The Cellar by Richard Laymon

block as he walked to the front door. Four houses to the right, a Japanese gardener was whacking limbs from a bush. To the left, a lawn away, a lone tabby cat crouched, stalking something. Roy didn’t bother trying to spot its prey. He had some prey of his own.
    Grinning, he rang the doorbell. He waited, and rang again. Finally he decided nobody was in.
    He headed around the side of the house, took two steps past the rear corner, and stopped abruptly.
    There she was. Maybe not Karen, but some woman on a chaise lounge, listening to music from a transistor radio. The lounge was facing away, so its back blocked Roy’s view of all but her slim, tanned legs, her left arm, and the crown of her hat. A white hat, like a sailor’s.
    Roy scanned the yard. High shrubbery enclosed its sides and rear. Good and secluded. Bending low, he raised his pants leg and slipped the knife from its sheath.
    Silently, he stepped closer until he could see over the back of the lounge. The woman was wearing a white bikini, its straps hanging off her shoulders. Her skin was glossy with oil. She held a folded magazine in her right hand, keeping it off to the side so it wouldn’t cast a shadow on her belly.
    Her hand jerked, dropping the magazine as Roy clutched her mouth.
    He pressed the knife edge to her throat.
    “Don’t make a sound, or I’ll open you up.”
    She tried to say something through his hand.
    “Shut up. I’m gonna take my hand away, and you’re not gonna make a sound. Ready?”
    Her head nodded once.
    Roy let go of her mouth, flung the sailor’s hatoff her head, and clutched her brown hair. “Okay, stand up.” He helped by pulling her hair. When she was up, he jerked her head around. The tanned face belonged to Karen, all right. He could tell that, even through the sunglasses. “Not a word,” he muttered.
    He guided her to the back door.
    “Open it,” he said.
    She pulled open the screen door. They stepped into the kitchen. It seemed very dark after the sunny yard, but Roy couldn’t spare a hand to take off his sunglasses. “I need rope,” he said. “Where do you keep it?”
    “You mean I’m allowed to talk now?”
    “Where’s some rope?”
    “We don’t have any.”
    He put pressure on the blade. “You’d better hope you do. Now, where is it?”
    “I don’t…” She gasped as he yanked her hair. “We have some with the camping gear, I think.”
    “Show me.” He lifted the knife off her throat, but kept it half an inch away, his wrist propped on her shoulder. “Move.”
    They went out the kitchen, and turned left down a hallway. They walked past closed doors: closets, probably. Past the bathroom. Into a doorway on the right. The room was a study with bookshelves, a cluttered desk, a rocking chair.
    “Any kids?” Roy asked.
    “No.”
    “Too bad.”
    She stopped at a door beside the rocker. “In there,” she said.
    “Open it.”
    She pulled open the door. The closet held nothing but camping gear: two mummy bags suspended from hangers, hiking boots on the floor, backpacks propped against the wall. A metaltipped walking stick hung from a hook. Beside it were two soft felt hats. Yellow foam-rubber pads, strapped neatly into rolls, stood upright beside the packs. On the shelf was a long red stuffbag, probably containing a mountain tent. On hangers were outdoor clothes: rain ponchos, flannel shirts, even a pair of gray leather Liederhosen.
    “Where’s the rope?”
    “In the packs.”
    He let go of her hair. He took the knife away from her throat and touched the point to her bare back. “Get it.”
    She stepped into the closet and knelt down. She flipped back the red cover of a Kelty pack. She tipped the pack forward, reaching into it, and rummaged through it. Her hand came out with a coil of stiff, new clothesline.
    “Is there more?” He took it from her and tossed it behind him.
    “Isn’t that enough?”
    “Look in the other pack.”
    She turned to it without closing the first one. As she peeled