state that she was willing to embrace.
She had constructed a homemade alarm system by the rear door—
hanging a string across the doorway and tying empty cans and pots and pans to it, so anyone bumping into it would rattle and clang with noise.
Just beneath the windowsills she had shattered empty liquor bottles into glass shards and spread them around, so a person— no, she thought: a Big Bad Wolf —breaking in that way would likely slice hands or feet clam-bering into the house. On the stairway leading to the basement she had strung strands of wire an inch or two above each riser to trip the Wolf if he tried to use the steps. She had also spread some ball bearings and old marbles around on the basement floor and unscrewed the light, so that the room was pitched into darkness and likely to cause her stalker to trip.
She had her dead husband’s gun close by and she periodically checked it to make sure that it was loaded and ready, even though she knew she had already checked it a hundred times. The area around her was a mess of plastic wrappers, empty Styrofoam cups, and discarded bottles. Sarah kicked away some of the trash accumulating next to her bare feet and sighed deeply. Well, this isn’t working, goddammit.
Her defense systems seemed straight out of the Home Alone movie, better preparation for a slapstick comedy than preventing a killer from sneaking unseen and unheard into her house and slaughtering her in her sleep. She knew she was likely to pass out at any moment and that when she did succumb to inevitable exhaustion, no clattering of pots and pans would wake her. She was all too experienced in the fog that accompanied booze and narcotics.
And mostly, Sarah doubted that the Big Bad Wolf was anything less than completely skilled at murder and professional at killing. She had 75
JOHN KATZENBACH
no evidence to support this feeling, but she believed it to be the truth.
Instinct. Sixth sense. Premonition. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew he would wait until the right moment, which would be the moment he knew she was at her most vulnerable.
Vulnerable . What a god-awful, pathetic, barely adequate word , she thought.
More likely it described her every second of every day and every night, regardless of whether she was asleep or sitting waiting by the front door, gun in hand.
She looked around. Her back was stiff. Her head ached. Everything she’d done to protect herself seemed precisely what a middle school teacher would do. Scissors, sticky glue, and brightly colored construction paper—it was very much like a class project. All that was lacking were some excited fifth graders and happily raised voices.
She could see herself, clapping her hands together sharply to get their attention. All right, class! Mrs. Locksley has to protect herself from a psychopathic killer. Everyone bring their favorite materials to the middle, and let’s build a wall so she will be safe!
Ludicrous. This she knew. But she did not know what else to do.
She took a long look down at her right hand gripping the pistol. Maybe I should break my promise to my dead husband, she thought, and turn the gun on myself just before the Big Bad Wolf arrives at the door.
Sarah laughed bitterly. A sudden burst, as if from an unexpected moment of humor. Now, that would be a hilarious sight to see, when the Big Bad Wolf sneaks inside to kill me and discovers that I’ve beaten him to the punch. What the hell could he do? A killer without a target. Joke’s on him.
Except I couldn’t see it because I would already be dead.
Words to a song penetrated her memory: “‘No reason to get excited,’ the thief he kindly spoke. ‘There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.’”
She could hear the guitar riff as if it were being played in the distance. She could hear the gravelly voice. It made sense to her. No reason to get excited.
She sighed deeply, but that release nearly turned to scream when she heard a
She had constructed a homemade alarm system by the rear door—
hanging a string across the doorway and tying empty cans and pots and pans to it, so anyone bumping into it would rattle and clang with noise.
Just beneath the windowsills she had shattered empty liquor bottles into glass shards and spread them around, so a person— no, she thought: a Big Bad Wolf —breaking in that way would likely slice hands or feet clam-bering into the house. On the stairway leading to the basement she had strung strands of wire an inch or two above each riser to trip the Wolf if he tried to use the steps. She had also spread some ball bearings and old marbles around on the basement floor and unscrewed the light, so that the room was pitched into darkness and likely to cause her stalker to trip.
She had her dead husband’s gun close by and she periodically checked it to make sure that it was loaded and ready, even though she knew she had already checked it a hundred times. The area around her was a mess of plastic wrappers, empty Styrofoam cups, and discarded bottles. Sarah kicked away some of the trash accumulating next to her bare feet and sighed deeply. Well, this isn’t working, goddammit.
Her defense systems seemed straight out of the Home Alone movie, better preparation for a slapstick comedy than preventing a killer from sneaking unseen and unheard into her house and slaughtering her in her sleep. She knew she was likely to pass out at any moment and that when she did succumb to inevitable exhaustion, no clattering of pots and pans would wake her. She was all too experienced in the fog that accompanied booze and narcotics.
And mostly, Sarah doubted that the Big Bad Wolf was anything less than completely skilled at murder and professional at killing. She had 75
JOHN KATZENBACH
no evidence to support this feeling, but she believed it to be the truth.
Instinct. Sixth sense. Premonition. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew he would wait until the right moment, which would be the moment he knew she was at her most vulnerable.
Vulnerable . What a god-awful, pathetic, barely adequate word , she thought.
More likely it described her every second of every day and every night, regardless of whether she was asleep or sitting waiting by the front door, gun in hand.
She looked around. Her back was stiff. Her head ached. Everything she’d done to protect herself seemed precisely what a middle school teacher would do. Scissors, sticky glue, and brightly colored construction paper—it was very much like a class project. All that was lacking were some excited fifth graders and happily raised voices.
She could see herself, clapping her hands together sharply to get their attention. All right, class! Mrs. Locksley has to protect herself from a psychopathic killer. Everyone bring their favorite materials to the middle, and let’s build a wall so she will be safe!
Ludicrous. This she knew. But she did not know what else to do.
She took a long look down at her right hand gripping the pistol. Maybe I should break my promise to my dead husband, she thought, and turn the gun on myself just before the Big Bad Wolf arrives at the door.
Sarah laughed bitterly. A sudden burst, as if from an unexpected moment of humor. Now, that would be a hilarious sight to see, when the Big Bad Wolf sneaks inside to kill me and discovers that I’ve beaten him to the punch. What the hell could he do? A killer without a target. Joke’s on him.
Except I couldn’t see it because I would already be dead.
Words to a song penetrated her memory: “‘No reason to get excited,’ the thief he kindly spoke. ‘There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.’”
She could hear the guitar riff as if it were being played in the distance. She could hear the gravelly voice. It made sense to her. No reason to get excited.
She sighed deeply, but that release nearly turned to scream when she heard a
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