of the men at the top.
When I remembered that he had spent a few minutes in the kitchen before he found me, I got to my hands and knees. Crawling took a great deal of effort. I was moving slowly toward the door when my hand brushed the address book. My fingers closed around it.
I had to rest anyway. I lay on my side, fighting off dizziness, and examined the book. It must have fallen from the pocket of one of the intruders at the time we were struggling. Recalling how I had torn Moose's coat, I decided the book belonged to him. Thrusting it into my pocket, I started crawling again. I had to pause and rest three times before I finally reached the kitchen.
Sprawled in the doorway, I raised my head and looked at Sheila, who lay motionless near a chair where she'd been tied. The strips of cloth that had bound her still dangled on the chair's arms and lower rungs.
I found my voice. "Sheila?"
The fact that she didn't move or reply did not surprise me. But I croaked her name again in a voice charged with pain and fury. Then I crawled to her. The fragile face was bruised and bloody. The hoods had worked her over savagely.
I touched the girl's outstretched wrist. It was cold. I closed my eyes for a minute, bringing my emotions under control. Then I pulled myself nearer the body.
She had been killed, I saw, by a blow so powerful that it had broken her neck. The one man who could have delivered such a blow was Moose. The son-of-a-bitch, I thought.
I felt guilty because I had brought her back and had failed to protect her. I was still alive and she was dead. But the strongest emotion that coursed through me, the one that filled me with determination, was fury. I would come out of this and I would get Moose and his friends, I thought I would do it not only for Dave Kirby but for Sheila.
Somewhere I discovered more strength than I'd thought I had. I reached up and grabbed hold of the edge of the kitchen table and pulled myself to my feet. Swaying, I looked around me, then staggered to the window. I tore down the curtains and covered the girl's nude body with them. I collapsed into a chair, until I regained enough strength to stagger into the living room and make the incredibly slow journey to the telephone. I pawed the receiver off the hook and dialed the operator.
My croaked words didn't make much sense, but I succeeded in communicating my need for help. When one of Bonham's two policemen arrived at the house, I was unconscious on the floor, the receiver clamped in my hand so tightly he had trouble prying it loose.
* * *
I was a novelty for the staff at the hospital in the county seat near Bonham. They treated few gunshot wounds except during hunting season when overeager sportsmen usually managed to wing one or two other hunters, and I had the additional attraction of being the luckiest man they'd ever met.
"The one bullet only tore the flesh on your neck. You could get hurt worse playing touch football," the doctor said. "But you were remarkably lucky on the one that got you in the chest." He held up the shoulder holster I'd been wearing. "This slowed the slug down and angled it away from your vital organs. The bullet went through the leather rigging and was slanted from its path. You bled enough to lead the gunman to believe he'd made the right connection. You're very lucky, Mr. Harper."
"Yeah," I said. I was lucky, but Sheila was dead.
"Your Good Samaritan helped, too. He did a splendid job of bandaging you up. I wonder if he's had some medical training."
I grinned when I heard the Mafia's Marco Valante being termed a Good Samaritan.
The day and a half I had spent in the hospital had put me back in stride. I was still weak, but I felt close to par. I could move around my room, the doctor said, and if all went well, I could check out of the hospital within a week. He didn't know it, but I planned to check out unofficially inside thirty minutes.
I walked to the window and looked down at the hospital parking lot. The
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