terror comes creep

Eleven

I HAD DINNER BEFORE I LEFT THE HOTEL. FOR ALL I KNEW

it was going to be a long night and who needs hunger? It was just after eight when I got going in the rented convertible. Another nice, crisp, moonlight night, and once I’d left the city limits, there were just the soft silhouettes of trees on either side of the road, caught in the headlights’ glare. Made me feel kind of nervous; I’ve got the native New Yorker’s fear of open spaces. I just don’t trust all that nothing, not until it’s filled with tall buildings, anyway.

I turned off the road through the open gates, past the board which still said “High Tor,” then down the tracks to the farmhouse. For a moment, after I’d turned off the motor, I just sat in the car, lit a cigarette, and looked at the house. Lights showed from the windows, it didn’t look any different now than it had before. But something was different about it.

You could feel it and it couldn’t be put into words. A sensation, something that touched your face like a spider’s web, and then was gone. Something that spiked your nerve ends and made them jump suddenly and painfully. A silent, creeping thing that crept closer all the time, waiting to pounce. What was it Sylvia had said about a house of fear?

I got out of the car fast because I knew if I sat there much longer thinking that way, I’d turn the car around and drive straight back into Providence—and that hit-and-run rap Greer had waiting for me.

The front door opened almost as soon as I knocked, and Galbraith Hazelton stood there, glaring at me. He looked a lot older, even since the morning when I’d last

seen him. His eyes were sunken in his cheeks, and the mustache didn't bristle any more.

“What do you want, Boyd?” he asked in a Lifeless voice.

“To see Martha,” I said. “She’s still my client.”

“You can’t see her,” he said. “Haven’t you caused enough tragedy to my family?”

“She’s still my client,” I said. “I’m going to see her, I | don’t think you can stop me, Hazelton.”

Hazelton was pulled back from the door suddenly, and Pete Rinkman, the handyman with muscles, took his place.

“Maybe Mr. Hazelton can’t stop you, buddy,” he said softly. “But I can!”

The only difference in his appearance, compared to the first time I saw him, was that now a red, instead of i black, shirt was tucked into the polished cottons. His l boots still had the same high gloss.

“Hi, Pete,” I said. “Seen any more hit-and-run accidents lately?”

“Nobody wants you here, buddy,” he said. “So why not go now before you get hurt?”

“We went through this routine once before, I remem-i ber,” I said.

His face darkened a fraction. “This time, I’m watching you!”

I slid the Magnum out of its harness, weighed it in the palm of my hand for a moment, then looked at him again.

“The gun don’t scare me!” he said flatly.

“It should,” I told him. “I’ll use it if I have to, buddy.”

“Pete!” a voice called sharply from somewhere in the hall behind him. “Who is it?”

The next moment Martha Hazelton’s face appeared over Pete’s shoulder.

“Mr. Boyd!” She looked almost pleased to see me. “Do come in.”

“Excuse me, buddy,” I said politely to Pete, put the gun away, then stepped past him into the hallway.

I saw Galbraith Hazelton just disappearing into the living room—he must have quit trying when his daughter got into the act as well.

“I’m very glad you came, Mr. Boyd,” Martha said in a low voice. “Very glad.”

She looked just as immaculate as ever, in a white silk shirt with a pointed tab collar, and tailored peon pants. Her dark eyes smiled at me as she shook hands.

“My father told us the good news about your release,” she said. “Not that he thought it was good news, but I think you already know how he feels about you?”

“He drops a hint here and there,” I admitted, “like a thermal bomb.”

“What brings you here, Mr. Boyd?”

“You,” I said. “You’re my client, and I figure after what happened this morning, you need some protection.” “I think you’re right,” she said tautly. “Thank you for coming.”

Pete brushed past us on his way somewhere to the back of the house, his face an expressionless mask.

“Well,” Martha Hazelton injected a false note of brightness into her voice. “Shall we go into the living room?” “Maybe we could play happy families?” I suggested. Inside the living room, Hazelton was sitting in an armchair lighting a cigar. He gave me a blank, hostile look, then concentrated on the cigar again.

“You’ve met Father already I think?” Martha said in a dry voice. “Do you know Mr. Houston?”

Houston was at a card table playing gin rummy with Sylvia. He looked up and almost smiled—but his corpse’s eyes behind their half-frames showed no emotion at all. “Glad to see you, Boyd,” he said.

