The door was only six feet away. But closer still, there loomed the armchair. She wanted to veer around it, but if she did, he would know something was up. She forced herself to walk right by the chair, passing so close that the hem of her robe brushed its legs. Abruptly something cold and smooth touched the bare skin of her neck, and she was sure it was his hand reaching out for her-but no; it was only one of the schefflera’s plastic leaves. She hummed louder. The noise was maddening in her ears; it throbbed in time with the pulse of roaring blood.
Then-hallelujah-she’d gotten past the chair. The hallway was coming up on her left. He would expect her to turn down that hall. When she didn’t, he would know she was on to him, and he would strike.
She took a step toward the hall, and then with a burst of speed she raced for the front door.
Behind her she caught a flash of motion, and without even looking back she knew he’d sprung to his feet, bobbing up from behind the chair like a jack-in-the-box. She reached the door. Her hand fisted over the knob. She jerked it savagely. The door didn’t open. The dead bolt-oh, God-she must have thrown the dead bolt.
Behind her, footsteps. Closing in. Fast.
She drew the bolt and tried the knob again.
This time the door opened. She was going to make it. Going to make it-
At the edge of her vision, a blurred white shape. A sneaker lashing out in a kick. Thump of impact, rubber on wood. The door slammed shut.
Wendy grabbed the knob again, trying to turn it, to pull open the door and escape into the night just beyond her reach, and then suddenly two gloved hands flew past the sides of her face like brown bats, leather-winged and blood-spotted, and something threadlike and viciously sharp was looped around her neck, cutting into the tender skin, drawing blood.
“Let go of the door. Miss Wendy Alden,” a male voice whispered in her left ear, “and don’t make a sound.”
My name, she thought in cold shock. How does he know my name?
Slowly she released her grip on the doorknob. She let both hands fall to her sides, fingers splayed. She was unnaturally aware of the position of her body, her slippered feet planted wide apart on the floor, her back arched, her head leaning back under the pull of the sharp slender cord-a loop of wire, she realized-lashed around her throat.
The man was directly behind her. She could smell the stale greasy odor of his sweat, could feel his breath hot on her cheek. But she couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see anything except the black specks pinwheeling crazily before her eyes.
“If you cry for help,” he said softly, his voice so low she could barely hear it over the staccato beating of her heart, “if you try anything foolish, I’ll kill you.”
His last words echoed in her mind: I’ll kill you, kill you, kill you. No, he couldn’t have said that. But he had. She’d heard him. She was sure of it. He’d said he would kill her. But that was crazy. She couldn’t… die. Could she?
“Your lovely neck,” he went on quietly, “is now encircled by a foot and a half of stainless-steel wire. A garrote, you see.”
Garrote. Like in The Godfather.
“Homemade,” the stranger whispered, “but most effective nonetheless. The wire is threaded through two wooden dowels, which serve as handles. Simply by twisting those handles, I can exert pressure”-the wire tautened slightly for emphasis-“as much pressure as I like. Steel wire is wickedly sharp; it can slice flesh like wax. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Say yes.”
“Yes.” The word a croak. It startled her. Someone else’s voice.
“Good. Very good. Are you afraid of me, Miss Wendy Alden?”
A choked sound was all she could utter.
“Are you?” he inquired more sharply, as once again the garrote tightened almost imperceptibly, but just enough.
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Of course you are. Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“I am called the Gryphon.”
Dizzying fear. Waves of it. Her knees weakening. Feverish heat in her forehead. Vision doubling. Heart pounding. She fought to keep from passing out.
This wasn’t happening. Not to her. It couldn’t be. The Gryphon-why, that was something she heard about on the news, something that involved other people, something remote and distant, a headline or a few seconds of tape shot by a wobbly camera, scary but not immediate, not a threat, not part of her world.
“Oh. Oh. Oh.” Who was saying that? She was. Funny. Why was she repeating that one word, that empty sound, over and over? She wanted to stop, couldn’t. “Oh. Oh. Oh.” The sounds coming faster now, uncontrollable, like hiccups.
“Shut up.” His voice like a slap.
She shut up. She waited for him to kill her. He would, of course. He always killed his victims. Killed them and… and cut off their heads.
“Now listen to me. Miss Alden. You’ve seen the stories in the news. You know what happened to the other women I’ve encountered. But for you I may make an exception. I may let you live… if you’ll do what I say. Will you?”
An exception. Then there was a chance. A hope. If she would do what he said. Well, of course she would. She would do whatever he wanted. Even let him molest her, rape her. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except staying alive.
Everything was clear, vivid. Terror had sharpened her senses, heightened her awareness, slowed time to a spider crawl. The smallest details around her stood out sharply like photographic close-ups. She saw the light glinting on the brass doorknob a foot away, saw the blurred, contorted, upside-down images of herself and the man behind her cupped in the knob, two indistinct shadowy shapes backlit by the lamps on her end tables. She saw the white pile carpet, and the seam where the carpet met the molding of the wall, and the brownish dust that had collected there, where her vacuum cleaner hadn’t reached; she would have to use the Dustbuster on that mess, uh-huh. She heard the hum of the refrigerator and the buzz of the fluorescent lighting panel in the kitchen. Outside a car rattled past, engine noise fading with distance, leaving an impression of motion and freedom, cruelly tantalizing.
“Will you?” the Gryphon asked again.
She realized she hadn’t answered. Her voice was stuck in her throat. Her tongue was paste. She forced out sound.
“Yes.”
“You’re most cooperative. Miss Alden. I like that. Your chances of surviving this rendezvous are improving all the time.” His lips drifted closer to her ear. She felt the heat of his breath on her earlobe. “Of course, if you saw my face, then I would have no choice but to kill you. You didn’t see my face, did you?”
“I didn’t. I swear.” Oh, God, it was no use, he’d never believe her, even though it was true. “You’ve been behind me the whole time,” she said desperately, pleadingly, “and there was no way I could see you, really, I don’t have any idea-”
“Fine. I only wanted to be sure.”
Did he believe her? Did he really? There was no way she could know. She had to hope, that was all, just hope.
“Now,” he said softly, “here’s what I’d like you to do.”
She waited, praying it wouldn’t be too bad, whatever it was he wanted. Distantly she was aware of the searing pain in her throat where the wire had dug into her skin, and the warm trickle leaking from the wound. She could feel the strength of his arms in the pressure of the garrote around her neck. The garrote that, at any moment, could cinch tight, tear open her throat like a paper bag, slice arteries, stop breath.
“I want you to say some words for me,” he told her. “Some very special words. Words that please me and leave me satisfied. I’ll say them first, and you’ll repeat them for me. Do that, and I’ll release you unharmed. Fair enough?”
Fair enough? she thought. Oh, God, yes, more than fair enough. Just saying some words, why, that’s easy, that’s nothing.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s fair. Very fair. Thank you.” She felt ridiculously grateful to this faceless stranger who was giving her a chance, who wanted nothing more from her than a few words. “Thank you very much.”