Read Online The Third Victim by Collin Wilcox - Free Book Online

he’d realized that he was walking closer, closer. Too close. Suddenly he’d felt suffocated—helpless, nerveless. And, too late, he’d realized that he was standing directly behind her as she waited for a traffic light. In that instant, incredibly, he’d felt himself drained of his own volition. His consciousness had suddenly pinwheeled wildly away, tilting the nearby buildings, choking the passing voices into a muttering, meaningless silence. He’d been aware of only one single, searing sensation: the willful, wanton brushing of her buttocks against the knuckles of his hands, clasped before him. As if he’d been wounded by the unclean contact, he’d shied away, clasping himself, probing the instant’s injury. And then he’d felt it: the hideous wetness behind his clasped hands. It had been—
    “Leonard!”
    He knew the voice. Florence Klein.
    Slowly, cautiously, he turned.
    “You’d better get those bookends up to Advertising. Never mind this. What’re you doing here, anyhow?”
    “There was—” He licked at his lips. “There was a—a little girl. With an ice-cream cone.”
    “Oh. Well, take the bookends upstairs, please.”
    Without answering, he turned away, walking directly to the storeroom. As he walked, reality was returning. The walls, the ceiling, everything was righting itself. Because he’d already imagined the next few minutes. This morning, in his mind, he’d done it all before. He knew every step, every gesture, every word. And this new order—Florence Klein’s order—had been a sign. Coming now, only minutes after the elevator door had closed, it was a sure, certain sign. The meaning was clear. After so close an escape, he now would reverse the energy waves. The danger would pass. If he willed it, the danger would pass. Again energy would flow from him to her. She’d tried. She’d almost succeeded, catching him with his wide-open eyes as he’d stood at the display counter, unprotected, helpless. But, mere minutes from now, he would be speaking to her, using words he’d already imagined—already formed in his mind, this morning. The energy would…
    The bookends
    He would trick her into touching them. Compel her to touch them. Thus, the energy flow would be reversed. The bookends would act as conductors.
    Conductors
    It was a new, exciting, blinding-bright idea.
    He was in the storeroom now, carefully lifting the bookends down from the shelf. Immediately he turned, walking to the freight elevator. Balancing one bookend on the other, he pressed the “up” button. The elevator was coming, clank-rattling. He was inside, pulling the rope, slowly ascending. At the second floor, another stockboy waited with a loaded dolly. Alone in the huge elevator, he held the cord, sending himself upward. The indignant voice faded away below. The third floor was next. The elevator was stopping. End of the line.
    End of the line
    A policeman had once spoken these same words. The first time they’d come for him, the policeman had said it was the end of the line. Ipso. Ergo and ipso. Like a bug, a policeman could stomp you.
    He was in. the back corridor. Ahead, on the pale green wall, was a sign: ADVERTISING . And an arrow—a fat red arrow. The arrow was flower-festooned, someone’s joke. The first door was marked ADVERTISING MANAGER . Closed. The second was marked COPY DEP’T . Closed. The third was ART DEP’T .
    Closed.
    He was again balancing one bookend carefully on top of the other. He was knocking. Softly. Very softly. No one must know.
    “Come in.”
    She sat behind the big square drawing board. She was looking up, smiling.
    “Hi, Leonard.” She pointed with a slim black drawing pen. “Put them there, will you? If you can find space.”
    Instead, he stepped toward her. Behind him, the door was closed. Softly, he’d closed the thin wooden door. In his hand he held one of the heavy metal bookends, extended toward her.
    How thick were the bones of her skull? How thin? Eggshell thin?