“And I think you know Miss West,” Martha concluded the unnecessary introductions, “our—er—housekeeper?” “We’ve met before,” I said. “I’ve always thought Miss 102

West was a highly efficient girl—no one needs to tell her to pull her stockings up, I’m sure!”

Sylvia shot me a glance of pure hatred, then looked down at her cards quickly.

“You can see we’re just one happy family here, Mr. Boyd,” Martha said caustically. “Can I make you a drink?”

“Gin and tonic,” I said, “thanks.”

She walked over to the small bar in one comer of the room, and told me to sit down while she made the drinks. I sat in one of the uncomfortable Early Colonial chairs facing the card table, with Hazelton on the other side of me.

Martha brought the drinks over and sat down in the chair next to mine.

“Do you know what progress the police are making with the case?” she asked.

“Lieutenant Greer says they’ve nearly got it all wrapped up,” I said. “But he didn’t give me any details.”

Houston stopped shuffling a deck of cards and looked across at me. “That’s very interesting news, Boyd,” he said. “You have no idea who they suspect?”

“Greer didn’t confide in me,” I said. “So your guess is as good as mine. . . . What is your guess?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, it all seems completely unreal to me even now. Whoever the murderer is, there’s no doubt we’re dealing with an immensely clever personality—a brilliant brain.” His eyes never left Martha’s face as he talked on in a slow, deliberate voice. “The way the murders were carried out showed a natural genius for strategy and planning, one almost can't help admiring it.”

“Admiring it!” Hazelton said in a choked voice. “Are you mad, Houston? You’re talking about a cold-blooded killer who murdered my boy and my youngest girl!”

“Do you have a special guess about the murderer’s identity, Mr. Hazelton?” 1 asked him.

“No,” he said angrily. “But I’m damned sure you had something to do with it!”

“Martha hired me,” I said. “Does that mean you think she’s the murderer?”

“No!” he almost screamed. “You’re twisting my words^ making out I’m meaning something I don’t mean!” “You’re quite sure, Father?” Martha said tightly. “I mean, there’s only me left now, isn’t there? If I were found guilty and electrocuted, there would be none of us left. So you wouldn’t have to worry about Mother’s trust fund, would you? No survivors among the children, and the money goes to you, as the sole surviving member of the family, as I remember?”

Hazelton stared at her dully. “What are you trying to say?” he whispered.

“If the trust fund’s just a little short,” she said icily, “say—half a million or so? Wouldn’t it be convenient if there was no one left to inherit but you?”

He sat forward with his shoulders hunched, his hands clutching the arms of the chair.

“You think I’d do that?” he said in a shaking voice. “I’d kill my children—for money!”

“You love yourself more than anyone else on earth,” she said flatly. “You always have—the fine image of yourself you carry around in your mind—Galbraith Hazelton, Wall Street big shot—financial tycoon. The man in the homburg hat with the military mustache and fine upright bearing! You’d do anything to stop that picture being splashed across the front pages with ‘Swindler’ written underneath!”

Hazelton looked numbly at the cigar between his shaking fingers for a moment, then threw it into the fireplace.

“I am worth, conservatively, something more than a million dollars at this moment,” he said bleakly. “I’m no Wall Street tycoon, I’m not even considered to be a big shot there. A middling-small shot if you like. But I don’t run a stock-broking business because I need the money 1”

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“That’s a pretty speech, Father,” Martha said coldly. “Why don’t you practice it for Lieutenant Greer?”

“As far as your mother’s trust fund is concerned,” he went on in the same bleak tone, “I have nothing to do with it. I never have—I speculate with my own money— gamble with it even. But your mother’s money was different. I always felt 1 didn’t have the right to risk iL It was a temptation at first I admit, but I got rid of the temptation by having someone else administer it. My instructions were the capital was to be invested in blue-chip stocks and there was to be no speculation of any kind. Once a year I look over the books, that’s all.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that?” Martha said contemptuously.

“I’m not sure right now whether I expect you to believe anything,” he said quietly. “But you can easily check if you wish—ask the man who’s administered the fund from six months after your mother’s death right up until the present.”

“Don’t tell me his name is Smith and by some coincidence he’s away in Europe at present?” Martha jeered.

“His name is Houston, and he’s right here in this room,” Hazelton said flatly. “Actually it was his senior partner, Abrams, who handled the estate for the first four years, up until his death. But Houston has managed it ever since.”

“Houston?” Martha repeated slowly. Her dark eyes grew enormous. “But I thought—”

“Tell her, man!” Hazelton said fiercely. “Is it true, or not?”

