“Okay.”
“And I’ll move with you.”
“Sure.”
“Nice and easy.”
“Sure.”
“And I’ll keep the gun where it is.”
His eyes were still hard and cold, but the insanity and the rage had gone out of them. The thought of having his sex organs shot off had snapped him back into the real world–at least temporarily.
She poked the barrel of the gun hard against his privates, and he grimaced with pain.
“Now roll over easy,” she said.
He did exactly what she had instructed him to do, moved onto his side with exaggerated care, then onto his back, never taking his eyes from hers. He slipped his hand out from under her dress as they reversed positions, but he didn’t attempt to take the pistol from her.
She clung to him with her left hand, the gun clenched in her right, and she went over with him, keeping the muzzle firmly in his crotch. Finally she was atop him, one arm trapped between them, the .32 automatic still strategically placed.
Her right hand was beginning to go numb because of the awkward position, but also because she was squeezing the pistol with all of her might and was afraid to hold it any less surely. Her grip was so fierce that her fingers and the muscles up the length of her arm ached with the effort. She was worried that somehow he would sense the growing weakness in her hand–or that she would actually let go of the gun against her will as her fingers lost all feeling.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to slide off you. I’m going to keep the gun where it is, and I’m going to slip off beside you. Don’t move. Don’t even blink.”
He stared at her.
“You got that?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Keeping the .32 on his scrotum, she disengaged herself from him as if she were rising from a bed of nitroglycerin. Her abdominal muscles were painfully tight with tension. Her mouth was dry and sour. Their noisy breathing seemed to fill the bedroom like rushing wind, yet her hearing was so acute that she could detect the soft ticking of her Cartier watch. She slid to one side, got up on her knees, hesitated, finally pushed all the way to her feet and shuffled quickly out of his reach before he could trip her again.
He sat up.
“No!” she said.
“What?”
“Lie down.”
“I’m not coming after you.”
“Lie down.”
“Just relax.”
“Dammit, lie down!”
He would not obey her. He just sat there. “So what happens next?”
Waving the pistol at him, she said, “I told you to lie down. Flat on your back. Do it. Now.”
He twisted his lips into one of those ugly smiles that he did so well. “And I asked you what happens next.”
He was trying to regain control of the situation, and she did not like that. On the other hand, did it really matter whether he was sitting or lying down? Even sitting up, he could not get to his feet and cross the space between them faster than she could put a couple of bullets into him.
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “Sit up if you insist. But you make one move toward me, and I’ll empty the gun on you. I’ll spread your guts all over the room. I swear to Christ I will.”
He grinned and nodded.
Shivering, she said, “Now, I’m going to the bed. I’ll sit down there and phone the police.”
She moved sideways and backwards, crablike, one small step at a time, until she got to the bed. The telephone was on the nightstand. The moment she sat down and lifted the receiver, Frye disobeyed her. He stood up.
“Hey.”
She dropped the receiver and clutched the pistol with both hands, trying to keep it steady.
He held his hands out placatingly, palms toward her. “Wait. Just wait a second. I’m not going to touch you.”
“Sit down.”
“I’m not coming anywhere near you.”
“Sit down right now.”
“I’m going to walk out of here,” Frye said.
“Like hell you are.”
“Out of this room and out of this house.”
“No.”
“You won’t try to shoot me if I just leave.”