“AAAA!” Tony bolted up, grabbed the head before him, grabbed it hard in both hands, threw. Then he bound to his knees, feet, crouched, grappler’s position. Linda was on the floor, dazed, shocked, hurt, too soon to be frightened, to cry out—Tony’s feet dug into the mattress, still low, in a fighting stance, ready to strike.
“Babe! Babe! Babe, it’s me.”
His head snapped robotically back forth, backforth. “Tony! Babe.” Now Linda was crying.
He was coming to—out of it—awake, aware. He saw Linda on the floor shielding herself. He could not fathom why she was there.
Tony rose at four thirty. He had not been sleeping. His night rituals had evolved to a state of perpetual vigilance. Since the incident of two weeks earlier he had not trusted himself to sleep but had instead catnapped at various
