wearing black leather gloves. Christy watched, petrified with fear, as his hand closed around the edge of the door.
Ring.
“I’m coming in now, Christy. Then we’re going to play.”
Ring.
“The police are on their way! I’ve got the dispatcher on the phone right now! They’ll be here any second!” She swallowed in a futile attempt to combat her suddenly dry throat. Then, lying as convincingly as she could, she yelled into the still-ringing phone, “This is 29 Ocean Road. I’m trapped in my bathroom with a man breaking down the door. I need help now!” Split second pause in which she pretended to listen. “They’re almost here?” She looked toward the door. “Did you hear what I said? The police are almost here!”
His shoulder thudding into the door was his only reply. Screams ripped from her throat of their own volition as he slammed into the door again and again and again, in a series of quick, violent onslaughts. The wastebasket started to flatten. Shampoo leaked from the bottom of her toiletry kit. The flimsy wicker groaned. The barrier she’d thrown together was not going to hold much longer, she knew. Staring helplessly into the dark gap that he was slowly making wider, Christy caught the gleam of his eyes. A predator’s cold and merciless eyes …
The gap was now about four inches wide. Still holding on to the edge of the door, he slid his bent arm inside. His shoulder was next …
Cold sweat drenched her as she realized that in the next few minutes she was probably going to die.
“No!” Christy howled. Dropping the phone, she leaped toward the opening, aimed the Mace and pressed the button. Spray shot through the gap in a thick white stream. The sizzling sound, the sharp acidic smell, made her think of liquid fire. “Take that, you asshole!”
He screamed, and his arm disappeared through the gap.
“Goddamn motherfucking bitch!”
Bingo. Yes.
Pumped now, driven by a terror-fueled rush of hormones, Christy dropped the empty can, threw her body against the door, slammed it closed, and pressed home the lock.
“I’m going to cut your fucking head off!”
Without warning the edge of a small hatchet ripped through the wood, its wickedly sharp tip slicing into the top of her shoulder. Screaming, she jumped back, clamping a hand to the wound. There was no pain; instead what she felt was shock, followed by a kind of icy numbness as she lifted her bloodied hand to stare with stunned disbelief at the blood welling up through the cut.
“Got ya!” He cackled with triumph. The wood creaked as the hatchet was yanked from view.
“Go away!” Christy yelled despairingly.
The door shook as he chopped at it again, then subjected it to what sounded like a full body slam. Forget being injured: her life was at stake. Christy flew back to hold the door, hold the lock. The hatchet hacked through the wood again, barely missing her face. Screaming with enough volume to take the roof off the house now, Christy dodged and held fast, reinforcing the étagère with her weight, holding down the lock with both hands. The spray had hit him, she knew it had, but it must have been a glancing blow that had angered rather than incapacitated him. She could hear him cursing, hear his harsh, rasping breaths. He wasn’t bothering to try to unlock the door anymore; in his fury, he was trying to smash right through it.
Dear God, please save me. Please. I’ll do anything …
Blood was running down her arm in crimson rivulets. She could feel its warmth, feel the slipperiness of the tile beneath her feet as dripping blood rendered the footing treacherous. The cut itself was at the very outer edge of her left shoulder, perhaps three inches long, a neat slice from a sharp blade that, fortunately, was unlikely to prove fatal. Still, glancing at it, she felt nausea roil in her stomach. Her knees threatened to turn to Jell-O. But she couldn’t surrender to hysteria, couldn’t collapse. Not now. If she did she was as good
Ring.
“I’m coming in now, Christy. Then we’re going to play.”
Ring.
“The police are on their way! I’ve got the dispatcher on the phone right now! They’ll be here any second!” She swallowed in a futile attempt to combat her suddenly dry throat. Then, lying as convincingly as she could, she yelled into the still-ringing phone, “This is 29 Ocean Road. I’m trapped in my bathroom with a man breaking down the door. I need help now!” Split second pause in which she pretended to listen. “They’re almost here?” She looked toward the door. “Did you hear what I said? The police are almost here!”
His shoulder thudding into the door was his only reply. Screams ripped from her throat of their own volition as he slammed into the door again and again and again, in a series of quick, violent onslaughts. The wastebasket started to flatten. Shampoo leaked from the bottom of her toiletry kit. The flimsy wicker groaned. The barrier she’d thrown together was not going to hold much longer, she knew. Staring helplessly into the dark gap that he was slowly making wider, Christy caught the gleam of his eyes. A predator’s cold and merciless eyes …
The gap was now about four inches wide. Still holding on to the edge of the door, he slid his bent arm inside. His shoulder was next …
Cold sweat drenched her as she realized that in the next few minutes she was probably going to die.
“No!” Christy howled. Dropping the phone, she leaped toward the opening, aimed the Mace and pressed the button. Spray shot through the gap in a thick white stream. The sizzling sound, the sharp acidic smell, made her think of liquid fire. “Take that, you asshole!”
He screamed, and his arm disappeared through the gap.
“Goddamn motherfucking bitch!”
Bingo. Yes.
Pumped now, driven by a terror-fueled rush of hormones, Christy dropped the empty can, threw her body against the door, slammed it closed, and pressed home the lock.
“I’m going to cut your fucking head off!”
Without warning the edge of a small hatchet ripped through the wood, its wickedly sharp tip slicing into the top of her shoulder. Screaming, she jumped back, clamping a hand to the wound. There was no pain; instead what she felt was shock, followed by a kind of icy numbness as she lifted her bloodied hand to stare with stunned disbelief at the blood welling up through the cut.
“Got ya!” He cackled with triumph. The wood creaked as the hatchet was yanked from view.
“Go away!” Christy yelled despairingly.
The door shook as he chopped at it again, then subjected it to what sounded like a full body slam. Forget being injured: her life was at stake. Christy flew back to hold the door, hold the lock. The hatchet hacked through the wood again, barely missing her face. Screaming with enough volume to take the roof off the house now, Christy dodged and held fast, reinforcing the étagère with her weight, holding down the lock with both hands. The spray had hit him, she knew it had, but it must have been a glancing blow that had angered rather than incapacitated him. She could hear him cursing, hear his harsh, rasping breaths. He wasn’t bothering to try to unlock the door anymore; in his fury, he was trying to smash right through it.
Dear God, please save me. Please. I’ll do anything …
Blood was running down her arm in crimson rivulets. She could feel its warmth, feel the slipperiness of the tile beneath her feet as dripping blood rendered the footing treacherous. The cut itself was at the very outer edge of her left shoulder, perhaps three inches long, a neat slice from a sharp blade that, fortunately, was unlikely to prove fatal. Still, glancing at it, she felt nausea roil in her stomach. Her knees threatened to turn to Jell-O. But she couldn’t surrender to hysteria, couldn’t collapse. Not now. If she did she was as good
Similar Books
