I moved toward the nearest group. "It's all over," I said quietly. "Might as well go back to bed."
"What happened?"
"A man went—" I caught myself. "Just a drunk. A guy who had more than he could take."
The groups of people gave way slowly, reluctantly. I stared back once more at Mike Boyle. I felt only pity now. At the same time I was aware of how timely and how lucky for me had been his guilt-ridden outcry of confession. Without it, I would have been in more trouble than I liked to think about, with Bullock eager to jump all over me, firing questions which I couldn't answer.
Boyle would be cured. His illness was not a deep-seated mental aberration but a temporary cracking under pressure. They would treat him and, when he was rational, they would get a full confession out of him about the murder of Lois. But they would never make sense out of his story of being controlled by an inhuman mind. He would get off on the plea of insanity. They would cure him and when they were sure that he was well, he would be freed.
I wondered if he would remember or understand later what had been done to him. Or who had done it.
Looking up, I saw the girl next door standing where I had left her. I walked slowly toward her. In her eyes and mouth I read anxiety.
"He tried to kill you," she whispered.
I nodded. I felt an inexpressible tenderness. Gratitude, I thought. How much I owed to her!
"Thanks for calling the police," I said. "And for—for being worried."