He had been right, not her. A horrible moaning sound passed between his closed lips and his hands made light, haphazard drumming sounds on either side of the Royal, but that was all he could do, all the control of his destiny he could seem to take.
Or is it only wishful thinking? The bolt she had put on looked like something halfway up a high cliff, but he clawed his way up to it, shot it, and then collapsed in a shuddery huddle at the doors foot. "Or there was the case of his friend Gary Ruddman, who worked for the Boulder Public Library. Sometimes it was a car with no brakes, sometimes poison gas, sometimes electricity.
If she had insisted on testifying in her own behalf at her trial, Paul thought, her lawyer probably would have shot her to shut her up. The Kleenex came away wet.
Probably even those cockadoodie Roydmans had a pantry that would make a homeowner from another part of the country raise his or her brows. "She suddenly leaped at him with that limber ferocity, and although he felt certain she meant to hurt him as she had before, possibly because she couldnt get at the dirty birdie of a scriptwriter who had cheated Rocket Man out of the Hudson before it went over the cliff, he did not move at all — he could see the seeds of her current instability in the window of past she had just opened for him, but he was also awed by it — the injustice she felt was, in spite of its childishness, completely, inarguably real.