Whispers Page 11

  lifting progressive weights until his muscles cooked into pudding and the violence steamed out of him. The psychiatrists called it sublimation . Lately, it had been less and less effective in dissipating his unholy cravings.

  The woman was still on his mind.

  The sleekness of her.

  The swell of hips and breasts.

  Hilary Thomas.

  No. That was just a disguise.

  Katherine.

  That was who she really was.

  Katherine. Katherine the bitch. In a new body.

  He could close his eyes and picture her naked upon a bed, pinned under him, thighs spread, squirming, writhing, quivering like a rabbit that sees the muzzle of a gun. He could envision his hand moving over her heavy breasts and taut belly, over her thighs and the mound of her sex . . . and then his other hand raising the knife, plunging it down, jamming the silvered blade into her, all the way into her softness, her flesh yielding to him, the blood springing up in bright wet promise. He could see the stark terror and excruciating pain in her eyes as he smashed through her chest and dug for her living heart, trying to rip it out while it was still beating. He could almost feel her slick warm blood and smell the slightly bitter coppery odor of it. As the vision filled his mind and took command of all his senses, he felt his testicles draw tight, felt his penis twitch and grow stiff—another knife—and he wanted to plunge it into her, all the way into her marvelous body, first his thick pulsing penis and then the blade, spurting his fear and weakness into her with one weapon, drawing out her strength and vitality with the other.

  He opened his eyes.

  He was sweating.

  Katherine. The bitch.

  For thirty-five years, he had lived in her shadow, had existed miserably in constant fear of her. Five years ago, she had died of heart disease, and he had tasted freedom for the first time in his life. But she kept coming back from the dead, pretending to be other women, looking for a way to take control of him again.

  He wanted to use her and kill her to show her that she did not scare him. She had no power over him any more. He was now stronger than she was.

  He reached for the bundle of chamois cloths that lay beside the mattress, untied them, unwrapped his spare knife.

  He wouldn’t be able to sleep until he killed her.

  Tonight.

  She wouldn’t be expecting him back so soon.

  He looked at his watch. Midnight.

  People would still be returning home from the theater, late dinner, parties. Later, the streets would be deserted, the houses lightless and quiet, and there would be less chance of being spotted and reported to the police.

  He decided that he would leave for Westwood at two o’clock.

  chapter three

  The locksmith came and changed the locks on the front and back doors, then went on to another job in Hancock Park.

  Officers Farmer and Whitlock left.

  Hilary was alone.

  She didn’t think she could sleep, but she knew for sure she couldn’t spend the night in her own bed. When she stood in that room, her mind’s eye filled with vivid images of terror: Frye smashing through the door, stalking her, grinning demoniacally, moving inexorably toward the bed and suddenly leaping onto it, rushing across the mattress with the knife raised high. . . . As before, in a curious dreamlike flux, the memory of Frye became a memory of her father, so that for an instant she had the crazy notion that it had been Earl Thomas, raised from the dead, who had tried to kill her tonight. But it was not merely the residual vibrations of evil in the room that put it off limits. She was also unwilling to sleep there until the ruined door had been removed and a new one hung, a job that couldn’t be taken care of until she could get hold of a carpenter tomorrow. The flimsy door that had been there had not held long against Frye’s assault, and she had decided to have it replaced with a solid-core hardwood door and a brass deadbolt. But if Frye came back and somehow got into the house tonight, he would be able to walk right into her room while she slept—if she slept.

  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 in 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?”

  “It’s 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 count
y 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 high-boys, 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.

  The human body will not run for long without the proper maintenance. The body, after all, is a machine, a marvelous machine made of many kinds of tissues and fluids, chemicals and minerals, a sophisticated assemblage with one heart-engine and a lot of little motors, a lubricating system and an air-cooling system, ruled by the computer brain, with drive trains made out of muscles, all constructed upon a clever calcium frame. To function, it needs many things, not the least of which are food, relaxation, and sleep. Hilary had thought she would be unable to sleep after what had happened, that she would spend the night like a cat with its ears up, listening for danger. But she had exerted herself tonight in more ways than one, and although her conscious mind was reluctant to shut down for repairs, her subconscious knew it was necessary and inevitable. By the time she finished the brandy, she was so drowsy that she could hardly keep her eyes open.

  She climbed out of the tub, opened the drain, and dried herself on a big fluffy towel as the water gurgled away. She picked up the knife and walked out of the bathroom, leaving the light on, pulling the door halfway shut. She switched off the lights in the main room. Moving languorously in the soft glow and velvet shadows, she put the knife on the nightstand and slid naked into bed.

  She felt loose, as if the heat had unscrewed her joints.

  She was a bit dizzy, too. The brandy.

  She lay with her face toward the door. The barricade was reassuring. It looked very solid. Impenetrable. Bruno Frye wouldn’t get through it, she told herself. Not even with a battering ram. A small army would find it difficult to get through that door. Not even a tank would make it. What about a big old dinosaur? she wondered sleepily. One of those tyrannosaurus rex fellas like in the funny monster pictures. Godzilla. Could Godzilla bash through that door . . . ?

