She climbed the steep stairs, treading on wet footprints that she’d left in her descent: Chyna Shepherd no longer hiding, up and out of that hole, untouched, alive, coming out of Narnia forever.
Tatta-tatta-tatta…
Thinking ahead as she moved, Chyna wondered if she should shoot him through the shower curtain—if it was, in fact, a curtain instead of a glass door—because if she didn’t shoot him through it, then she would have to hold the revolver in just one hand while she yanked the curtain or the door aside. That would be risky, because a strange and dismaying weakness was creeping into her fingers and into her wrists. Her arms were shaking so badly that already she had to grip the weapon with both hands to prevent herself from dropping it.
Her heart rattling like the copper pipe, scared about the coming confrontation even if the crazy geek was naked and defenseless, Chyna reached the upper landing and entered the laundry room.
She couldn’t shoot him through the curtain, because she wouldn’t know whether she’d hit him or not. She’d be shooting blind, unable to aim for his chest or head.
Past the dryer and the washer, through the fragrance of laundry detergent, she reached the open door to the kitchen. Crossing the threshold, she belatedly registered the important thing that she had seen on the landing at the head of the cellar stairs: wet shoeprints larger than her own, among her prints, overlapping her prints, where he had stood only a short while ago.
She was already rushing into the kitchen, with too much momentum to halt, and the killer came at her from the right, past the dinette set. He was big, strong, a juggernaut, neither naked nor defenseless, the shower having been a ruse all along.
He was fast, but she was marginally faster. He tried to drive her backward and slam her against the cabinets, but she slid out of the way, raising the revolver, with the muzzle three feet from his face, and she pulled the trigger, and the hammer made a dry, stick-breaking sound as it fell on an empty chamber.
She backed hard into the side of the refrigerator, dislodging the kittens-and-lilies calendar, which clattered to the floor at her feet.
The killer was still rushing at her. She squeezed the trigger, and the revolver clicked again, which made no sense—shit—because the clerk in the service station never had a chance to fire it before he had been blown away by the shotgun. No cartridges should be missing.
This was the first time that she had seen the killer’s face. Always before, she’d glimpsed just the back of his head, the top of his skull, the side of his face but from a distance. He was not what she had expected, not moon-faced and pale-lipped and heavy-jawed. He was handsome, with blue eyes that were a beautiful contrast with his dark hair—nothing crazy in his clear eyes—broad clean features, and a nice smile.
Smiling, he continued to come straight at her as she squeezed the trigger a third time, and the hammer fell yet again on an empty chamber. Smiling, he tore the revolver out of her hand with such force that she thought her finger broke before it slipped through the trigger guard, and she squealed in pain.
The killer backed away from her, holding the weapon, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “What a kick that was.”
Chyna huddled against the side of the refrigerator, tramping on kitten faces.
“I knew it was the same gun,” he said, “but what if I’d been wrong? I’d have one big hole in my face right now, wouldn’t I, little lady?”
Weak and dizzy with terror, she looked around desperately for anything that could be used as a weapon, but there was nothing close at hand.
“One big hole in my face,” he repeated, as if he found that prospect amusing.
One of the cabinets might contain knives, but she had no way of knowing which drawer to check.
“Intense,” he said, smiling at the revolver in his hand.
A pistol lay on the counter across the kitchen, beside the sink, well out of her reach. Chyna couldn’t believe this: He had brought a gun of his own, but he hadn’t used it, had set it aside, and had gone for her bare-handed instead.