"Take the wallet! Take it!" He pulled his billfold from his pocket and flung it behind him. But the man ignored it and rose, continuing after him. He was between Calvert and the street; the only escape was back into the building.

Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Lord . . . "Help me, help me, help me!"

Keys! he thought. Get them now! Fishing them out of his jeans as he gave a brief glance behind him. The man was only thirty feet or so away. If I don't get the door unlocked on the first try, that's it . . . I'm dead.

Calvert didn't even slow down. He slammed hard into the metal door and, a miracle, slid the key home instantly, turning it fast. The latch opened, he pulled the key out and leaped through the doorway, slamming the steel door shut behind him. It locked automatically.

Heart pounding fiercely, gasping in fear, he rested only for a moment. Thinking, mugger? Gay-basher? Druggie? Didn't matter, he thought. I'm not letting the prick get away. He ran up the hall to his apartment. This door too he opened fast. He leaped inside, swinging it shut after him and locking it.

Hurrying into the kitchen, he seized the phone and dialed 911. A moment later a woman's voice said, "Police and fire emergency."

"A man! A man just attacked me! He's outside."

"Are you injured?"

"No, but you have to send the police!" he shouted. "Hurry!"

"Is he there with you?"

"No, he didn't get in. I locked the doors. But he could still be in the alley! You have to hurry!"

What was that? Calvert wondered. He felt a sudden breeze against his face. The sensation was familiar and he realized that it was the feeling of cross-ventilation when someone opened the front door to his apartment.

The 911 operator asked, "Hello, sir, are you there? Can you—"

Calvert spun toward the door and cried out, seeing the bearded man with the pipe, standing only a few feet from him, calmly unplugging the phone line from the wall. The doors! How did he get through the locks?

Calvert backed away as far as he could—against the refrigerator; there was nowhere else to go.

"What?" he whispered, noting the scars on the man's neck, his deformed left hand. "What do you want?"

The assailant ignored him for a moment and looked around—first at the kitchen table then at the large wooden coffee table in the living room. Something about the sight of it seemed to please him. He turned back and when he brought the pipe down on Calvert's raised arms the swing seemed almost like an afterthought.

They rolled up, silent.

———«»———«»———«»———

Two RMPs, two officers in each.

The sergeant climbed out of the first squad car before it'd braked to a stop.

Only six minutes had elapsed since the 911 call came in. Even though the call had been cut off, Central knew which building and apartment it had been placed from, thanks to caller-ID technology.