Legacy Of Terror

chest, his voice caught in a high, gleeful scream.
    Elaine flung herself backwards, more from instinct than a genuine understanding of how close she was to death. But the chair brought her up short, blocked her escape. The whole world seemed to ice over, become as cold and aching as she was-except for the knife. In the middle of all that frost, in the midst of ice and cold, the knife was a blazing lance, slicing toward her as the frost melted around it. She was going to die.
    At the same moment, Dennis threw aside the pillow he carried, reached for Gordon's wrist and stopped the swift descent of the murderous weapon.
    Gordon turned on his brother, his face blood-flushed, his eyes wide, his mouth opened in a fierce grin. He and Dennis engaged in a grimly silent struggle for possession of the knife.
    “Get help!” Elaine told the old couple. They looked at her stupidly; Jerry seemed to have forgotten his head wound. “Get Paul!”
    The mention of Amelia's brother's name broke the spell; Jerry rose and hurried across the room, disappeared through the open door. Please, don't let Paul be drunk or suffering from a bad hangover!
    Despite his lesser size, Gordon wrenched the knife away at last, slashed Denny's biceps shallowly as he stepped away from his brother. Blood flowed down Denny's arm.
    Elaine picked up the ashtray, felt the cold weight of it. She did not really think she could use it. She was a nurse, accustomed to healing, not to injuring. Oh God, if I have to use it, let me able to!
    As Dennis stepped in on him, leaving a trail of crimson drops behind him, Gordon struck again. Dennis feinted to the right, stepped in past the blow, gripped Gordon's knife hand in both hands, trying to bend the wrist back until Gordon was forced to drop the blade.
    Elaine had seen a great deal of blood in nurse's training, had seen deep wounds. But the sight of Dennis' blood was something outside her experience. It made her feel empty and tired. She did not want him to die. Oh, how she wanted him to live! And maybe then she could make up for the awful things she had thought of him.
    Gordon used his free hand to beat unmercifully at Denny's head. He had started his brother's nose to bleeding and had split his lip. Denny looked weary, unable to continue much longer…
    Then, in an instant, the advantage changed. Gordon's wrist snapped under the pressure of Dennis' hands. He howled, dropped the knife, broke away from Dennis, cradling a broken wrist. He looked wild, as white as sifted flour, his mouth a black hole in his face.
    Dennis kicked the knife across the room and said, with an amazing degree of gentleness: “Sit down, Gordon. You're hurt”
    For a moment, Gordon looked as if he would disregard his wounds and make one last try for the weapon. Then, as if struck by a large hammer, he fell sideways against the chair in which Elaine had been sitting short minutes ago. She had been waiting for him to kill her. And now he never would.
    “I didn't want to kill you,” Gordon said to Dennis.
    “Don't talk about it.”
    “Do you love me?” Gordon asked.
    Dennis looked tired, not angry. “You're my brother. I love you very much.”
    Gordon Matherly, holding his ruined wrist in his good hand, lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest, and he began to cry.
    Elaine watched Dennis cross the room and retrieve the knife. He looked at it almost as if he did not know what it was. She went to him, feeling very much a woman-because he had been so much of a man, braver than she had ever had a chance to see any man be-and she said, “Let me look at your arm.”
    “It's okay.”
    “We have to guard against infection,” she said.
    He said, “Why didn't you tell me who you suspected last night?”
    Elaine blushed, looked at the defeated Gordon. She said, “I didn't think it was him.” Then, she blurted, “I thought it might be you!” She knew she would have to tell him sooner or later. She had never been the sort to postpone judgment for her mistakes.
    He stared at her, incredulous. Just as she began to pray that he would not hate her, he burst out laughing. It was a strained, nervous laugh, but better than the outrage she had expected.
    When he had control of himself again, he said, “Father told me someone had tried to pick the lock on your door. When I found you phoning the police, I knew you were seriously worried. I got hold of Rand half an hour after you went to bed and told him what you'd told father. He said that he intended to come out and