Then she saw the blonde head resting on the desk, and the wound itself and the limp white hand dangling over the edge of the desk.
Lynn Prentiss screamed.
Frederick Ellers had locked the door of his office and was pouring twelve-year old Bourbon from a private-stock fifth into a paper cup when he heard the scream.
The glass door was thin, and he could hear the scream distinctly. But he could not identify the voice, even though it made him sit bolt upright in his chair, dead sober for an instant.
I'm not the only one, he thought. Someone else has stumbled on agony.
Then the mist came swirling back and his thoughts became chaotic again.
Fire me. Just like that ... snap of her fingers. You'd better stay away from me. That's what I told her. When I go out of here I'm through. Told her that too. Just because she was so damn mean ... so cold rotten mean.
Feelings? You'd search a long while ... never find ... woman so goddam.... Told her I was sorry. How about that? What'd she expect? Go down on my knees? Listen, wait a minute. Before I'd do that—
Fifty-seven years old. Look at me, I said. Fifty-eight after the next fifty drinks. Fifty-eight and a fraction. Old, old, old.