Page:Fantastic Volume 08 Number 01.djvu/32

 the edge of the seat as we hit the Freeway, hit the afternoon tangle of traffic, veered off to the south, skidded down into the smog once more. That damned black velvet box was still in my jacket—the empty box. Where were the emeralds? Yes, and where was the Voice? For that matter, where was 100 Azure Drive? Surely nowhere near my apartment; but I had walked there last night. Walked there and stolen and killed.

I had no answers. Wagram had no answers. Maybe Roxie had some answers. Roxie could save me—

We pulled up before the apartment and I was out of the cab before it ground to a stop, pushing a bill into the driver's hand and brushing aside the change. Then I was running up the stairs, fumbling in my pocket for the key.

The key—where was it? I searched in my trousers, my jacket. Had I forgotten to take my key this morning? Well, no matter now. If Roxie was home, she'd let me in.

Roxie was home. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, then halted, just in time to avoid stumbling over her overnight bag. It rested right in the doorway. And next to it, on the floor, was her purse.

"Roxie!" I murmured.

There was a faint sound from the bedroom beyond. I crossed the room in three strides.

She was on the bed and he was bending over her, his hands coiled in her long red hair. He had wound her hair about her throat and now he was pulling the ends tight, strangling her in a scarlet noose. Her face was mottled and purple.

His face I couldn't see, didn't wait to see. I jumped him from behind, and pulled him off. And then I tore the heavy bed-lamp from its socket and I smashed his skull, smashed and battered at the top of his head until he slumped to the floor and I could stare down into his unconscious face.

At first I didn't recognize it—hadn't expected to recognize it, of course. And then, beneath the pallor of that contorted countenance a familiar expression emerged. The man had aged, his hair was graying, there was no pan-make-up on the face. But I could still identify it.

"Bucky Dugan," I murmured.

Bucky Dugan. Yes, I remembered him now. He used 32