G is for Gumshoe (Kinsey Millhone 7)

Dietz came into the house, striding across the room. He was winded, tightly controlled, sweating, his manner grim. He pulled me to my feet, his face stony. I could feel his hands digging into my upper arms, but I couldn't voice a protest.

"Are you okay?"

He gave me a shake and I nodded, feeling mute. He set me aside like a rag doll and moved away, crossing to Irene who was weeping as piteously as a three-year-old. She sat on the floor with her legs spread, skirt askew, arms limp in her lap, her palms turned up. Dietz put an arm around her, pulling her close. He kept his voice low, reassuring her, bending down so she could hear. He asked her a question. I saw her shake her head. She was gasping, unable to say more than a few words before she was forced to stop for breath.

The owner of the house was standing in the hallway, his fear having given way to outrage. "What's going on here? What is this, a drug bust? I open my door and I nearly get myself killed! Look at the damages. Who's going to pay for this?"

Dietz said, "Shut up and call the cops."

"Who are you? You can't talk to me that way! This is a private residence."

I sank down on a dining room chair. Through the front window, I could see that neighbors had begun to congregate, murmuring anxiously among themselves- little groups of two and three, some standing in the yard.

What had the man said to me? I ran it back again: I'd heard Dietz's car rumbling in the street and that's when I'd turned, smiling at the man who was smiling at me. I could hear his words now, understood at last what he'd said to me as he approached-"You're mine, babe"-his tone possessive, secretive, and then the incredible sexual heat in his face. I felt tears rise, blurring my vision. The window shimmered. My hands began to shake.

Dietz patted Irene's arm and returned to me. He hunkered at my side, his face level with mine. "You did great. You were fine. There was no way you could have known that would happen, okay?"

I had to squeeze my hands between my knees so the shaking wouldn't travel up my arms. I looked at Dietz's face, gray eyes, the blunt nose. "He tried to kill me."

"No, he didn't. He tried to scare you. He could have killed you the first time, in Brawley on the road. He could have nailed you just now with the first shot he fired. If he kills you, the game is over. That isn't what he wants. He's not a pro. He's sick. We can use that to get him. Can you understand what I'm saying? Now we know his weakness."

"Yeah, it's me," I said, forever flip. Actually, I didn't understand much of anything. I'd looked into the face of Death. I'd mistaken him for a friend. Other people had tried to kill me-out of vengeance, out of hate. It had never really seemed personal until the man on the walk. No one had ever connected to me as intimately as he had.

I glanced over at Irene. Her respiratory distress, instead of subsiding, seemed to be getting worse. Her breathing was rapid, shallow, and ineffectual, the wheezing in her throat like two high-pitched notes on a bagpipe. Her fingertips were turning a shadowy blue. She was suffocating where she sat. "She needs help," I said.

Dietz turned to look at her. "Oh hell…"

He was on his feet instantly, striding across the room.

The owner of the house was standing at the telephone, repeating his address to the police dispatcher.

Dietz said, "We need an ambulance, too," and then to Irene, "Take it easy. You'll be fine. We'll have help for you soon. Don't panic…"

I saw Irene nod, which was as much as she could manage.

In the midst of the confusion, Clyde Gersh appeared, drawn by the scattering of neighbors who were standing out in front. He told me later than when he saw the damages to the house his first thought was that Agnes had been discovered and had put up some kind of fight. The last thing he expected was to see Irene on the floor in the midst of a stage III asthma attack. Within minutes, the cops arrived, along with the paramedics, who administered oxygen and first aid, loaded Irene on a gurney, and hustled her away. In the meantime, I felt strangely removed. I knew what was expected and I did as I was told. I rendered a detailed account of events in a monotone, letting Dietz fill in the background. I'm not sure how much time passed before Dietz was allowed to take me home. Time had turned sluggish and it seemed like hours. I never even heard the name of the guy who owned the house. The last glimpse I saw of him, he was standing on the porch, looking like the sole survivor of an 8.8 earthquake.

14

When we got home, I fumbled my way up to the loft. I pulled my shoes off. I stretched out on the bed, propping the pillows up behind me while I took stock of myself. All the niggling aches and pains in my body were gone, washed away by the wave of adrenaline that had tumbled over me during the attack. I was feeling drained, lethargic, my brain still crackling while my body was immobilized. Downstairs, I heard the murmur of Dietz talking on the phone.