Legacy Of Terror

madman.”
    “I am not!” He tensed, though he did not menace her with the blade any longer. “You must not believe something like that. I know what I am doing and why.”
    “Tell me.”
    “No.”
    “Only a madman cannot explain his reasons.”
    Gordon seemed to sway, as if her words had been a physical blow, and he lowered the knife, though not very far. Clearly, he was troubled by what she said. Even a madman, surely, must now and again see that he is operating in darkness, viewing the world at a tangent rather than straight on. That had to be true. Otherwise, she might as well give up right now.
    Trying not to look at the knife, trying desperately not to think of what it had done to Captain Rand, she steeled herself to continue the argument, to increase his self-doubt.
    “You have no reasons,” she said.
    “Will you listen if I tell you why?”
    “You know I will, Gordon.” Immediately, having opened up this chink in him, she switched to a tone of sympathy, of understanding. She found that this was not unlike talking to a patient who knew he was going to die. It was merely acting, stringing together cautious lies.
    “I believe you,” he said.
    “Trust me.”
    He looked around the garage stall, at the darkness overhead, the dust on the windowsill to his right, the ancient oil stains on the concrete floor.
    He said, “This isn't the place to explain.”
    She grew wary again, wondering what he was about to propose. She could still see no way around him.
    “Where do you want to go?” she asked.
    He thought a moment. “We'll go over to Bess and Jerry's place. I'll tell you there. That will be a good place to explain.”
    For a brief moment, she actually thought that he was going to usher her outside and unwittingly provide her with an opportunity to escape. She wondered whether it would be better to run for the wall between the Bradshaw grounds and the Matherly estate-or whether she should try to regain the house and, with luck, Dennis' studio where she might obtain some help. She opted for the latter and prepared to make the dash for freedom, but had her hopes destroyed when he grasped her arm and dug the point of the knife into her side. He pressed it hard enough to tear her blouse and to draw a bead of blood, though he apparently did not intend to kill her. Not just now.
    “We'll walk together,” he said. “Please don't try to get away from me. I really do want to explain this to you first. I don't want to kill you until you understand.”
    “I want to hear about it,” she said, fighting down a deep, strong urge to be ill.
    Think, think! For God's sake, find a way to escape! But-also for God's sake, for my own sake-be careful!
    “Let's go,” he said.
    She let him lead, and she leaned against him in hopes that he would remember how pleased he seemed to have been, earlier, when she relied upon him for his strength.
    Outside, the sun seemed oppressively hot, causing her to sweat so that her face was instantly covered with a salty sheen.
    The day was perfectly silent, the birds still, the wind down, as if the earth itself was aware that death lurked so close by.
    “To the steps,” he directed her.
    The hand that gripped her arm pinched her flesh painfully, and the point of the knife twisted a bit deeper into her skin.
    They walked across the front of the garage, passing the three other closed doors.
    Let someone see us! Let someone interrupt us! she prayed.
    But they turned the corner and started up the stairs without being seen or questioned.
    Elaine considered her chances of thrusting sideways and propelling him through the wooden railing that edged the steps. She was young and strong and filled with adrenalin summoned up by her fear. It might very well work. The railing did not appear to be very strong, and Gordon weighed at least a hundred and eighty pounds. If she slammed all her weight against him, when they were near the top of the stairs, and if that unbalanced him, he might fall twenty feet onto the cement walk beneath.
    Would that kill him?
    She shuddered at her cold-blooded plotting, but told herself there was nothing else she could do. It was self-defense. It was the reasonable thing to conceive.
    It was also reasonable to expect that he might hold onto her, that he would drag her with him. And if she were not killed by the fall or badly hurt, he would not be either. And then he would kill her.
    The top of the stairs was at hand.
    She could not do it.
    They stepped onto the landing and came to the door. Gordon knocked