Houston studied the fingernails of his right hand for a moment.

“Oh, yes,” he said politely. “It’s perfectly true.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before!” Martha shouted at him suddenly.

“You never asked,” he said mildly.

“You should have told me!” she screamed. “You let

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me think all the time it was Father who was—” She stopped suddenly.

“Go on, Martha,” Houston said conversationally. ^ “Who was what?”

“Nothing!” she said sullenly.

“Embezzling money from the trust?” He finished the sentence for her. “I don’t have the capital your father has, naturally, but my income over the last five years has been in the six-figure bracket. I also don’t need money, but if you would like the fund’s books audited I shall be only too pleased to make the arrangements.” Martha began to cry suddenly, burying her face in her hands and making a small, wailing noise like a young i child.

Houston looked across at Galbraith, his face white and strained.

“How much more do you have to see?” he asked tensely. “Will you believe it now? You’ve deliberately blinded yourself to it for far too long already! I’ve told you—Miss West, a professional nurse, has told you— when are you going to take her to a psychiatrist and find out the truth!”

“Truth?” Martha asked in a cracked voice. She lifted her head slowly and looked at him with a tear-stained face. “What truth?”

His face was ugly. “That you’re insane, Martha,” he said softly. “A paranoiac, a homicidal paranoiac who should be locked in a padded cell before you kill again!” “Houston!” Galbraith said hoarsely. “You can’t—” “Insane!” Martha hissed. “So that’s what you’re trying to do to me?” She came out of the chair slowly and stood in a half-crouched position, staring at him fixedly, i “What a fool I’ve been,” she said bitterly. “I thought it was my own father—and all the time it was you! I didn’t realize just how clever you are, Greg. It’s you who’s stolen money from the fund and can’t afford to have anyone survive to claim their inheritance!” “Martha,” he said calmly. “It’s no use—”

“It’s you who planned it all,” she went on in that hissing voice. “You killed Philip and then Clemmie— j and now you want to convince Father and the others ! that I’m insane—a madwoman and a murderess! Well, you won’t do it, you hear! 1 won’t let you do it!” She screamed the last words at him and took another step closer to the card table.

“And dear, charming Miss West,” she bared her teeth at Sylvia in a ghastly parody of a smile, “our housekeeper who isn’t a housekeeper but a professional nurse. She’s part of your plot, Greg? To back up your lies and make sure no one believes the truth when I tell it?” “Sit down, Martha!” Houston said sharply. “Try and control yourself!”

“Of course!” she said slowly. “There had to be someone else, too. Somebody to keep the strangers out— people like Mr. Boyd who might get curious and had to be stopped. Someone like Pete Rinkman, Greg?”

“You’re wildly wrong,” he said. “Stop building a nightmare that doesn’t exist, Martha! You’re in bad enough trouble already with the one that does exist!”

“Pete,” she repeated the name slowly. “He’s the one! You’re too smart for me, Mr. Houston!” She looked at Sylvia and sneered openly, “You and your lady-friend nurse! But Pete isn’t very smart, I can get the truth out of him. He’s the one I can handle. . . . Yes, he’s the one.” Her voice dropped to a murmur as if she was talking more to herself than anyone else.

“Pete!” She nodded vigorously. “I must talk to him now, right away, before it’s too late.” She walked quickly to the door and then out into the hallway.

“Pete!” Her voice grew fainter as she went into the back rooms of the house somewhere. “Pete! Where are you, Pete!” A door slammed and then there was silence.

“Someone should stop her,” Houston said uneasily. “Before she harms herself.”

“Sylvia,” I said. “I owe you an apology. You were telling me the truth when you said Houston suggested 107

you should come and ask me to come here tonight?” “Don’t bother to apologize,” she said coldly. “Just drop dead!”

Houston shrugged his shoulders irritably, then looked at Hazelton.

“Now you know beyond any doubt,” he said evenly. “It’s too late to save Philip and Clemmie, but at least you can try and save Martha from herself. Will you call the police, or will I?”

“I wouldn’t be too quick about calling Greer,” I said to him casually. “It wouldn’t hurt to check a couple of points first.”

“You aren’t concerned in this, Boyd!” he said shortly. “So keep your mouth shut!”

“Martha’s still my client, and that gives me an interest,” I said. “And watch your manners, Houston, or I’ll knock your teeth out!”

