Oh, Jesus.
She got up, felt her ribs protest with a vicious prod, but ignored it. Fear made adrenaline flood through her. She ran from the bedroom, her long flannel nightgown nearly making her trip, ran as fast as she could toward the front door.
It opened.
She skidded to a stop, her eyes glued to the now-opening door. She couldn’t move. She could only stare and pray and stare some more.
She wasn’t surprised when the man slipped inside. She wasn’t really surprised that he was holding a gun and aiming it at her. It was the same man from the commercial shoot. He smiled when he saw her standing there, her face bruised, wearing a granny gown, looking white and ill and terrified.
“Hi,” he said. “You’re still around, sweetie, more’s the pity. Lucky little bitch, aren’t you?” He locked the door behind him. “Oh, don’t worry about the girl with the huge tits. She ain’t coming back for a while yet. She’s too busy fucking that cop down in the patrol car. The little gentleman pulled it in an alley so they wouldn’t be disturbed. Who says cops ain’t got no sensitivity? It’s just you and me now. Lord, do you ever look like an ugly duck now. Wouldn’t you rather have died than look like you do now?”
Lindsay felt her insides twisting, heard her heart pounding. Why couldn’t he hear it? Did he hear it, did he smell her fear? It was heavy, metallic. She wanted to gag with the smell of her own fear. Did he enjoy it? Seeing her terror? She heard a voice that was deep and small and it asked, “But why? Why do you want to kill me? What did I ever do to you?”
Bert Oswald just shrugged. “It’s too bad you look like a freak, or you and me could have a little fun before I have to ice you down but good this time. Hey, I’m sorry, lady, but I kinda have to hurry, you know? From the way that cop was moving out of here with that gal, I’d say he’ll probably get his rocks off pretty quick now. Of course, I could have some fun with her when she got back here.”
Lindsay turned and ran. She heard a hard pinging sound. Wood splintered into the wall not six inches from her head. She heard him running after her now, heard another sharp pinging sound—oh, God, it was a bullet—and this one struck her in the arm. She felt a searing streak of iciness, then nothing, blank numbness. She made it to the bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock. Because she’d watched lots of television and violent movies, she quickly moved away from the door. It was lucky she did. A bullet struck the door and came flying through, spewing out splinters in all directions.
She plastered herself against the wall, wheezing with fear. She knew she had to think, to act, but dear God, she couldn’t even bring herself to move. How long before he shot the lock off the door? How long before he came in and shot her?
How long did she have?
She opened her eyes and stared sightlessly around the bedroom. Something inside her recognized there was nothing in here to help her. Without hesitation, she ran to the bathroom. Another lock, more protection. But once he got in here, she was trapped and it would be over.
She slammed the bathroom door and turned the lock. It was thicker than the bedroom door, not hollow. She cursed then, wishing she’d moved some furniture in front of the bedroom door to buy her some more time. Too late, too late. She switched on the bathroom light. She saw herself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the wild-eyed woman who looked as if she’d stared Satan right in the eye.
A weapon. She needed a weapon. When he came through the bathroom door she wasn’t going to just stand here and let him kill her. What? She pulled open the medicine cabinet. She flung bottles off the shelves. The racket dinned around her as bottles hit the tile floor, breaking, shattering, rolling. She heard the bedroom door crash against the wall. He was in the bedroom now. He was looking around. In another second he’d know she’d come in here. Thank God the bathroom was old-fashioned, high ceiling, large. She had some room. There was nothing to help her in the medicine cabinet.
She fell to her knees and pulled open the cabinet beneath the sink. Cleaning supplies. A toilet brush, sponges, one green and one yellow, both shrunk from a lot of use, a can of Ajax, a roll of toilet paper, several toiletries bags for traveling, and a bottle of Pine Sol—oh, yes—but it was nearly empty. She flung it onto the floor. Oh, God, there, in the very back, was a can of Lysol bathroom spray. Basin, tile, and tub cleaner—it was foamy, and it came out in wild, thick spurts. She picked up the can and started shaking it. It was nearly full. She pressed down her finger and out poured the foam. Stop, stop, she had to have enough for him.
She heard his voice not three feet away from her; he was pressing his face close to the door.
“Little sweetie? I’m right here and I don’t have a lot more time to spend on you. You know? I cut the phone wires, and no telling how long it will be before someone from the phone company shows up. And I’d hate to have to hurt your little nurse with the big tits. Now, you gonna open that door for me? If you do, I’ll make it real quick, you won’t feel a thing. Otherwise—” He let his voice trail off, hoping to terrify her, but she was smiling now, terror at bay.
She was holding the bottle of Lysol. What to do? How to get to him?
Slowly Lindsay rose, smiling a ghastly smile, and walked to the door, careful not to stand directly in front of it in case he fired through it.
“Come on, now,” Oswald said again. He sounded cajoling, wheedling. Good Lord, she thought, was he so stupid as to think she’d let him in?
A sharp retort, and a bullet slammed through the wood and came into the bathroom, hitting the tile over the bathtub. Shards of tile splintered and flew outward. She felt some strike her, sharp little bites, but didn’t really notice.
It was time. She knew it was time.
She inched over to the door. She stretched out her right hand toward the latch. She saw the blood soaking through the flannel of her gown, lots of blood, but it didn’t concern her at the moment. It just looked odd, so ugly and wet and red against the soft white material of her gown. There was no pain. Just when he fired again, through the doorknob, Lindsay clicked the lock open. Another one—yes, just one more.
He fired again, cursing loudly now, furious now, and she grasped the doorknob and jerked open the door, flinging it back.
He held the gun limply in his hand. The door struck him and he went careening back. But he still had the gun and he wasn’t slow, but he was surprised, and that gave her a second.
He grunted, trying to react, but Lindsay was faster. She brought up the can of Lysol, shoved it into his face, and pressed down. Thick white foam went directly into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, foaming thicker and thicker.
He screamed and the foam filled his mouth, overflowing now. He dropped the gun, falling back, his hands on his face, his fingers digging out the foam in his mouth, out of his eyes. Lindsay dropped the can. She leaned forward and hit him as hard as she could with her fist in his belly. Then she stepped back, raised her leg, and kicked him in the balls. He yowled and fell to his knees. She raised her right leg and kicked him in the neck.
He was screaming now, lying on the floor on his side, holding his belly. He looked rabid with all the foam coming out of his mouth. She was panting now, and he was looking up at her and there was such pain and fury in his eyes that she felt the paralyzing fear come over her again. She backed up. There was that smell again, that fear smell, and it wasn’t coming from her any longer. It was coming from him.
“I’m gonna hurt you bad,” Oswald gasped. “God, are you gonna hurt.” He was on his knees, trying to stand. He saw his gun on the floor and went flying forward to get it.
Lindsay raised her leg and brought her foot down on his kidneys. He fell flat on his face, screaming.