The sheets beneath him were soaked. The T-shirt and Jockey shorts he slept in were just as wet. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and was amazed by how heavily he was perspiring. The window air conditioner clicked from its low hum to a deeper tone, signaling that the compressor was now engaged and reassuring him that cold air and sanity were on the way.
He felt a wash of cool air across his bare legs.
Too restless now even to close his eyes, he sat up in bed, reached into the darkness, and switched on the lamp, half expecting to see the terrible bird perched in a corner, its beak dripping with…
Quinn stood up from the damp bed and padded barefoot down the hall to the kitchen, which was noticeably warmer than the bedroom but smelled better. He got a carton of milk from the refrigerator, checked the date, then poured some in a glass. Wasn’t drinking milk supposed to relax you and help you sleep?
Immediately after downing the milk, he wished he’d drunk scotch. That worked better, at least in the short run.
The hell with it. If he had to be awake, he might as well be awake all the way.
But what to do with his extra hours?
He turned toward the phone in the kitchen and remembered the time. There was no point in disturbing Zoe’s sleep just because he, Quinn, had experienced a nightmare. He wondered what Zoe would make of his bad dream. Probably something he wouldn’t like.
Fedderman or Pearl? No, he needed them in top form tomorrow. And Pearl might get so pissed off she’d come over and berate him in person. It didn’t make sense to wake anyone up just because he couldn’t sleep and felt like having some company.
What did make sense was making himself useful, since he was going to be wide awake anyway. He decided to get dressed and go to the Seventy-ninth Street office, reread some murder files, maybe make use of his desk computer.
Do
He splashed cold water on his face and raked back his hair with his fingers. Then he put on a pair of pants, the shirt he’d worn today and dropped into the hamper, and moccasins without socks.
As he was leaving the apartment he paused, ducked back in, and got a cigar. A prop to remind him that reality was so much better than his dream.
Quinn opened the office door and knew immediately that something was wrong. An old cop got to know about dark rooms, to be able to sense whether the air was moving or still, to distinguish the slightest sounds that
Quinn
His hand darted toward the light switch, but didn’t make it.
Something, probably a shoulder, slammed into his midsection, and the air rushed from him as he bounced off the door and wall.
The door had slammed shut from the impact, and Quinn, fighting to breathe, saw the shadowed bulk of a man trying to open it. Quinn tried to get up, tried to stop the dark figure, but the spastic action of his lungs sucking in nothing kept his body curled in on itself; he was helpless.
Not quite.
He wasn’t sure how he did it, but he was aware of his arm extending, his fingers closing on a handful of material. A cuff, the man’s pants leg. He squeezed the wadded material harder, harder…
The leg jerked a few times in an effort to break free, and then the shadowed figure twisted and bent over Quinn.
There was a loud grunt, and something hard smashed into the side of Quinn’s head. He felt his grasp on the pants cuff lose its strength. Then his hold on consciousness started to fade.
He’d been intent on preventing the intruder from escaping, but now there was another possibility.
Fear arrived, something real and palpable that began crushing down on him like a weight. He began to crawl, not even sure of his direction. His left shoulder brushed something hard.
He tried to stand up, but that only made him dizzy and wobbly. And closer to unconsciousness. It was like the condition brought on by that stuff they gave you intravenously in hospitals to calm you before the big hit of anesthetic in the OR. He became too woozy even to be afraid.
He sought the strength and will to stay conscious, but realized it was a losing battle. It had been from the beginning.
