He squeezed harder. There was a gurgling noise. But it wasn’t coming from Frank. It came from his own throat, as though he were crushing his own flesh, stopping the flow of his own blood. He told himself to close his eyes, he didn’t want to watch what he was doing. But his eyes wouldn’t close and he was seeing the convulsive movement of Frank’s gaping mouth. He realized that Frank was trying to tell him something.
His fingers reduced the pressure. He heard Frank gasping, “I didn’t do it.”
He released the hold. Frank was on his knees, trying to cough, trying to talk, making gagging sounds that gradually gave way to sighs.
“Talk,” Kerrigan gritted. “Talk fast.”
“I didn’t do it,” Frank repeated. “I swear I didn’t.”
For some moments there was no sound in the room. Yet in the stillness there was the feeling of something racing through the air, whirling around and around to turn everything upside down.
Frank was lifting himself from the floor. He staggered sideways and leaned heavily against the bar. His eyes were shut tightly and he had his knuckles pressed against his temples.
“You gonna talk?” Kerrigan demanded.
But Frank didn’t hear. He seemed to be alone with himself. Then gradually his eyes opened and he was staring up at the ceiling. His hands were lowered, his arms loose at his sides. He spoke to whatever he saw there on the ceiling. “It’s straight now,” he whispered. “I finally got it straight.”
Then it was quiet again. Kerrigan had his mouth open but he couldn’t speak. He was trying to get hold of his thoughts, the hollow thoughts that wouldn’t add and wouldn’t fit and had him trapped somewhere between icy rage and the misty abyss of puzzlement.