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Hazelton said in a trembling voice. “But her outburst just now—the hysterics—it was awful. It—”

“You think that proves she’s blown her stack?” I said to him. “I figure it was a normal reaction.”

“Normal?” Hazelton said blankly, looking at me for the first time.

“You have to remember she thought it was you conspiring against all three of them,” I said. “That was why she hired me—she’d convinced herself somehow that you had stolen money from the trust fund and were actively planning to kill all three of them.”

“Doesn’t that sound insane?” Houston demanded. “You have to remember also,” I said to Hazelton, ignoring the attorney’s question, “when she came to me, Philip was already missing and Clemmie was up here with Miss West watching her the whole time, and Pete Rinkman acting like a guard to keep people out. It looked to Martha that her sister was being kept a prisoner here—she didn’t know you were worried about Clemmie’s mental balance.”

“Perhaps not,” Hazelton said dully.

“Get her to a psychiatrist!** Houston said loudly. “You’ll have proof soon enough about the state of Martha’s mind!’*

“You keep saying that,” I snarled at him. “You keep saying Martha’s insane—and Sylvia West keeps on saying she’s insane and Clemmie was on her way to becoming insane. Any moment now, Pete Rinkman’s going to come rushing in here and say the same thing.”

I looked at Hazelton. “But nobody else has said that. You were only frightened that one or both of your daughters might have inherited the family history of insanity. But up to this moment you never believed that either of them were actually insane, did you?”

“No,” Hazelton stiffened in his chair. “No, I didn’t.” “I haven’t known either of them for long,” I said. “But I never thought for a moment that Clemmie was insane or showing any signs of abnormality. And I don’t think for one moment that Martha is insane now. How did you come to hire Miss West?”

“Why—Houston said if I was worried about the girls, why didn’t I hire a professional nurse to keep an eye on them. He said the girls didn’t need to know. The nurse could pretend to be a housekeeper at the farmhouse.”

“Then he produced Miss West as the right candidate for the job?”

“Yes, yes, he did!” His eyes were suddenly alert again.

“And after Miss West had been on the job a little while she gave you a bad report on Clemmie, maybe? Suggested it would be better if Clemmie stayed on the farm full-time for a while so she could keep her under close observation?”

“Yes!” he said sharply.

“How about Pete Rinkman? Whose idea was it to employ a handyman who was really a bodyguard—to keep people out?”

Galbraith Hazelton stood up slowly, his mustache bristling, his back ramrod-stiff.

“Do you have any further points to make, Boyd?” he asked in a deceptively mild voice. His eyes glittered as he watched Houston the whole time.

“Gilding the lily,” I said. “When you knew I’d taken Clemmie away from here—it would be Houston who produced the private detective, Tolvar, to bring her back? Houston who said, once you’d got her back, wouldn’t it be best if you all went up to the farmhouse for a time where you’d be safe, and take Tolvar along for extra protection?”

Hazelton walked slowly toward the card table, his eyes still fixed on Houston’s chalk-white face.

“I think, Greg,” he said in a low voice, “I’m going to kill you!”

“Don’t waste your time, Mr. Hazelton,” I told him. ‘The law will take care of that!”

“Have you all gone mad?” Houston said desperately. “What motive could I have for trying to prove them insane—for killing Philip and Clemmie!”

“The answer to that is in the trust fund, I guess,” I told him. “If the money’s all there, you have nothing to worry about.”

“I’ve said the money’s all there!” he said tautly. “I already told you that—over and over! Didn’t you hear me? If you want the books checked over I’m perfectly prepared to—”

“I don’t think you need bother, Houston,” I told him. “Lieutenant Greer’s taken care of that already.”

“Anyone you nominate, can take a look at—” He turned his head slowly and stared at me. “What did you say?”

“Lieutenant Greer’s had the New York police subpoena the trust fund’s accounts,” I repeated. “They’re being checked over right now.”

For the first time there was some expression in his dead eyes. They looked sick. He picked up the deck of

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cards from the table and began to riffle them aimlessly in his hands.

“Oh, my God!” he said softly. “Who’ll believe me now?”

Sylvia West began to cry noiselessly, the tears streaming down her face as she sat and watched Houston.

“Maybe now would be a good time to call Lieutenant Greer,” I said to Hazelton.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I was so wrong about you, Boyd, I don’t know how to apologize. You had more faith in my daughter than I had—your faith couldn’t be shaken the way mine was. That’s a bitter lesson I will never forget.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that too much,” I told him. “When Martha knows the truth, I guess it’ll make you both equal again. You thought for a little while she was a murderer, and she thought the same of you.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said. “I’ll call the Lieutenant right away.”

