In the kitchen, Hilary opened the shutters on the window that looked onto the back porch. She fixed them in place and paused for a moment to stare out at the rain-swept grass and the wind-whipped trees. At the end of the lawn, twenty yards away, there were doors in the ground.
She was so surprised to see those doors that, for a moment, she thought she was imagining them. She squinted through the sheeting rain, but the doors didn’t dissolve miragelike, as she half expected.
At the end of the lawn, the land rose up in one of its last steps to the vertical ramparts of the mountains. The doors were set into that hillside. They were framed with timbers and mortared stones.
Hilary turned away from the window and hurried across the filthy kitchen, anxious to tell Joshua and Tony about her discovery.
Tony knew how to protect himself against a man with a knife. He was trained in self-defense, and he’d been in situations like this one on two other occasions. But this time he was caught off guard by the suddenness and total unexpectedness of the attack.
Glaring, his broad countenance split by a hideous rictus grin, Frye swung the knife at Tony’s face. Tony managed to turn partly out of the blow, but the blade still tore along the side of his head, ripping scalp, drawing blood.
The pain was like an acid burn.
Tony dropped his flashlight; it rolled away, causing the shadows to leap and sway.
Frye was fast, damned fast. He struck again as Tony was just going into a defensive posture. This time the knife scored solidly if peculiarly, coming down point-first on the top of his left shoulder, driving through jacket and sweater, through muscle and gristle, between bones, instantly taking all the strength out of that arm and forcing Tony to his knees. Somehow Tony found the energy to swing his right fist up from the floor, into Frye’s testicles. The big man gasped and staggered backwards, pulling the knife out of Tony as he went.
Unaware of what was happening above her, Hilary called up from the foot of the stairs. “Tony! Joshua! Come down here and see what I’ve found.”
Frye whirled at the sound of Hilary’s voice. He headed for the steps, apparently forgetting that he was leaving a wounded but living man behind him.
Tony got up, but a napalm explosion of pain set fire to his arm, and he swayed dizzily. His stomach flopped over. He had to lean against the wall.
All he could do was warn her. “Hilary, run! Run! Frye’s coming!”
Hilary was about to call up to them again when she heard Tony shouting to her. For an instant, she couldn’t believe what he was saying, but then she heard heavy footsteps on the first flight, thumping down. He was still out of sight above the landing, but she knew he couldn’t be anyone but Bruno Frye.
Then Frye’s gravelly voice boomed: “Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!”
Stunned, but not frozen with shock, Hilary backed away from the foot of the stairs, and then she ran as she saw Frye reach the landing. Too late, she realized she should have gone toward the front of the house, outside, to the cable car; but she was streaking toward the kitchen instead, and there was no turning back now.
She pushed through the swinging door, into the kitchen, as Frye jumped down the last few steps and into the hallway behind her.
She thought of searching the kitchen drawers for a knife.
Couldn’t. No time.
She ran to the outside door, unlocked it, and bolted from the kitchen as Frye entered it through the swinging door.
The only weapon she had was the flashlight she had been carrying, and that was no weapon at all.
She crossed the porch, went down the steps. Rain and wind battered her.
He was not far behind. He was still chanting, “Bitch, bitch, bitch!”
She would never be able to run around the house and all the way to the cable car before he caught her. He was much too close and gaining.
The wet grass was slick.