The memory of it left her a little breathless, a little aroused.
She stood up with the undergarments in her hands. Wringing them out, she walked to the pool comer where he had taken her, where he had held her for so long afterward and where she had finally said, “Now what’ll we do for fun?”Jerry suggested playing Marco Polo, a water version of hide-and-seek.
So they had played that game for a while, taking turns as the blind searcher, as the quarry. The hiding reminded Gillian of how it had been when she was a kid, but this time she looked forward to being found. The kisses. The touching. Which grew more intense as the game progressed until finally they climbed from the pool, rubbed each other with towels as they shivered in night air that had seemed terribly cold, and went inside to the bedroom.
The air now seemed warm. It’s because you’re not soaking wet, Gillian thought.
She went to the table. She draped the undergarments on the back of Jerry’s chair.
Her bandage was still on top of her piled clothes. She had nearly forgotten about the scrapes. The worst of the two had caused her a few pains during the night when Jerry touched it by accident or when it rubbed too hard against the sheet, but those had been only minor irritations, whispers in the noisy crowd of competing sensations.
She fingered the bad scrape. It felt dry, a little stiff, as if all that time in the water had leached out the wound’s moisture. So she left the bandage off. She stepped into her white shorts, fastened them at her waist, and put her blouse on. Buttoning it with one hand, she took the bandage into the kitchen and tossed it in the waste container.
She went to the bedroom. In the faint light from the hallway, she could see Jerry stretched out on the bed. He looked as if he hadn’t moved a muscle.
I could just leave the suitcase, she thought. We could go over in the morning. Jerry had said he would take a floating holiday—no pun intended.
I don’t want it hanging over my head, she decided. We’ll have better things to do when we wake up.
She walked back down the hall, moved carefully through the dark living room, and opened Jerry’s front door. She unlocked it so she could get back inside. Then she stepped out and quickly pulled it shut.
The grass was dewy under her bare feet as she crossed the lawn. She stayed close to the front of Jerry’s house. Fredrick’s driveway was empty.
What did you expect? Gillian asked herself. Did you think he’d come home while you were at Jerry’s?
It was a possibility. She knew that she would’ve heard his car pull into the driveway if he’d returned while she was in the pool. But Jerry’s bedroom was on the other side of the house. From there, she couldn’t have heard it. And she’d hardly been listening for it. And she’d been asleep part of the time.
But the car wasn’t there.
Fredrick Holden was still on his trip—maybe on one of his killing sprees.
Which will come to a quick stop, Gillian thought, once I’ve sent his scrapbook and a little anonymous note to the police.
She stepped onto his driveway. Its pavement felt warmer than the grass.
She glanced quickly up and down the block. Most of the houses were dark except for a few porch lights. She saw no one, and no cars moved on the street.
She came to the walkway that led to the front door. Its painted surface would be slick under wet bare feet, so she moved carefully even though the dew on her feet had mostly been blotted off while she crossed the driveway.
That would be just the thing, she thought. Take a slide and bust your keester.
No more than one crash and burn per day, please.
She climbed the stairs to the stoop.
She realized that she was gritting her teeth and trembling. The night was warm and she wasn’t even wet. So knock off the shakes, she told herself. What are you, scared or something? What’s to be scared of? Oh, nothing much.
Shit, no.
She gripped the door handle. Her thumb depressed the leaf-shaped metal tab and she heard the latch draw back. But she didn’t open the door.
She licked her lips.
Do it, she told herself. Get your damned suitcase and get the hell out of here. Grab it, you’ll be back in Jerry’s house in about fifteen seconds, maybe eight if you put on the old spring.
She took a deep breath.
Maybe I should wait for Jerry, she thought.
Damn it, the suitcase is right at the door. All I have to do is reach in. Maybe one step into the house, that’s all. Then I’m home free.
She swung open the door.
The house was dark. It was supposed to be. Fredrick’s timer was set to shut off the lamp at eleven.
Her suitcase was a dim shape on the floor, just far enough inside so the opening door wouldn’t knock against it.
Exactly where she’d left it.
No sweat.
Glad I didn’t wake Jerry up for this.
She stepped over the threshold, took one more step, bent forward and reached for the suitcase handle.
A pale hand shot past the edge of the door, snatched Gillian’s wrist, and swung her stumbling forward into the dark. The suitcase tripped her. She knocked it over and fell across it.
The hand on her wrist was gone.
The front door thudded shut.
She scurried forward, knees on the suitcase, then on the carpet. She started to push herself up, but someone landed on her back, smashing her down flat. Her breath blasted out. She turned her head in time to prevent the front of her face from pounding the floor, and pain flashed through her cheek-bone and jaw. Then something—a fist?—struck the other side of her face.
She wondered vaguely what was happening. Somebody’s been waiting behind the door?
Not...
She couldn’t think of the name. The owner. Not him. Not him! A burglar? She’d left the door unlocked.
Another punch smashed the side of her face.
The weight left her body. Fingers dug into her armpits and she was lifted. Her knees rested on the floor for a moment. Then she was hoisted higher, jerked backward against a body, swung around and pulled, heels dragging along the carpet. Out of the living room. Into the hall. Through a doorway.
The hands thrust her away and let go. She flapped her arms, grabbing at the darkness for a moment before she hit the floor flat on her back. A dim figure leaped past her sprawled body.
She squinted when light stabbed her eyes.
Through a tingling in her ears, she heard a man’s voice. “Oh, you’re a beauty, a real first-rate beauty.”
She raised her head. A man was standing near her feet, smiling down at her. He looked younger than thirty. He looked clean-cut with his short brown hair, white knit shirt and blue slacks. There was glee in his smile and eyes.
It’s him, Gillian thought. Oh Jesus.
“I’m glad you dropped in,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you. Knew you’d be back.”
He unbuckled his belt and slid it out of the loops of his slacks. He doubled it.
“Does anybody know you’re here?”
Gillian shook her head. She raised her knees.
“Answer me.”
“No,” she gasped. “Nobody knows.”
“Where were you tonight?”
“No place.”
“Not what I wanted to hear,” he said, and rushed forward, swinging the belt.
Gillian flung up her arms. The belt snapped against her, lashed her arms and belly and legs as the man danced around her, bending and whipping. She rolled over and covered her head. The belt smacked her back and buttocks. She shivered with the stinging pain. She heard herself whimpering, making sharp sucking sounds each time the belt hit her.