them open, they say some silly things.
But I don’t believe any of them ever seriously thought she could talk me
out of it. Until you. So very cool.”
She twisted away from him. She ran out of the foyer, into the living
room. Her heart was pounding; she was shaking badly; but she was
determined not to be incapacitated by fear. She kept a gun in the top
drawer of her nightstand. If she could get into the bedroom, close and
lock the door between them, she could hold him off long enough to put
her hands on the pistol.
Within a few steps he caught her by the shoulder.
She tried to jerk free.
He was stronger than he looked. His fingers were like talons. He swung
her around and shoved her backward.
Off balance, she collided with the coffee table, fell over it.
She struck her hip on one of the heavy wooden legs; pain like an
incandescent bulb flashed along her thigh.
He stood over her, still holding the knife, still grinning.
“Bastard,” she said.
“There are two ways you can die, Sarah. You can try to run and resist,
forcing me to kill you now-painfully and slowly. Or you can cooperate,
come into the bedroom, let me give you some fun. Then I promise you’ll
die quickly and painlessly.”
Don’t panic, she told herself. You’re Sarah Piper, and you came out of
nothing, and you made something of yourself, and you have been knocked
down dozens of times before, knocked down figuratively and literally,
and you’ve always gotten up, and you’ll get up this time, and you’ll
survive, you will, dammit, you will.
“Okay,” she said. She stood up.
“Good girl.” He held the knife out at his side. He unbuttoned the
bodice of her pantsuit and slipped his free hand under the thin
material. “Nice,” he said. She closed her eyes as he moved nearer.
“I’ll make it fun for you,” he said.
She drove her knee into his crotch.
Although the blow didn’t land squarely, he staggered backward.
She grabbed a table lamp and threw it. Without waiting to see if it hit
him, she ran into the bedroom and shut the door. Before she could lock
it, he slammed against the far side and pushed the door open two or
three inches.
She tried to force it shut again so that she could throw the lock, but
he was stronger than she. She knew she couldn’t hold out against him
for more than a minute or two. Therefore, when he was pressing the
hardest and would expect it the least, she let go of the door altogether
and ran to the nightstand.
Surprised, he stumbled into the room and nearly fell.
She pulled open the nightstand drawer and picked up the gun. He knocked
it out of her hand. It clattered against the wall and dropped to the
floor, out of reach.
Why didn’t you scream? she asked herself. Why didn’t you yell for
help while you could hold the door shut? It’s unlikely anyone would
hear you in soundly built apartments like these, but at least it was
worth a try when you had a chance.
But she knew why she didn’t cry out. She was Sarah Piper. She had
never called for help in her life. She had always solved her own
problems, had always fought her own battles. She was tough and proud of
it. She did not scream.
She was terrified, trembling, sick with fear, but she knew that she had
to die the same way she had lived. If she broke now, whimpered and
mewled when there wasn’t any chance of salvation, she would be making a
lie of her life. If her life was to have meant anything, anything at
all, she would have to die as she had lived: resolute, proud, tough.
She spat in his face.
“Homicide.”
“I want to speak to a detective.”
“What’s his name?”
“Any detective. I don’t care.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Never mind. I want a detective.”
“I’m required to take your address, telephone number, name-”
“Stuff it! Let me talk to a detective or I’ll hang up.”