Ch. 9 Is It Over?

And then pain exploded in the back of his head. His mouth fell open, expression disbelieving, and he crumpled gently to the floor. Jesse stood just behind where Hanning had been a moment before. He lowered the hand with the bust of Yogi Berra and heaved a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging. Mark similarly sagged with relief, and he shot the young doctor a small smile.
"Thank you, Jesse." Jesse nodded silently, looking exhausted, and turned back to the living room to replace the bust. Mark followed him in, stepping around Hanning's still form. As soon as he entered the living room he grabbed the phone from the coffee table and called the police. He dialed 911 rather than the station to avoid Steve's coworkers and their sympathies. He shook off the thought, and turned to Jesse as soon as he'd hung up. //Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to see you, but...// "Why are you here, Jess?"
"Amanda asked me to make sure you got home all right," Jesse answered, his mind saying //Don't tell me you're not glad to see me.// Neither he nor Mark had the energy to say the humorous thoughts out loud.
"Well, I'd thought I had, but-" He was cut off by a flash of movement from the hall. Hanning! He'd woken up, and he didn't look too happy. He wavered a bit, but held the switchblade he'd somehow produced steadily enough. He laughed, a sound that sent chills down Mark and Jesse's spines. As if someone had been holding him back and now let go, he sprang forward.
Mark stumbled back, caught his leg around the corner of the couch, and fell, landing beside the coffee table. Jesse wasn't so fast. Afraid of running into Mark, he tried to dodge to the side. Hanning's blade sliced through the material of his coat sleeve and made a shallow cut in Jesse's left arm. He gasped in pain and quickly moved further to the right to avoid another meeting with Hanning's knife. But Hanning wasn't interested in Jesse. He kept going forward, towards Mark.
Seeing this, Mark stood up, his right hand reaching towards the coffee table to grab the closest thing to defend himself. His fingers touched cold metal and he grasped the object, bringing it up. Without realizing it, Mark's fingers fit around the object in perfect position, and he leveled the gun at Hanning's chest. Hanning laughed again, a sound completely devoid of sanity, shouted something from which Mark could only discern the word "son," and dove forward. Unthinkingly, Mark's finger tightened around the trigger. There was a loud, sharp crack, Mark's arm jerked, and Hanning fell forward onto the coffee table. He slid off and lay motionless at Mark's feet. Mark backed up slowly, staring at the gun.