Fatal Reaction

there was some chance Paramilitary Bill would catch sight of me on the video monitors. I wondered if, in his effort to follow my instructions and make sure that no one left the building, he would even bother to look at them.
    “Fight back,” I told myself. I had read somewhere that people who had survived deadly attacks all had one thing in common—they all reported that they’d made the decision, consciously and early in the attack, to fight back. They had been willing to trade injury, even grievous injury, in exchange for survival.
    Above me Michelle was hissing and muttering, spewing forth a steady stream of profanities and demanding that I come out. I took a deep breath and propelled myself with all my strength against her legs, throwing her off balance so that she fell forward with her entire weight on top of me. After that I did everything I could think of. I clawed, I scratched, I bit into her leg so hard that I tasted her blood even as she kicked me in the face to be free of me.
    The instant her weight was off of me I scrambled to my feet and headed for the door. My odds did not seem particularly promising. Not only was she a trained athlete, but she was dressed for the lab in tennis shoes, while I was hampered by a tight skirt and a pair of three-hundred-dollar Italian high heels.
    I realized I would never make it to the elevator or even the stairs without her overtaking me. Instead I darted into the darkened animal lab and crouched, panting and terrified, behind a row of caged monkeys that had been selectively raised to have a predisposition to high blood pressure.
    I looked around in the dark for the nearest phone and saw to my dismay that it was at the opposite end of the room. I thought about making a run for it but decided I needed to find some sort of weapon first. It was only a matter of time, possibly seconds, before Michelle Goodwin came through the door swinging her deadly pestle. I had chosen my spot badly. There was nothing within reach that could be used as a weapon except twenty-pound bags of dog chow that were piled in a corner and a case of paper towels.
    I saw her in the doorway framed against the light of the hall. She wasn’t even breathing hard but was staring into the darkness with the calm intensity of a predator. Instinctively I wanted to talk to her, to try to reason with her. Then I thought about Childress’s lingers, bloodied from trying to claw his way out of his icy prison, and decided I would only be digging my own grave.
    When she switched on the light, I was ready for her. Holding a bulky bag of dog food across my chest, I used it like a battering ram as I charged, knocking her off her feet and back out into the hall. I barreled into her, shoving her against the wall, and grabbed for her neck with all my strength.
    I knew that while I must be screaming, I was probably also crying. All I remember was holding on to her neck with all my might while she landed blow after blow.
    In the end it was Paramilitary Bill who saved her life. Two minutes more and I would have choked her dead. Oddly, it wasn’t the sight of us trying to kill each other on the video monitor, but the howling of the terrified animals from the animal labs that had drawn him from his post. Still, it took all his strength to pull us apart, and even then she did not stop. Indeed the worst blows came while he watched, almost as if she drew strength from having an audience. I’ll never forget the look on Bill’s face when he heard the sound my forearm made as it was shattered by the flailing pestle.
     
    Everything that came later had the flavor of an anticlimax, though by the time the police came, I had at least managed to compose myself. Looking back, the strangest thing was that it never even occurred to me to call Stephen. Indeed, when he showed up later, no doubt tracked down by Paramilitary Bill, I was actually surprised to see him. We never even really talked. I was busy giving my statement to Detective Rankin when Stephen arrived.
    Elliott had shown up much earlier, at almost the same time as the police. Once he’d received my message, he’d called back immediately. When I didn’t answer, he called the police and then got into his car and broke the speed record out to Oak Brook. He found me sitting in the hall—someone must have dragged a chair out of one of the labs—I don’t remember. I was holding a chemical cold pack to a bleeding gash in my face with my good arm while paramedics fitted the