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“Then you know where the front door is, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“Reba, feel on my chest. Bring your hands up slowly.”

Try for his eyes?

His thumb and fingers touched lightly on each side of her windpipe. “Don’t do what you’re thinking, or I’ll squeeze. Just feel on my chest. Just at my throat. Feel the key on the chain? Take it off over my head. Careful . . . that’s right. Now I’m going to see if I can trust you. Go close the front door and lock it and bring me back the key. Go ahead. I’ll wait right here. Don’t try to run. I can catch you.”

She held the key in her hand, the chain tapping against her thigh. It was harder navigating in her shoes, but she kept them on. The ticking clock helped.

Rug, then floor, rug again. Loom of the sofa. Go to the right.

What’s my best shot? Which? Fool along with him or go for it? Did the others fool along with him? She felt dizzy from deep breathing. Don’t be dizzy. Don’t be dead.

It depends on whether the door is open. Find out where he is.

“Am I going right?” She knew she was.

“It’s about five more steps.” The voice was from the bedroom all right.

She felt air on her face. The door was half-open. She kept her body between the door and the voice behind her. She slipped the key in the keyhole below the knob. On the outside.

Now. Through the door fast making herself pull it to and turn the key. Down the ramp, no cane, trying to remember where the van was, running. Running. Into what—a bush—screaming now. Screaming “Help me. Help me. Help me, help me.” On gravel running. A truck horn far away. Highway that way, a fast walk and trot and run, fast as she could, veering when she felt grass instead of gravel, zigging down the lane.

Behind her footsteps coming fast and hard, running in the gravel. She stooped and picked up a handful of rocks, waited until he was close and flung them, heard them thump on him.

A shove on the shoulder spun her, a big arm under her chin, around her neck, squeezing, squeezing, blood roared in her ears. She kicked backward, hit a shin as it became increasingly quiet.

47

In two hours, the list of white male employees twenty to fifty years old who owned vans was completed. There were twenty-six names on it.

Missouri DMV provided hair color from driver’s-license information, but it was not used as an exclusionary factor; the Dragon might wear a wig.

Fisk’s secretary, Miss Trillman, made copies of the list and passed them around.

Lieutenant Fogel was going down the list of names when his beeper went off.

Fogel spoke to his headquarters briefly on the telephone, then put his hand over the receiver. “Mr. Crawford . . . Jack, one Ral

ph Mandy, white male, thirty-eight, was found shot to death a few minutes ago in University City—that’s in the middle of town, close to Washington University—he was in the front yard of a house occupied by a woman named Reba McClane. The neighbors said she works for Baeder. Her door’s unlocked, she’s not home.”

“Dandridge!” Crawford called. “Reba McClane, what about her?”

“She works in the darkroom. She’s blind. She’s from someplace in Colorado—”

“You know a Ralph Mandy?”

“Mandy?” Dandridge said. “Randy Mandy?”

“Ralph Mandy, he work here?”

A check of the roll showed he didn’t.

“Coincidence maybe,” Fogel said.

“Maybe,” Crawford said.