“I’ll go find Martha,” I said. “The sooner she knows, the better for her.”

I got as far as the door and stopped for a moment to look back at Houston.

“I wouldn’t try running,” I told him. “Greer’s got the whole place surrounded by cops,” I said in a wild exaggeration. “I don’t think you’d get ten yards out the front door!”

Then I realized I was wasting my time. He still sat there staring at nothing, while his hands shuffled and reshuffled the cards in a formless pattern. Mr. Houston wasn’t going any place—he wasn’t going to try and go any place. Mr. Houston was all through.

She was nowhere inside the house. I’d checked every room and there was no sign of her. I went out of the back door and called her a couple of times but she didn’t answer.

The cold moonlight bathed the farm in its brilliance

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and the crisp air was still. Any sound would carry a long way on a night like this—if she was anywhere on the farm at all, she would have heard me. If she heard me, she’d answer, I reasoned, unless she heard me and couldn’t answer.

I walked quickly away from the house with icy fingers tightening around my insides. Houston had Sylvia West working for him inside the house—and Pete working for him outside the house. It could have been either one of them that moved Sweet William around in the pens to fool the cops; but it was Pete who told Greer about the mythical hit-and-run accident where Tolvar had supposedly been killed. So maybe he’d panicked when Martha had come screaming accusations at him?

There were two obvious places to look at first. One was the bam, and the other was the lake. I didn’t want to think about the lake. In her state of mind when she’d rushed,out of the room blindly, Martha could have done anything, including drown herself in the same lake where her sister had been drowned. I preferred Pete, out of the two possibilities.

I got to the bam, then slowed down to a sudden stop. If he did have Martha inside, she might still be unharmed. But if I went charging in like a mad dog, he could panic and maybe kill her before I got to him.

So I moved quietly up to the door of the bam and saw it was open about a foot—enough for me to squeeze through without opening it any further. The Magnum’s weight in my right hand was reassuring as I edged my way inside the bam slowly, making no noise.

Inside, I stood still for maybe fifteen seconds, until my eyes adjusted to the dimness and I could see properly. I remembered from the time before that there had been plenty of light after a while. Slowly, the various planes and surfaces came into focus—the tractor, the mechanical harvester, the vertical white ladder that led up into the hayloft.

A couple of minutes later, I was sure there was no one

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else inside the bam, and that left the lake. I turned toward the door and then froze in my tracks. Someone had laughed. A low, gurgling, sensual sound, so obscene that my ears refused to believe it for a moment.

It had drifted down from somewhere above me_the

only place possible—the hayloft. I catfooted over to the ladder and climbed it cautiously, one rung at a time, holding my breath.

I reached the top and lifted my head over the level of the platform, and they were so close I could have reached out a hand and touched them.

Pete was crouched on his hands and knees, his back toward me. The shaft of moonlight that Sylvia had used so effectively spilled a cone of light onto the straw, and in the center of the cone was Martha Hazelton.

She lay on her back, one arm flung across her face, and she was whimpering softly. The silk shirt had been ripped open down the front, exposing her smallish, high-peaked breasts that looked both virginal and defenseless.

Pete gave an animal grunt deep in his throat, then lunged forward, his fingers digging into the waistband of her peon pants, ripping them downward with a savage force. She moaned desperately then raised herself up on one elbow, her eyes staring wildly—and looked straight at me.

For a long moment she just stared, and her dark eyes seemed to get larger and larger.

“Danny?” she sounded as if she wasn’t sure I was real.

“Danny,” she said again in an urgent whisper. “Help me! Please, help me!”

“All right, Pete!” I said slowly. “One wrong move and I’ll put a hole through your spinal column!”

He didn’t even stop to think about it. He lashed out savagely with his right leg in a backward kick, and the heel of the polished boot smashed into my face.

I went backward, losing my balance, losing my hold on the Magnum, off the ladder in a slowly turning arc, then hit the bam floor flat on my back.

There was no air left in my lungs and I figured I’d broken my spine or something. Whatever it was, I couldn’t move and I couldn’t breathe.

I heard Pete’s harsh, ragged voice say, “You double-crossing bitch!” Then the staccato sound like a pistol shot as he hit her, and afterward the thin, wavering scream as she felt the shock and pain.

