She couldn't go to the police. She was too much a part of all this. But neither could she trust Foster. She was the only other person who knew he'd killed Emma. Which meant he might well decide that now he must kill her, too…
Then she heard it.
A creaking on the stairs.
True, this old house made many plaintive moans and groans on freezing winter nights, but she knew that the sound hadn't been made by the house but rather by somebody creeping up the stairs.
Looking toward the partly opened door, she listened once more. Hard.
It was amazing how many things you heard when you really listened. The blower in the furnace. The creaking of the roof under the burden of a sheet of ice. The distant sound of a siren.
And footsteps.
Coming up the stairs.
Coming after her.
Kathleen laughed aloud. "My God," she said to herself. "My God, what a stupid, frightened little girl you are."
She went to the door and flung it back and walked out into the hallway and over to the head of the stairs.
Empty. Just as she'd expected.
She'd left the vestibule light on downstairs, so she could see, even from here, that the front door was snugly closed and the front part of the house empty.
She felt so relieved, she was practically light-headed, and that was when he grabbed her.
From behind. Wearing gloves.
He clamped one hand hard over her mouth so she couldn't scream. With the other hand he put the small butcher's knife to her throat.
She could hear him gasp and feel him sweat. He was pressed tight to her backside, and she could also feel the hardness of his erection.
"You fucking bitch," he said. "You were going to walk out on me, weren't you?"
He drew a little blood, then, from a spot right next to her jugular.
"You fucking bitch," he said.
By the time Brolan finished with Charles Lane, the motel owner was bleeding from his mouth, nose, and ear. Brolan hadn't shown much patience or sympathy.
In the car Brolan thought about the most astonishing part of Lane's confession… that Kathleen was working with Foster.
As he moved onto the Crosstown, heading toward Kathleen's place, he thought of all the elaborate ruses they'd used to convince him that they hated each other. He should have asked so many questions… How could they both go out and do what nobody else in Twin Cities advertising seemed capable of… steal some of the largest accounts in the area, in some cases, accounts that had even been held by New York and Los Angeles agencies.
So stupid… stupid.
He was almost afraid of seeing Kathleen. Afraid of what he might do when he saw her beautiful, lying face. He'd never struck a woman… and he did not want to start.
He gave the car more gas… and hurried.
Foster threw her on the bed, held her captive, and mesmerized her with the knife he held out in front of him.
She could see in his handsome features a different man… the crazed man who had been hiding inside Foster all these years.
He grabbed the large glass lamp with the rattan shade and hurled it into the corner. The noise it made smashing against the wall made Kathleen clamp her hands over her ears.
"You bitch," he said again, moving toward her.
"Stu, what's wrong with you? We're supposed to be working together." The closer he got, the more she scrabbled up the bed to huddle near the headboard.
"Yeah. And that's why you were packing your bag, huh?"
She tried to find her voice. Her whole body seemed to be collapsing in on itself. Her throat was dry; her bowels felt loose; her breathing came in ragged, painful bursts. "I just wanted to get out of here so I could take a little time off and-"
His first swipe with the knife came perilously close to tearing a gash open on her throat
"Stu, please; please, listen-"
Without quite being aware of it, she'd begun sobbing, her words lost in her cries.
His second swipe cleaved the shoulder of her mauve silk blouse and cut a thin, hurting line along the flesh of her upper arm.
Blood bloomed immediately. She clamped a hand over the wound and rolled sideways on the bed just as he was plunging the knife downward toward her chest.
"Stu! Please! Don't!"
She rolled until she was off the bed, scrambling on her hands and knees across the hardwood floor.
She was trying to reach the door before-
This time the knife cut a long, curving arc across her back. She screamed. The odd thing was the delayed response of her flesh. She knew she'd been cut, but the pain did not come for long moments after.
His foot caught her in the stomach and rolled her back against the wall.
This time, when she started to crawl away, he was too quick for her, his foot against her chest pinning her against the edge of the door frame.
There was no more pleading on her part. Terror had overcome her ability to make any kind of protest. All she could do was huddle into herself and keep her eyes closed and wait for the final moments.
Brolan was driving too fast down the side streets. When he reached Kathleen's, he found that the car had gathered too much momentum to be stopped. He slid past, nearly ploughing into another car parked kerbside. The faint moonlight through the dead, black branches of winter trees did not lend much help. In a pocket of deep shadow, midpoint between the grounds of two large houses, he brought the car to a stop. Within a quarter minute he was on his feet and sliding along the ice-covered street. Foster's car was in Kathleen's driveway. The prospect of finally confronting Foster drove Brolan as nothing else could.
Then he heard the scream.
Raising his head, Brolan saw that the only light on in the house was in the rear-Kathleen's bedroom. It was not too difficult to imagine what Foster was doing to her; not when he thought of how lovingly Emma had been cut up.
Slipping on the stairs, having to grab hold of the black iron railing for purchase, Brolan went up the walk.
Just as he reached the front door, pushing his way in, he heard a second scream.
In the end Foster was about to cut her throat.
Hearing somebody pounding up the stairs-and suspecting it was Brolan-he found there was no time for real pleasure here. Just expediency.
He leaned down, grabbed her hair, put the knife to the centre of her throat, and started to slash but-She startled Foster by grabbing on to his leg. As he tried to run from the room, she clung to him like a weight that had been permanently affixed.
He hit her on top of the head, hoping to break her grip. But still she held to him. He had to drag her to the doorway as he tried to see who was pounding up the stairs.
"Foster! Foster!"
So, it was Brolan.
At Foster's feet, Kathleen now made a series of horrible gasps like that of somebody trying to vomit. He felt her grip loosen as she gave herself entirely up to her death.
Brolan was on the staircase.
Coming up fast.
Foster had to make a quick decision. There was a gable off one of her bedroom windows. He could smash through the glass and land on the gable and let himself down to the ground.
Or he could-
As Brolan reached the last step, panting, face sleek with sweat, rage turning his handsome features into a grotesque mask, Foster realized that he had no time to do anything except stand there and defend himself.
Brolan had decided to leap at him, even though Foster kept his bloody knife in full view.
He tackled Foster around the waist, trying to get in under the knife Foster wielded. He wasn't quick enough. The knife ripped a bloody trench in his back, running along the left side of his spine. He dropped to one knee just as Foster moved forward, ready to finish him.