  By two o’clock Thursday morning, Hilary was asleep.

  At 2:25 Thursday morning, Bruno Frye drove slowly past the Thomas place. The fog was into Westwood now, but it was not as turbid as it was nearer the ocean. He could see the house well enough to observe that there was not even the faintest light beyond any of the front windows.

  He drove two blocks, swung the van around, and went by the house again, even slower this time, carefully studying the cars parked along the street. He didn’t think the cops would post a guard for her, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The cars were empty; there was no stakeout.

  He put the Dodge between the pair of Volvos two blocks away and walked back to the house through pools of foggy darkness, through pale circles of hazy light from the mist-cloaked streetlamps. As he crossed the lawn, his shoes squished in the dew-damp grass, a sound that made him aware of how ethereally quiet the night was otherwise.

  At the side of the house, he crouched next to a bushy oleander plant and looked back the way he had come. No alarm had been set off. No one was coming after him.

  He continued to the rear of the house and climbed over a locked gate. In the back yard, he looked up at the wall of the house and saw a small square of light on the second floor. From the size of it, he supposed it was a bathroom window; the larger panes of glass to the right of it showed vague traces of light at the edges of the drapes.

  She was up there.

  He was sure of it.

  He could sense her. Smell her.

  The bitch.

  Waiting to be taken and used.

  Waiting to be killed.

  Waiting to kill me? he wondered.

  He shuddered. He wanted her, had a fierce hard-on for her, but he was also afraid of her.

  Alway
s before, she had died easily. She had always come back from the dead in a new body, masquerading as a new woman, but she had always died without much of a struggle. Tonight, however, Katherine had been a regular tigress, shockingly strong and clever and fearless. This was a new development, and he did not like it.

  Nevertheless, he had to go after her. If he didn’t pursue her from one reincarnation to the next, if he didn’t keep killing her until she finally stayed dead, he would never have any peace.

  He did not bother to try opening the kitchen door with the keys he had stolen out of her purse the day she’d been to the winery. She had probably had new locks installed. Even if she hadn’t taken that precaution, he would be unable to get in through the door. Tuesday night, the first time he had attempted to get into the house, she had been at home, and he had discovered that one of the locks would not open with a key if it had been engaged from inside. The upper lock opened without resistance, but the lower one would only release if it had been locked from outside, with a key. He had not gotten into the house on that occasion, had had to come back the next night, Wednesday night, eight hours ago, when she was out to dinner and both of his keys were useable. But now she was in there, and although she might not have had the locks replaced, she had turned those special deadbolts from the inside, effectively barring entrance regardless of the number of keys he possessed.

  He moved along to the corner of the house, where a big mullioned window looked into the rose garden. It was divided into a lot of six-inch-square panes of glass by thin strips of dark, well-lacquered wood. The book-lined study lay on the other side. He took a penlight from one pocket, flicked it on, and directed the narrow beam through the window. Squinting, he searched the length of the sill and the less visible horizontal center bar until he located the latch, then turned off the penlight. He had a roll of masking tape, and he began to tear strips from it, covering the small pane that was nearest the window lock. When the six-inch square was completely masked over, he used his gloved fist to smash through it: one hard blow. The glass shattered almost soundlessly and did not clatter to the floor, for it stuck onto the tape. He reached inside and unlatched the window, raised it, heaved himself up and across the sill. He barely avoided making a hell of a racket when he encountered a small table and nearly fell over it.

  Standing in the center of the study, heart pounding, Frye listened for movement in the house, for a sign that she had heard him.

  There was only silence.

  She was able to rise up from the dead and come back to life in a new identity, but that was evidently the limit of her supernatural power. Obviously, she was not all-seeing and all-knowing. He was in her house, but she did not know it yet.

  He grinned.

  He took the knife from the sheath that was fixed to his belt, held it in his right hand.

  With the penlight in his left hand, he quietly prowled through every room on the ground floor. They were all dark and deserted.

  Going up the stairs to the second floor, he stayed close to the wall, in case any of the steps creaked. He reached the top without making a sound.

  He explored the bedrooms, but he encountered nothing of interest until he approached the last room on the left. He thought he saw light coming under the door, and he switched off his flash. In the pitch-black corridor only a nebulous silvery line marked the threshold of the last room, but it was more marked than any of the others. He went to the door and cautiously tried the knob. Locked.

  He had found her.

  Katherine.

  Pretending to be someone named Hilary Thomas.

  The bitch. The rotten bitch.

  Katherine, Katherine, Katherine. . . .

  As the name echoed through his mind, he clenched his fist around the knife and made short jabbing motions at the darkness, as if he were stabbing her.

  Stretching out face-down on the floor of the hallway, Frye looked through the inch-high gap at the bottom of the door. A large piece of furniture, perhaps a dresser, was pushed up against the other side of the entrance. A vague indirect light spread across the bedroom from an unseen source on the right, some of it finding its way around the edges of the dresser and under the door.