His boots scraped on the ladder as he came down, making a rasping noise, but for me it was the bell tolling. He thudded onto the floor of the bam, and a second later, his bulk loomed over me.

“What’s the matter, buddy?” he said thickly. “Break your back?” A boot hammered into my ribs. “Too bad!” he jeered. “Now I don’t get the fun of doing it myself.” The boot emphasized the way he felt again.

Maybe it was going to happen anyway, or maybe the boot in the ribs helped along, but suddenly I was breathing again. I sucked in air like next week it was rationed, and moved my arms experimentally. The boot came into my ribs again, but this time I made a grab and caught his ankle. I hung on while he cursed wildly, then tugged sharply, pulling him off balance so he sprawled on top of me. We rolled across the floor and broke apart.

I came up on my knees quickly and then more slowly up on my feet. Pete was already up, standing ready, waiting for me.

“This I like, buddy!” he said sofdy. “We had this coming from the first time!”

He came toward me slowly, a shadowy, menacing bulk that looked larger than life-size. When he got within reach I swung at him with a chopping right toward his head. He ducked under it easily, and the next moment two pulverizing fists hammered into my chest directly over the heart. He danced out of range again, moving iighdy on his feet. I remembered the tiny white scars on his eyebrows and that I’d figured him for an ex-pro the first time I ever saw him.

He moved in again, weaving and bobbing, and I knew 114

he’d kill me if I tried to fight him his way, so the only thing I could do was fight him my way. I took a punch in the mouth which split my lower lip like it was paper, and another one over the heart that nearly stopped it in its tracks, but I got in a high-stepping kick which made a crunching noise when it connected just below his right knee.

The wild howl he gave while he hobbled away from me made the torn lip almost worthwhile. I figured I’d slowed him down a little and went after him. He backed off slowly, circling all the time and I kept after him, trying to crowd him back against the wall. Then his back touched the wall and I got overanxious and careless. A vicious uppercut came out of nowhere, and bright lights exploded inside my head as I went staggering backward onto my knees.

“Danny!”

I got to my feet and stood swaying gently for a moment, while a slim white figure came in and out of focus beside me.

“Danny!” Martha said urgently. “I’ve got your gun. I’ll shoot him, I’ll kill him!”

I made a drunken, sweeping movement with my arm, meaning to brush her aside, and knocking her off her feet instead.

“Don’t bug me now, honey-chile!” I said thickly. “I’m getting to like it.”

My head cleared as I got close to Pete again. He hadn’t moved away from the wall, and he was putting all his weight on one leg. I figured with any luck I might have cracked his kneecap with that kick.

He was cursing me in a steady monotone, using the same words over and over again. I stepped up close to him, within range of his fists, then stepped back again swiftly. The haymaker which would have busted my jaw if it connected, went whistling past six inches short of my face. He’d meant it for the finale and the momentum carried him off balance, so that he lurched toward me.

I jumped forward to meet him, bringing my knee up sharply as I went. It hit him in the pit of the stomach with brutal force and he jackknifed forward across my knee. I brought the side of my hand down in a straight, chopping movement so it hit the side of his head, just behind the ear where the bone and membrane protrude slightly under the tightly-stretched skin. He rolled sideways off my knee onto the floor and lay there.

For a few seconds I couldn’t move. Then I took a deep, shuddering breath and Martha hurtled into my arms.

“Danny!” she sobbed. “I was so scared! All the time up there in the hayloft, he kept telling me what he was going to do to me. Horrible things!” She shuddered. “And afterwards he said he was going to kill me!”

“It’s all right now,” I said breathlessly, and patted her shoulder clumsily. “Everything’s all right. Your father knows the truth—it was Houston. Sylvia West and Pete were working with him—they were all trying so hard to prove you were out of your mind, they tried too hard. By the time we get back to the house, Greer will be there and it’ll be all over.”

“Danny!” She rubbed her face against my chest. “You saved my life. You saved me from Houston, and then from Pete. I’ll never forget you, Danny, never!”

“Just so long as you remember when you write the check,” I grunted. “We’d better get back to the house. You get going, I’ll catch up. I’d better check on Pete first” “All right,” she whispered. “One day I’ll thank you properly!” She moved away from me, then turned and walked slowly toward the door.

I got down painfully on my knees beside Pete Rink-man, and pulled him over on his back. I should have known I was wasting my time—that membrane is highly vulnerable.

Pete Rinkman was dead.