And sooner or later he would come back. She was as certain of that as she ever had been about anything.
She could go to a hotel, but that didn't appeal to her. It would be like hiding from him. Running away. She was quietly proud of her courage. She never ran away from anyone or anything; she fought back with all of her ingenuity and strength. She hadn't run away from her violent and unloving parents. She had not even sought psychological escape from the searing memory of the final monstrous and bloody events in that small Chicago apartment, had not accepted the kind of peace that could be found in madness or convenient amnesia, which were two ways out that most people would have taken if they'd been through the same ordeal. She had never backed away from the endless series of challenges she had encountered while struggling to build a career in Hollywood, first as an actress, then as a screenwriter. She had gotten knocked down plenty of times, but she had picked herself up again. And again. She persevered, fought back, and won. She would also win this bizarre battle with Bruno Frye, even though she would have to fight it alone.
Damn the police!
She decided to sleep in one of the guest rooms, where there was a door she could lock and barricade. She put sheets and a blanket on the queen-size bed, hung towels in the adjoining guest bathroom.
Downstairs, she rummaged through the kitchen drawers, taking out a variety of knives and testing each for balance and sharpness. The large butcher's knife looked deadlier than any of the others, but to her small hand it was unwieldy. It would be of little use in close quarters fighting, for she needed room to swing it. It might be an excellent weapon for attack, but it was not so good for self-defense. Instead, she chose an ordinary utility knife with a four-inch blade, small enough to fit in a pocket of her robe, large enough to do considerable damage if she had to use it.
The thought of plunging a knife into another human being filled her with revulsion, but she knew that she could do it if her life was threatened. At various times during her childhood, she had hidden a knife in her bedroom, under the mattress. It had been insurance against her father's unpredictable fits of mindless violence. She had used it only once, that last day, when Earl had begun to hallucinate from a combination of delirium tremens and just plain lunacy. He had seen giant worms coming out of the walls and huge crabs trying to get in through the windows. In a paranoid schizophrenic fury, he had transformed that small apartment into a reeking charnel house, and she had saved herself only because she'd had a knife.
Of course, a knife was inferior to a gun. She wouldn't be able to use it against Frye until he was on top of her, and then it might be too late. But the knife was all she had. The uniformed patrolmen had taken her .32 pistol with them when they left right behind the locksmith.
Damn them to hell!
After Detectives Clemenza and Howard had gone, Hilary and Officer Farmer had had a maddening conversation about the gun laws. She became furious every time she thought of it.
"Miss Thomas, about this pistol...."
"What about it?"
"You need a permit to keep a handgun in your house."
"I know that. I've got one."
"Could I see the registration?"
"Its in the nightstand drawer. I keep it with the gun."
"May Officer Whitlock go upstairs and get it?"
"Go ahead."
And a minute or two later:
"Miss Thomas, I gather you once lived in San Francisco."
"For about eight months. I did some theater work up there when I was trying to break in as an actress."
"This registration bears a San Francisco address."
"I was renting a North Beach apartment because it was cheap, and I didn't have much money in those days. A woman alone in that neighborhood sure needs a gun."
"Miss Thomas, aren't you aware that you're required to fill out a new registration form when you move from one county to another?"
"No."
"You really aren't aware of that?"
"Look, I just write movies. Guns aren't my business."
"If you keep a handgun in your house, you're obliged to know the laws governing its registration and use."
"Okay, okay. I'll register it as soon as I can."
"Well, you see, you'll have to come in and register it if you want it back."
"Get it back?"
"I'll have to take it with me."
"Are you kidding?"
"It's the law, Miss Thomas."
"You're going to leave me alone, unarmed?"
"I don't think you need to worry about--"
"Who put you up to this?"
"I'm only doing my job."
"Howard put you up to it, didn't he?"
"Detective Howard did suggest I check the registration. But he didn't--"
"Jesus!"
"All you have to do is come in, pay the proper fee, fill out a new registration--and we'll return your pistol."
"What if Frye comes back here tonight?"
"It isn't very likely, Miss Thomas."
"But what if he does?"
"Call us. We've got some patrol cars in the area. We'll get here--"
"--just in time to phone for a priest and a morgue wagon."
"You've got nothing to fear but--"
"--fear itself? Tell me, Officer Farmer, do you have to take a college course in the use of the cliché before you can become a cop?"
"I'm only doing my duty, Miss Thomas."
"Ahhh ... what's the use."
Farmer had taken the pistol, and Hilary had learned a valuable lesson. The police department was an arm of the government, and you could not rely on the government for anything. If the government couldn't balance its own budget and refrain from inflating its own currency, if it couldn't find a way to deal with the rampant corruption within its own offices, if it was even beginning to lose the will and the means to maintain an army and to provide national security, then why should she expect it to stop a single maniac from cutting her down?
She had learned long ago that it was not easy to find someone in whom she could place her faith and trust. Not her parents. Not relatives, every one of whom preferred not to get involved. Not the paper-shuffling social workers to whom she had turned for help when she was a child. Not the police. In fact, she saw now that the only person anyone could trust and rely on was himself.
All right, she thought angrily. Okay. I'll deal with Bruno Frye myself.
How?
Somehow.
She left the kitchen with the knife in her hand, went to the mirrored wet bar that was tucked into a niche between the living room and the study, and poured a generous measure of Remy Martin into a large crystal snifter. She carried the knife and the brandy upstairs to the guest room, defiantly switching off the lights as she went.
She closed the bedroom door, locked it, and looked for some way to fortify it. A highboy stood against the wall to the left of the door, a heavy dark pine piece taller than she was. It weighed too much to be moved as it was, but she made it manageable by taking out all the drawers and setting them aside. She dragged the big wooden chest across the carpet, pushed it squarely against the door, and replaced the drawers. Unlike many highboys, this one had no legs at all; it rested flat on the floor and had a relatively low center of gravity that made it a formidable obstacle for anyone trying to bull his way into the room.
In the bathroom, she put the knife and the brandy on the
floor. She filled the tub with water as hot as she could stand it, stripped, and settled slowly into it, wincing and gasping as she gradually submerged. Ever since she had been pinned beneath Frye on the bedroom floor, ever since she'd felt his hand pawing at her crotch and shredding her pantyhose, she had felt dirty, contaminated. Now, she soaked herself with great pleasure, worked up a thick lilac-scented lather, scrubbed vigorously with a washcloth, pausing occasionally to sip Remy Martin. At last, when she felt thoroughly clean again, she put the bar of soap aside and settled down even farther in the fragrant water. Steam rose over her, and the brandy made steam within her, and the pleasant combination of inner and outer heat forced fine drops of perspiration out of her brow. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the contents of the crystal snifter.