The blocks would be longer now.
Your side streets were always longer than your streets on the avenue. Maybe twice as long. Plenty of opportunity for him in there. Two long blocks.
It was raining inside the floppy tops of the boots. She could feel the backup pistol inside the right boot, the butt cold against the nylon of her pantyhose. She was wearing panties under the pantyhose, great protection against a knife, oh, sure, great big chastity belt he could slash open in a minute. She was holding the umbrella with both hands now, trying to keep it from being carried away by the wind. She wondered suddenly if she shouldn’t just throw the damn thing away, put her right hand onto the butt of the .38 in her bag — He pulls that knife, don’t ask questions, just blow him away. Annie’s advice. Not that she needed it.
Alley coming up on her right. Narrow space between two of the buildings, stacked with garbage cans when she’d passed it this afternoon. Too narrow for action? The guy wasn’t looking to dance, he was looking to rape, and the width of the alley seemed to preclude the space for that. Ever get raped on top of a garbage can? she asked herself. Don’t ask questions, just blow him away. Dark doorway in the building beyond the alley. Lights in the next building and the one after that. Lamppost on the corner. The sky suddenly split by a streak of lightning. Thunder booming on the night. A gust of wind turned the umbrella inside out. She threw it into the garbage can on the corner and felt the immediate onslaught of the rain on her naked head. Should have worn a hat, she thought. Or one of those plastic things you tie under your chin. Her hand found the butt of the .38 in her shoulder bag.
She crossed the street.
Another lamppost on the corner opposite.
Darkness beyond that.
An alley coming up, she knew. Wider than the first had been, a car’s width across, at least. Nice place to tango. Plenty of room. Her hand tightened on the gun butt. Nothing. Nobody in the alley that she could see, no footsteps behind her after she passed it. Lighted buildings ahead now, looking potbelly warm in the rain. Another alley way up ahead, two buildings down from Mary’s. What if they’d been wrong? What if he didn’t plan to hit tonight? She kept walking, her hand on the gun butt. She skirted a puddle on the sidewalk. More lightning, she winced; more thunder, she winced again. Passing the only other alley now, dark and wide, but not as wide as the last one had been. Garbage cans. A scraggly wet cat sitting on one of the cans, peering out at the falling rain. Cat would’ve bolted if somebody was in there, no? She was passing the alley when he grabbed her.
He grabbed her from behind, his left arm looping around her neck and yanking her off her feet. She fell back against him, her right hand already yanking the pistol out of her bag. The cat shrieked and leaped off the garbage can, skittering underfoot as it streaked out into the rain.
“Hello, Mary,” he whispered, and she pulled the gun free.
“This is a knife, Mary,” he said, and his right hand came up suddenly, and she felt the sharp tip of the blade against her ribs, just below her heart.
“Just drop the gun, Mary,” he said. “You still have the gun, huh, Mary? Same as last time. Well, just drop it, nice and easy, drop it on the ground, Mary.”
He prodded her with the knife. The tip poked at the lightweight raincoat, poked at the thin fabric of her blouse beneath it, poked at her ribs. His left arm was still looped around her neck, holding her tight in the crook of his elbow. The pistol was in her hand, but he was behind her, and powerless in his grip, and the pressure of the knife blade was more insistent now.
“Do it!” he said urgently, and she dropped the pistol.
It clattered to the alleyway floor. Lightning shattered the night. There was an enormous boom of thunder. He dragged her deeper into the alley, into the darkness, past the garbage cans to where a loading platform was set in the wall some three feet above the floor. A pair of rusted iron doors were behind the platform. He threw her onto the platform, and her hand went immediately into the top of her floppy rubber boot, groping for the butt of the Browning.
“Don’t force me to cut you,” he said.
She yanked the pistol out of its holster.
She was bringing it up into firing position, when he slashed her.
She dropped the gun at once, her hand going up to her face where sudden fire blazed a trail across her cheek. Her hand came away wet, she thought it was the rain at first, but the wet was sticky and thick, and she knew it was blood — he had cut her cheek, she was bleeding from the cheek! And suddenly she was overcome by a fear she had never before known in her life.
“Good girl,” he said.
There was another flash of lightning, more thunder. The knife was under her dress now, she dared not move, he was picking at the nylon of the pantyhose with the knife, catching at it, plucking at it; she winced below, tightened there in horrified reaction, afraid of the knife, fearful he would use it again where she was infinitely more vulnerable. The tip of the blade caught the fabric, held. There was the sound of the nylon ripping, the whisper of the knife as it opened the pantyhose over her crotch and the panties underneath. He laughed when he realized she was also wearing panties.
“Expecting a rape?” he asked, still laughing, and then slashed the panties, too, and now she was open to the cold of the night, her legs spread and trembling, the rain beating down on her face and mingling there with the blood, washing the blood from her cheek burning hot where the gash crossed it, her eyes widening in terror when he placed the cold flat of the knife against her vagina and said, “Want me to cut you here, too, Mary?”
She shook her head, No, please. Mumbled the words incoherently. Said them aloud at last, “No, please,” trembling beneath him as he moved between her legs and put the knife to her throat again. “Please,” she said. “Don’t... cut me again. Please.”
“Want me to fuck you instead?” he asked.
She shook her head again. No! she thought. But she said instead, “Don’t cut me again.”
“You want to get fucked instead, isn’t that right, Mary?”
No! she thought. “Yes,” she said. Don’t cut me, she thought. Please.
“Say it, Mary.”
“Don’t cut me,” she said.
“Say it, Mary!”
“Fuck me in... instead,” she said.
“You want my baby, don’t you, Mary?”
Oh, God, no, she thought, oh, God, that’s it! “Yes,” she said, “I want your baby.”
“The hell you do,” he said, and laughed.
Lightning tore the night close by. Thunder boomed into the alleyway, immediately overhead, echoing.
She knew all the things to do, knew all about going for the eyes, clawing at the jelly of the eyes, blinding the bastard, she knew all about that. She knew what to do if he forced you to blow him, knew all about fondling his balls and taking him in your mouth, and then biting down hard on his cock and squeezing his balls tight at the same time, knew all about how to send a rapist shrieking into the night in pain. But a knife was at her throat.
The tip of the sharp blade was in the hollow of her throat where a tiny pulse beat wildly. He had slashed her face, she could still feel the slow steady ooze of blood from the cut, fire blazing along the length of the cut from one end to the other. The rain pelted her face and her legs, her skirt up around her thighs, the cold, wet concrete of the platform beneath her, the rusted iron doors behind her. And then — suddenly — she felt the rigid thrust of him below, against her unreceptive lips, and thought he would tear her with the force of his penetration, rip her as if with the knife itself, still at her throat, poised to cut.