The Face Of Fear Part 10

Promptly at six o'clock, the doorbell rang.

Sarah Piper answered it. Her professional smile slipped when she saw who was standing in the hall. "What are you doing here?" she asked, surprised.

"May I come in?"

"Well ..."

"You look beautiful tonight. Absolutely stunning."

She was wearing a tight burnt-orange pantsuit, flimsy, with a low neckline that revealed too much of her creamy b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Self-consciously she put one hand over her cleavage. "I'm sorry, but I can't ask you in. I'm expecting someone."

"You're expecting me," he said. "Billy James Plover."

"What? That's not your name."

"It surely is. It's the name I was born with. I changed it years ago, of course."

"Why didn't you give me your real name on the phone?"

"I've got to protect my reputation."

Still confused, she stepped back to let him pa.s.s. She closed the door and locked it. Aware that she was being rude but unable to control herself, she stared openly at him. She couldn't think what to say.

"You seem shocked, Sarah." "Yeah," she said. "I guess I am. It's just that you don't seem like the sort of man who would come to a woman-to someone like me."

He had been smiling from the moment she'd opened the door. Now his face broke into a broad grin. "What's wrong with someone like you? You're gorgeous."

This is crazy, she thought.

She said, "Your voice."

"The Southern accent?"

"Yeah."

"That's also part of my youth, just like the name. Would you prefer I dropped it?"

"Yeah. Your talking like that-it's not right. It's creepy." She hugged herself.

"Creepy? I thought you'd be amused. And when I'm Billy ... I don't know ... I kind of have fun with it ... kind of feel like someone altogether new." He stared hard at her and said, "Something's wrong. We're off on the wrong foot. Or maybe worse than that. Is it worse than that? If you don't want to go to bed with me, say so. I'll understand. Maybe something about me repels you. I haven't always been successful with women. I've lost out many times. G.o.d knows. So just tell me. I'll leave. No hard feelings."

She put on her professional smile again and shook her head. Her thick blond hair bounced prettily. "I'm sorry. There's no need for you to go. I was just surprised, that's all."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

He looked at the living room beyond the foyer arch, reached down to finger the antique umbrella stand beside the door. "You have a nice place."

"Thank you." She opened the foyer closet, plucked a hanger from the clothes rod. "Let me take your coat."

He took it off, handed it to her.

As she put the coat in the closet, she said, "Your gloves too. I'll put them in a coat pocket."

"I'll keep my gloves," he said.

When she turned back to him, he was standing between her and the front door, and he was holding a wicked switch-blade knife in his right hand.

She said, "Put that away."

"What did you say?"

"Put that away!"

He laughed.

"I mean it," she said.

"You're the coolest b.i.t.c.h I've ever met."

"Put that knife in your pocket. Put it away and then get out of here."

Waving the knife at her, he said,"When they realize I'm going to slit them open, they say some silly things.

But I don't believe any of them ever seriously thought she could talk me out of it. Until you. So very cool."

She twisted away from him. She ran out of the foyer, into the living room. Her heart was pounding; she was shaking badly she was shaking badly; but she was determined not to be incapacitated by fear. She kept a gun in the top drawer of her nightstand. If she could get into the bedroom, close and lock the door between them, she could hold him off long enough to put her hands on the pistol. but she was determined not to be incapacitated by fear. She kept a gun in the top drawer of her nightstand. If she could get into the bedroom, close and lock the door between them, she could hold him off long enough to put her hands on the pistol.

Within a few steps he caught her by the shoulder.

She tried to jerk free.

He was stronger than he looked. His fingers were like talons. He swung her around and shoved her backward.

Off balance, she collided with the coffee table, fell over it. She struck her hip on one of the heavy wooden legs; pain like an incandescent bulb flashed along her thigh.

He stood over her, still holding the knife, still grinning.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she said.

"There are two ways you can die, Sarah. You can try to run and resist, forcing me to kill you now-painfully and slowly. Or you can cooperate, come into the bedroom, let me give you some fun. Then I promise you'll die quickly and painlessly."

Don't panic, she told herself. You're Sarah Piper, and you came out of nothing, and you made something of yourself, and you have been knocked down dozens of times before, knocked down figuratively and literally, and you've always gotten up, and you'll get up this time, and you'll survive, you will, dammit, you will.

"Okay," she said. She stood up.

"Good girl." He held the knife out at his side. He unb.u.t.toned the bodice of her pantsuit and slipped his free hand under the thin material. "Nice," he said.

She closed her eyes as he moved nearer.

"I'll make it fun for you," he said.

She drove her knee into his crotch.

Although the blow didn't land squarely, he staggered backward.

She grabbed a table lamp and threw it. Without waiting to see if it hit him, she ran into the bedroom and shut the door. Before she could lock it, he slammed against the far side and pushed the door open two or three inches.

She tried to force it shut again so that she could throw the lock, but he was stronger than she. She knew she couldn't hold out against him for more than a minute or two. Therefore, when he was pressing the hardest and would expect it the least, she let go of the door altogether and ran to the nightstand.

Surprised, he stumbled into the room and nearly fell.

She pulled open the nightstand drawer and picked up the gun. He knocked it out of her hand. It clattered against the wall and dropped to the floor, out of reach.

Why didn't you scream? she asked herself. Why didn't you yell for help while you could hold the door shut? It's unlikely anyone would hear you in soundly built apartments like these, but at least it was worth a try when you had a chance.

But she knew why she didn't cry out. She was Sarah Piper. She had never called for help in her life. She had always solved her own problems, had always fought her own battles. She was tough and proud of it. She did not scream.

She was terrified, trembling, sick with fear, but she knew that she had to die the same way she had lived. If she broke now, whimpered and mewled when there wasn't any chance of salvation, she would be making a lie of her life. If her life was to have meant anything, anything at all, she would have to die as she had lived: resolute, proud, tough.

She spat in his face.

14.

"Homicide."

"I want to speak to a detective."

"What's his name?"

"Any detective. I don't care."

"Is this an emergency?"

"Yes."

"Where are you calling from?"

"Never mind. I want a detective."

"I'm required to take your address, telephone number, name-"

"Stuff it! Let me talk to a detective or I'll hang up."

"Detective Martin speaking."

"I just killed a woman."

"Where are you calling from?"

"Her apartment."

"What's the address?"

"She was very beautiful."

"What's the address?"

"A lovely girl."

"What was her name?"

"Sarah."

"Do you know her last name?"

"Piper."

"Will you spell that?"

"P-i-p-e-r."

"Sarah Piper."

"That's right."

"What's your name?"

"The Butcher."

"What's your real name?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Yes, you are. That's why you called."

"No. I called to tell you I'm going to kill some more people before the night's out."