hard to get by in America without documents. Bridgeport has neighborhoods where people are not very particular. Do you see?”
Helen nodded again. “I see.”
“Shall we go?”
Helen moved slowly past him until he caught her arm. He held it gently, almost courtly as they walked onto the street. He did not explain the knife and Helen did not ask. She knew she would not like the answer.