He lunged forward, inside the swing, as the rake cut the air. He grasped with his left hand, reaching for a grip on Mark's clothing, catching the tie knotted loosely around his throat. Mark, off balance from his swing, pulled back instantly, and Carella moved forward with the movement of the bigger man, shoving him backward, and then suddenly tugging forward again on the tie.
Mark fell.
He dropped the rake and spread his hands out to cushion the fall, and Carella went down with him, knowing he must not come into contact with the bigger man's hand shand which had already strangled once.
Silently, grotesquely, they rolled on the ground toward the fire, Mark struggling for a grip at Carella's throat, Carella holding to the tie as if it were a hangman's noose.
They rolled over the fire, scattering sparks onto the lawn, almost extinguishing it. And then Carella dropped the tie, and leaped to his feet and, his right hand useless, his left lacking any real power, brought his foot hack and released it in a kick that caught Mark on the left shoulder, spinning him back to the ground.
Carelia closed in.
Again he kicked, and again, using his feet with the precision of a boxer. And then, backing off, he reached behind him with his left hand in a curious inverted draw, and faced Mark Scott with the .38 in his fist.
"Okay, get up," he said.
"I hated him," Mark said.
"I've hated him ever since I was old enough to walk. I've wanted him dead ever since I was fourteen."
"You got what you wanted," Carella said.
"Get up." Mark got to his feet.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Back to the squad," Carella said.
"It'll be a little more peaceful there."
"Where is he?" Virginia Dodge said impatiently. She looked up at the clock.
"It's almost seven thirty Isn't he supposed to report back here?"
"Yes," Byrnes said.
"Then where the hell is he?" She slammed her left fist down on the desk top.
Hawes watched. The bottle of nitro, jarred, did not explode.
It's water, Hawes thought. Goddamnit, it's water!
"Have you ever had to wait for anything, Marcia?" Virginia said to Teddy.
"I feel as if I've been in this squad room all my life."
Teddy watched the woman, expressionless.
"You ron bitch," Angelica Gomez said.
"You should wait in Hell, you dirtee bitch."
"She's angry," Virginia said, smiling.
"The Spanish onion is angry. Take it easy, Chiquita. Just think, your name'll be in the newspapers tomorrow."
"An' your name, too," Angelica said.
"An' maybe it be in the dead columns."
"I doubt that," Virginia said, and all humor left her face and her eyes.
"The newspapers will …" She stopped.
"The newspapers," she said, and this time she said the words with the tone of discovery. Hawes watched the discovery claim her face, watched as she stirred her memory. Her eyes were beginning to narrow.
"I remember reading a story about Carella," she said.
"In one of the newspapers. The time he got shot. It mentioned that his wife …" She paused.
"His wife was a deaf mute!" she said, and she turned glaring eyes on. Teddy.
"What about it, Marcia Franklin? What about it?"
Teddy did not move.
"What are you doing here?" Virginia said.
She had begun rising.
Teddy shook her head.
"Are you Marcia Franklin, come to report a burglary? Or are you Mrs. Steve Carella?
Which? Answer me!"
Again Teddy shook her head.
Virginia was standing now, her attention riveted to Teddy. Slowly, she came around the desk, sliding along its edge, ignoring the bottle on its top completely. It was as if, having found someone she believed to be related to Carella, her wait was nearing an end. It was as if should this woman be Carella's wife-she could now truly begin to vent her spleen. Her decision showed on her face. The hours of waiting, the impatience of the ordeal, the necessity for having to deal with other people while her real quarry delayed his entrance showed in the gleam of her eyes and the hard set of her mouth. As she approached Teddy Carella, Hawes knew instinctively that she would inflict upon her the same-if not worse punishment that Meyer Meyer had suffered.
"Answer me!" Virginia screamed, and she left the desk completely now, the bottle of nitro behind her, advanced to Teddy, and stood before her, a dark solemn judge and jury.
She snatched Teddy's purse from her arm, and snapped it open. Byrnes, Kung, Willis, stood to the right of Teddy, near the coat rack. Miscolo was unconscious on the floor behind Virginia, near the filing cabinets. Only Meyer and Hawes were to her right and slightly behind her-and Meyer was limp, his head resting on his folded arms.
Quickly, deftly, Virginia rifled through the purse. She found what she was looking for almost immediately. Immediately, she read it aloud.
"Mrs. Stephen Carella, 837 Dartmouth Road, Riverhead. In case of emergency, call…" She stopped.
"Mrs. Stephen Carella," she said.
