“Slow, calm, deep breaths,” I tell Pete.
I should take the advice myself.
I stand, my adrenaline screaming. Fight or flight.
The hooded man moves to the middle of the room. He’s cut off my exits. I couldn’t flee if I wanted to. I couldn’t leave Grandma’s dying neurologist, much as I blame him for what’s happened, to a final hacking, or without telling me what the fuck is going on. That leaves: fight.
I look on the desk for a weapon. On the corner sits a stout porcelain lamp with a flower-pattered base. I lift it, but it slips from my hand. The hooded man assesses me in silence.
“Guns, fire, sharp objects,” I say. “You’re multi-talented.”
“In this economy, it pays to be versatile.”
“And a razor-sharp sense of humor.”
I need to buy time so the emergency operator can hone in on the phone signal and send the cavalry. The hooded man steps forward.
“You ever been to Davos?” I ask.
“Where?”
“You’re not from Switzerland.”
“Get ready to say gutenacht.”
“That’s German.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Am I allowed a weapon?” I ask.
“You can fight back with your face.”
He steps forward and I stumble back. I move right, behind the desk. This, I realize, constitutes a strategic error. If I try to use the desk as a barrier, it means putting Pete directly in the middle of the fray.
I slide further to my right, away from the desk. But into the open. Behind me, bookshelves. Further to my right, the library’s interior doorway, leading to the rest of the house, but the door is closed. The international man stands next to the desk, not far from Pete. He seems amused by my indecision and the apparent futility of my escape maneuvers. If I run for the interior door, he’ll get me from behind.
He takes a step forward, confident but cautious and strategic, cutting off my angles. He’s not breathing hard, but sweat glistens in the widow’s peak of his brow. I notice a slight wobble in his left leg. I take another step to my right and so does he. Wobble.
“ACL,” I say.
This pauses him.
“You’ve got a tear in your left knee. It’s weak. I’m not an orthopedist, but it looks to me like one wrong step and that thing could go.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
He takes two big steps towards me and swings his knife. I leap to my left, edging back behind the desk and out of the way of his swing. I turn to face him and see his new look of intense determination.
I back away, feeling in my pocket for the wine opener. I pass Pete to my left. I speed up my backpedaling. In my peripheral vision, I see a low-backed reading chair, maybe small enough that I can throw it, or big enough to duck behind. But my window to decide and act is slamming.
The man runs at me, knife held high. He swings it downward. I turn my back away in hopes of avoiding razor on flesh. I lurch, and stumble forward, flailing and falling. Behind me, I hear a yelp, and a thud.
“Motherfucker!”
Scrambling back to my feet, I turn to look. The assailant is on the ground, facedown. He looks at me, starts to rise, grimaces, grabs his knee.
I can see why: around the knee is a cord of some kind. An electrical cord.
In an instant, I understand. Pete somehow has wrapped the lamp cord around the killer’s leg and tripped him, aggravating the knee injury.
Remarkable. For once, my penchant for snap diagnoses has actually helped me.
He starts to rise again. I leap towards him as I pull the wine opener out. I aim for the top of his back, piercing the tender, nerve-filled skin between his scapulae.
“AHHH. FUCK!”
He flails his arms behind his back, reaching for the opener.
It is the strangest moment for me to think: Canadian accent. Not Swiss. Canadian.
Then I see that the knife has spun free. It is a few feet to the intruder’s left, at the base of the bookshelves. I rush to it. I grab the warm handle, slick with sweat.
I walk to the would-be killer. He’s craning his neck my direction, looking now at me. Despite having the opener still in his back, he’s responding to the more immediate danger. He inches away from me.
I hear sirens. Police, maybe an ambulance, headed in our direction.
I look at the electrical lamp cord still wrapped around the man’s knee. I follow the cord where it leads—to the stubby porcelain lamp lying next to Pete. It survived the fall from the desk. It won’t survive the next impact. Without taking my eyes from him, I set down the knife beside Pete and lift the lamp.
I walk to the assassin and hold it over his head, as he struggles to scoot away and extricate the protruding wine opener.
“Where’s my grandmother?”
“He doesn’t know,” Pete rasps. “He asked me.”
“How can he not know? He’s the bad guy!”
The man has succeeded in dislodging the wine opener. He’s getting his bearings, looking around for a weapon.
“Lights out,” I say.
I slam the lamp over the man’s head. The porcelain shatters. The intruder slumps, unconscious.
“DSM,” Pete mutters.
“Thank you, Pete. Unbelievable teamwork. Hang on. The ambulance is almost here.”
“DSM.”
He’s jutting his pale chin across the room. I follow his gaze to a small, round coffee table with ornate legs. On top of the table sits a hefty medical book. The DSM—The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
The intruder moans.
I look back at Pete. He nods.
I hustle over to the manual. I look back at Pete. “Dementia,” Pete says.
I open the book to D. I flip through pages, until I come to the loose piece of paper.
The sirens are nearing. They’ve certainly reached Sea Cliff, maybe our block.
Pete says something I can’t understand. He’s too weak to make his voice heard. I step closer to him and can make out his meaning. “Get them,” he whispers. “Stop them.”
“Who is them? Who is this man? Who does he work for?”
His head lolls. He’s fading.
“Pete!”
His chin droops. I feel his pulse. It’s weak, but blood continues to pump.
I take the piece of paper, and fold it into my pocket.
I look at Pete’s attacker, who is blinking on the edge of consciousness. The police will be here soon enough. I hate to leave, but I can’t stay. There is little I can do for Pete.
I slip out the back door into the moonlight.