“Hey,” said Laura, waving her hand in front of his face. “Remember me? I’m your wife.”

Larry’s pupils constricted and he blinked as if he had just noticed her.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he said. “We decided to open an evening clinic for the neighborhood around the Julian and the response was better than we’d anticipated.”

“Larry, what is wrong with you? You mean to tell me that you stayed until after nine o’clock to man a free clinic?”

“Nothing is wrong with me. I feel fine. I enjoyed myself. I picked up three cases of unsuspected VD.”

“Wonderful,” said Laura, throwing up her hands and sitting down in one of the kitchen chairs. She stared at Larry and took an exasperated breath. “We have to talk. Something weird is going on. Either you are going crazy or I am.”

“I feel fine,” said Larry.

“You might feel fine, but you are acting like a different person. You seem tired all the time, as if you hadn’t slept in weeks. This whole idea of giving up your practice is insane. I’m sorry, but it is crazy to give up what has taken you a lifetime to build.”

“I’m tired of fee-for-service private practice,” said Larry. “The Julian Clinic is more exciting and I’m able to help more people.”

“That’s all well and good,” said Laura, “but the problem is that you have a family. You have a son and daughter in college and a daughter in medical school. I don’t have to tell you how much their tuition is. And keeping up this ridiculous house that you insisted on buying ten years ago costs a fortune. We don’t need thirty rooms, particularly now that the children are gone. The salary you’re on at the Julian Clinic barely keeps us in groceries, much less covers our commitments.”

“We can sell the house,” said Larry flatly.

“Yes, we can sell the house,” repeated Laura. “But the kids are in school and unfortunately we have little savings. Larry, you have to go back to GYN Associates.”

“I gave up my partnership,” said Larry.

“Clark Vandermer will give it back,” said Laura. “You’ve known him long enough. Tell him you made a mistake. If you want to change your professional circumstances, you should at least wait until after the children’s schooling is complete.”

Laura stopped talking and watched her husband’s face. It was as if it were carved from stone. “Larry,” she called. There was no response.

Laura got up and waved her hand in front of her husband’s face. He didn’t move. He seemed to be in a trance. “Larry,” she yelled as she shook his shoulders. His body was strangely stiff. Then his eyes blinked and looked into hers.

“Larry, are you aware that you seem to blank out?” She kept her hands on his shoulders while she studied his face.

“No,” said Larry. “I feel fine.”

“I think that maybe you should see someone. Why don’t we call Clark Vandermer and have him come over and look at you. He only lives three houses away, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. We can talk to him about getting back your practice at the same time.”

Larry didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes assumed the blank look again while his pupils dilated. Laura stared at him for a moment, then quickly walked over to the kitchen phone. Her irritation had become concern. She looked up the Vandermers’ number in the address book that hung from the cork bulletin bord and was about to dial when Larry grabbed the phone from her hand. For the first time in months the slackness had gone from his face. Instead, his teeth were bared in an unnatural grimace.

Laura screamed. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help it. She backed up, knocking over one of the kitchen chairs. Ginger barked and growled.

Despite the horrid expression on his face, Larry didn’t respond to Laura’s scream. He hung up the phone, then turned. In agonized slow motion he grasped the sides of his head with both hands while an anguished wail escaped from his lips. Laura fled up the back stairs in panic.

Reaching the top, she passed through the sitting room and ran down the corridor. The huge house was built like the letter H with the upper hallway traversing the crossbar. The master bedroom was over the living room in the wing opposite the kitchen.

Reaching the bedroom, Laura closed and locked its paneled door. She ran to their bed and sat on its edge, her breath coming in short gasps. On the night table was another address book. She flipped it open to the Vs. Keeping her finger on Vandermer’s number, she lifted the princess phone to her ear and started dialing. But before the call could go through, one of the downstairs phones was picked up.

“Laura,” said Larry in a cold, mechanical voice. “I want you to come downstairs immediately. I don’t want you calling anybody.”

A wave of terror swept over Laura, constricting her throat. Her hand holding the phone began to shake.

The connection went through and Laura could hear the Vandermers’ phone ringing. But as soon as the phone was answered, the line went dead. Laura looked at the phone helplessly. Larry must have cut the wire.

“My God,” she whispered. Slowly she replaced the receiver and tried to collect herself. Panicking was not going to solve anything. She had to think. It was obvious that she needed help; the question was how to get it. Turning her head, she looked out of the bedroom window. Lights were on at her neighbors’. If she raised the window and yelled would anybody hear, and if they did, would they respond?

Laura tried to convince herself she was overreacting. Perhaps she should just go downstairs as Larry suggested and tell him that he simply had to get help.

A thump on the door jolted her upright. She listened and was relieved when she heard a sharp bark. Going to the door, she pressed her ear against it. All she could hear was Ginger’s whining. Hastily she undid the lock so the poodle could run inside.

The door slammed wide open, bruising her hand and crashing against the wall. To Laura’s shock, Larry was in the doorway. Ginger rushed to Laura’s feet and began to jump up and down, wanting to be picked up.

Laura screamed again. Larry’s face was still grotesquely contorted. In his left hand was a Remington 12-gauge pump gun.

Spurred by utter panic, Laura turned and fled into the bathroom, slamming and bolting the door. Ginger had followed her and was trembling at her feet. She picked up the shaking dog and, backing up, watched the door. She knew that it was not much of a barrier.

A horrendous blast echoed around the tiled room as part of the door splintered and tore away. Flying debris stung Laura’s face and the dog uttered a helpless yelp.

The bathroom had another door and, dropping Ginger, Laura struggled with its latch. She was dazed but got the door open and ran into a dressing room that led back into the bedroom. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see Larry’s hand coming through the hole made by the shotgun blast.

As she raced though the bedroom, Laura caught a brief glimpse of Larry disappearing into the bathroom. Knowing she had only a few moments’ head start, she dashed into the hall and half ran and half fell down the staircase. Ginger stayed at her heels.

Vainly she gave the front door a tug, but it was locked. The old man who had originally built the house had been so paranoid that he had equipped all the doors with locks that could be secured from both sides. There were keys somewhere in the bureau in the foyer, but Laura didn’t have time to search for them. Her keys were in her purse in the kitchen. Hearing Larry start down the stairs, Laura ran down the gallery on the ground floor.

Normally, she put her purse on the desk beneath the kitchen phone, but it wasn’t there. She tried the back door but, as she expected, it too was locked. With mounting panic, she tried to think of what to do. The fact that Larry had actually used the shotgun on the bathroom door made her heart pound. Ginger leaped into her arms, and she hugged him to her chest. Then she heard Larry’s heels striking the marble of the gallery floor.