Then the light began to move.
Off of her face. To the freezer. To the sink. To the dish rack. Slow, like a spotlight following an actor.
Then to the oven. Over to the fryer, lingering there.
And finally down to the floor, where Al lay on his stomach, one hand clutching the spurting slash in his neck, the other clawing at the tiles, trying to crawl through the growing puddle of his own blood.
The light went out again.
It was never a good time to have a panic attack. But in an actual situation that called for panic, or required immediate action, it was deadly. Fran had gone from hyperventilating to being unable to draw a breath. Her head pounded, and her lungs screamed, and her entire body became jelly except for her death grip on the shelving.
Fran knew about fear. She knew its power to incapacitate. She knew it affected a person physically, mentally, and emotionally and that it became so overwhelming it pushed away all thoughts other than survival. But in some cases fear didn’t precipitate fight or flight. Instead it induced the deer-in-the-headlights response. True fear could be an out-of-body experience, watching what was happening to you, yet unable to do anything about it.
Fran could picture herself in the darkness. She saw the terrified expression on her face, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. She saw her knees quiver and her shoulders shake. She saw the tears welling up, tears she couldn’t blink away because she was too afraid to even blink.
Then she heard a footstep on the tile floor.
Then another.
Whoever did that to Al was coming for her.
Fran gasped, managing to get some air into her lungs.
The light went on, focusing on Al. A black boot stepped on his neck, pinning his face to the floor, making the blood squirt from the wound in his throat. Then a hand in a black glove reached down to him—a hand holding a knife.
Fran couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t turn away, as the knife went to work on Al.
When Al finally stopped moving, the light went off again.
The silence that followed was the loudest thing Fran had ever heard. Louder than the three hours she spent upside down in the car, her husband Charles dead in the driver’s seat beside her, hanging by his seat belt, his blood dripping onto her face—plop, plop, plop …
Something hit Fran in the chest, bringing her back to the present, making her flinch. It clung to her shirt. Warm and wet, like a towel. What was it? What had he thrown at her?
She shook her shoulders, but it didn’t move. Fran needed to let go of the shelf, needed to release her hands so she could knock off whatever—
The flashlight came on, pointing at her. Fran looked at her chest and saw something red and rubbery and shredded hanging there. Something wearing Al’s walrus mustache.
And then the light went off.
Fran screamed. She screamed and screamed and then her paralysis broke and her hands opened up and she batted Al’s face off herself, arms flailing out as if she were being attacked by a swarm of bees.
After five seconds of pure, explosive panic, Fran froze, the cry dying in her throat, her hands stretched out into the darkness surrounding her.
Another footstep.
Then a low chuckle.
Strangely, Fran no longer thought of herself or the horror of what was happening. Instead, she thought of Duncan. Her son was a miniature version of Charles, except he had Fran’s pale blue eyes—so pale they looked like ice. He had just turned ten, an age when it really wasn’t cool to hang out with Mom anymore. But Duncan still tolerated her attempts at playing catch and her lame efforts at video games. He even allowed her to pick the movies they saw together, occasionally sitting through something more serious than a Jim Carrey comedy.
She thought of the walks they took when he was younger, and the family vacations they’d gone on when Duncan’s father was still alive, and the day he was born, after sixteen grueling hours of labor, and how holding him for the first time made her cry with unrestrained joy. She thought of his teenage years, just around the corner, which he’d have to face without any parents if she died.
Fran couldn’t let that happen.
Reaching behind her, Fran felt along the shelves, her hands clasping around a five-pound can of tomato paste. She raised it over her head and waited.
The flashlight came on again, less than five feet away from her.
Fran threw the can as hard as she could. She didn’t wait to find out if she’d hit the killer or see what damage she’d done. She was already running away from him, climbing on the desk, seeking the window to the alley.
Her fingers met cool glass, covered in a film of grease and dirt and cobwebs. She found the latch, tried to turn it.
Painted over. Wouldn’t budge.
Frantic, she reached around on the desktop, found the phone, and cracked it hard against the window.
Glass shattered, letting in cool night air and the pungent smell of garbage. The window was small, and shards still jutted from the pane, but Fran forced her upper body into the hole. Her hair snagged, but she pushed forward, scooting her chest through the opening as glass cut at her palms and elbows. Then her hands touched the brick on the outside of the building, and she was dragging her hips out, thinking that she’d actually made it, thinking she’d actually gotten away, and her fear transformed into a crazy, almost hysterical sense of relief.
That’s when the killer grabbed her ankle.
• • •
Sheriff Ace Streng fired twice at the figure coming up the stairs, the muzzle flashes illuminating something black and enormous. The bullets didn’t slow it down, so Streng ran left, to the door on the other side of the hall.
A spare bedroom, unlit, with a musty odor that indicated it hadn’t been used in a while. Streng found the window, hurried to it, and fumbled for the lock.
He chanced a look behind him, saw the figure filling the doorway. A sharp, unpleasant smell filled the room, like cigarettes and body odor. Streng aimed and squeezed off three more shots. The thing didn’t fall. He turned his attention back to the window, jerked it open, and went face-first out onto the roof. It was steeper than he guessed, and he slipped onto his back and began to skid, the flashlight slipping from his hand and clattering down the incline, winking out when it went over the edge.
Streng spread out his arms, tried to keep from falling. His knuckles scraped against the cold, rough shingles, the skin tearing. He reflexively opened his hand, letting go of the .45, hearing it skitter to a stop above him while he kept sliding down, his momentum picking up.
The trees obscured the moon and stars, and Streng’s eyes couldn’t penetrate the inky night. But he knew there wasn’t much roof left, and if he went over at this speed he’d break his leg. Or his neck.
The sheriff turned onto his side as he slid, and then onto his belly, arms and legs outstretched, toes fighting for purchase. He began to slow down, and then his feet hit the gutter, dug into it, abruptly stopping his descent.
Streng didn’t have time to be relieved. He strained his eyes against the darkness, trying to see the ground beneath him.
All he saw was black. How far could it be? Ten feet? Fifteen? The ground would be hard from the cool weather, and there was the chance he’d land on a rock, or worse.
A cracking sound, then a crash. Streng was peppered with glass and bits of wood, and he could feel the whole house thump. Whatever was chasing him was on the roof.
Streng now had no choice. He guessed the man in Sal’s room was already making his way down the stairs, gun ready, and the steady thump thump thump of that thing’s footsteps was closing in fast. Streng swung his legs out over the edge, letting them dangle in the darkness. He gripped the gutter, not expecting it to support his weight, but maybe it would slow him down a bit as it broke.