Now Nickie’s head was down on the floor, her mouth open. The tourniquet was helping, he thought, the spurts were smaller. Or maybe she had that much less blood to lose. He pressed against the handkerchief with his fingers, pulled the other side of the tourniquet away from her neck. He thought Nickie had fainted. Now the blood was a shocking lake all over the floor, staining a big corner of the rug a solid dark red. He felt for the pulse in her left wrist, was sure it was gone at first, then found it, very feeble.
“Nickie.”
No response from her. He tried pressing other spots on her neck, below and near the wound. Now the bleeding was no more than a small pulsation, sending the blood over the edge of the wound. He tried pressing the edges of the wound together. It seemed futile.
“Nickie?”
Her mouth was slightly open. Her eyes looked glazed. He touched her cheek, her eyelid, with his thumb, and drew his hand back in horror and fear. He jumped to his feet, tore his jacket off, and noticed that the left side of his shirt, from the sleeve on down, was red with blood also. He dragged Nickie toward the red couch and propped her head and shoulders up against it. Her head lolled.
“Nickie?” He grabbed her wrist again. Now the pulse was gone, absolutely gone. He tried the other wrist. The red blood appeared like a blossom between her breasts on the white of her silk shirt, a white pearl button in the center of it. She was dead. Robert stood up, staring at her. Her hands lay on the floor, palms up, in an attitude of waiting, of acceptance.
He had an instant of panic, an impulse to run, to scream. Then he looked at Greg and without thinking what he was doing or why, stooped and listened intently, until he heard his breathing. Then he stood up and went to the telephone and dialed a number rapidly.
“Jack! Jack, come here, will you? … Thanks. … I can’t talk now.” He hung up and put his hands over his face. His voice had gone shrill. He had called on Jack, the nearest, only because he was nearest. When Jack walked in—Robert could see him stop short at the door, could see his face as he looked from Nickie and Greg to him, and Jack would think for an instant that Robert Forester had done it, done it again. For an instant, Robert would be able to see that on his face.
Robert took his hands down. He started to go to the door, to go out, but the sunlight blinded him and he stopped. He did not look again at Nickie, but the white of her shirt, the dark of her slacks, stayed like a pattern in the corner of his eyes, wherever he looked. The knife was at his feet, not a bloodstain on it that he could see. He bent to pick it up, then stopped. Don’t touch it, he thought, don’t touch it.
Patricia Highsmith, The Cry of the Owl
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