She nodded. "I—I was afraid you were being hurt."
"But how did you know? How could you know what was happening?"
Her gaze wavered and she seemed to hesitate. The words tumbled out in a rush. "I heard noises—I got up to see what was going on and—and I saw someone trying to break into your trailer, so I—I called the police. That's all."
For a second I frowned at her, trying to read her eyes. She was not frightened at all, I thought with surprise. Elusive. Evasive. Hiding something.
I heard a bellow of rage behind me and turned to see Mike Boyle struggling to get to his feet while two policemen pinned him to the pavement. I sprinted toward them. When I reached the group, Boyle's struggles were growing weaker. There was blood on the paving and I saw it seeping down his leg. He was mouthing unintelligible sounds and his eyes had that strange, glazed, unseeing stare. I looked at the two policemen holding him and recognized the pair who had questioned me earlier. Sgt. Bullock's cold, hard face had regained its meanness. I wondered what had become of the friendly puppy I had met the day before.
"What's this all about?" he snapped. "Who is he?"
"His name is Boyle," I said. "He's a student at the university—a football star. He's—he's out of his mind."
"Mike Boyle?" The sergeant's tone was incredulous.
"Yes. And Sergeant—" I weighed the words carefully, "I think he killed Lois Worthington."
Slowly the sergeant stood up. His eyes were mean slits in the blunt face. "You better know what you're saying," he said. "You goddam well better know."