The Rabbit
On my way across the basement I grab something from the worktable because like an idiot I left my trusty box cutter in the
Rabbit Hole. It turns out to be one of those double-sided mallets that has rubber on it—I don’t know what you use those for,
but it’ll do nicely for what I have in mind. William is standing in front of his desk, staring at his laptop, while wind and
snow howl into the room like somebody blew a hole in a plane. Sam must have run out into the blizzard. His back is to me as
I charge across the study and wham him in the head.
But my mother always said I move like an elephant, and apparently that must still be true, William must hear or sense me coming,
because just as I swing the mallet he turns and it catches him not where I wanted to, on the base of his skull, but over his
left eye. He staggers backward and rebounds against his desk. More bad luck: He doesn’t have his glasses on, so I didn’t even
blind him, just raised a bloody lump.
“You,” he says. “She said you were in the house. I should have listened.”
And while I’m taking another swing he shoves his desk chair at me. It slams me in the stomach and I make a noise like a seal
bark, Rark! as he uses it to bulldoze me across the room into the wall and pin me there.
He plucks the mallet from my hand like it’s a dandelion. “I don’t have time for this now,” he says. “Simone must be apprehended.
I’ll deal with you later,” and the last thing I see is the look of stern concentration on his face as he raises the hammer.