Whispers (38 page)

She whirled, looked behind her.

No one was there.

The foyer closet, which had been closed when she’d come into the house, was still closed. For a moment, she stared at it expectantly, afraid that it would open. But if anyone had been hiding in there, waiting for her to arrive, he would have come out by now.

This is absolutely crazy, she thought. It can’t happen again. It just can’t. That’s preposterous. Isn’t it?

There was a noise behind her.

With a soft cry of alarm, she turned and threw up her free arm to fend off the attacker.

But there was no attacker. She was still alone in the living room.

Nevertheless, she was convinced that what she had heard was not something so innocent as a naturally settling beam or floorboard. She knew she was not the only person in the house. She sensed another presence.

The noise again.

In the dining room.

A snapping. A tinkling. Like someone taking a step on broken glass or shattered china.

Then another step.

The dining room lay beyond an archway, twenty feet from Hilary. It was as black as a grave in there.

Another step:
tinkle-snap
.

She started to back up, cautiously retreating from the source of the noise, edging toward the front door, which now seemed a mile away. She wished she hadn’t locked it.

A man moved out of the perfect darkness of the dining room, into the penumbral area beneath the archway, a big man, tall, and broad in the shoulders. He paused in the gloom for a second, then stepped into the brightly lit living room.

“No!” Hilary said.

Stunned, she stopped backing toward the door. Her heart leapt, and her mouth went dry, and she shook her head back and forth, back and forth: no, no, no.

He was holding a large and wickedly sharp knife. He grinned at her. It was Bruno Frye.

 
Tony was thankful that the streets were empty, for he couldn’t have tolerated any delay. He was afraid he was already too late.

He drove hard and fast, north on Santa Monica, then west on Wilshire, putting the Jeep up to seventy miles an hour by the time he reached the first downslope just outside the Beverly Hills city limits, engine screaming, windows and loose dashboard knobs vibrating tinnily. At the bottom of the hill, the traffic light was red. He didn’t brake. He pressed the horn in warning and flew through the intersection. He slammed across a shallow drainage channel in the street, a broad depression that was almost unnoticeable at thirty-five miles an hour, but at his speed it felt like a yawning ditch beneath him; for a fraction of a second he actually was airborne, thumping his head into the roof in spite of the restraining harness that he wore. The Jeep came back to the pavement with a bang, a many-voiced chorus of rattles and clanks, and a sharp bark of tortured rubber. It began to slue to the left, its rear end sliding around with a blood-chilling screech, smoke curling up from the protesting tires. For an electrifying instant, he thought he was going to lose control, but then abruptly the wheel was his again, and he was more than halfway up the next hill without realizing how he’d gotten there.

His speed was down to forty miles an hour, and he got it back up to sixty. He decided not to push it beyond that. He only had a short distance to go. If he wrapped the Jeep around a streetlamp or rolled it over and killed himself, he wouldn’t be able to do Hilary any good.

He was still not obeying the rules of the road. He went much too fast and wide on what few turns there were, swinging out into the east-bound lanes, again thankful that there were no oncoming cars. The traffic signals were all against him, a perverse twist of fate, but he ignored every one of them. He wasn’t worried about getting a ticket for speeding or reckless driving. If stopped, he would flash his badge and take the uniformed officers along with him to Hilary’s place. But he hoped to God he wasn’t given a chance to pick up those reinforcements, for it would mean stopping, identifying himself, and explaining the emergency. If they pulled him over, he would lose at least a minute.

He had a hunch that a minute might be the difference between life and death for Hilary.

 
As she watched Bruno Frye coming through the archway, Hilary thought she must be losing her mind. The man was dead.
Dead!
She had stabbed him twice, had seen his blood. She had seen him in the morgue, too, cold and yellow-gray and lifeless. An autopsy had been performed. A death certificate had been signed.
Dead men don’t walk
. Nevertheless, he was back from the grave, walking out of the dark dining room, the ultimate uninvited guest, a large knife in one gloved hand, eager to finish what he had started last week; and it simply was not possible that he could be there.

Hilary closed her eyes and willed him to be gone. But a second later, when she forced herself to look again, he was still there.

She was unable to move. She wanted to run, but all of her joints—hips, knees, ankles—were rigid, locked, and she didn’t have the strength to make them move. She felt weak, as frail as an old, old woman; she was sure that, if she somehow managed to unlock her joints and take a step, she would collapse.

She couldn’t speak, but, inside, she was screaming.

Frye stopped less than fifteen feet from her, one foot in a cotton snowdrift of stuffing that had been torn from one of the ruined armchairs. He was pasty-faced, shaking violently, obviously on the edge of hysteria.

Could a dead man be hysterical?

She had to be out of her mind.
Had
to be. Stark raving mad. But she knew she wasn’t.

A ghost? But she didn’t believe in ghosts. And besides, wasn’t a spirit supposed to be insubstantial, transparent, or at least translucent? Could an apparition be as solid as this walking dead man, as convincingly and terrifyingly
real
as he was?

“Bitch,” he said. “You stinking bitch!”

His hard, low-pitched, gravelly voice was unmistakable.

But, Hilary thought crazily, his vocal cords already should have started to rot. His throat should be blocked with putrescence.

She felt high-pitched laughter building in her, and she struggled to control it. If she began to laugh, she might never stop.

“You killed me,” he said menacingly, still teetering on the brink of hysteria.

“No,” she said. “Oh, no. No.”

“You did!” he screamed, brandishing the knife. “You killed me! Don’t lie about it. I know. Don’t you think I know? Oh, Jesus! I feel so strange, so alone, all alone, so empty.” There was genuine spiritual agony mixed up with his rage. “So empty and scared. And it’s all because of you.”

He slowly crossed the few yards that separated him from her, stepping carefully through the rubble.

Hilary could see that this dead man’s eyes were not blank or filmed with milky cataracts. These eyes were blue-gray and very much alive—and brimming with cold, cold anger.

“This time you’ll stay dead,” Frye said as he approached. “You won’t come back this time.”

She tried to retreat from him, took one hesitant step, and her legs almost buckled. But she didn’t fall. She had more strength left than she had thought.

“This time,” Frye said, “I’m taking every precaution. I’m not giving you a chance to come back. I’m going to cut your fuckin’ heart out.”

She took another step, but it didn’t matter; she could not escape. She wouldn’t have time to reach the door and throw off both locks. If she tried that, he would be on her in a second, ramming the knife down between her shoulders.

“Pound a stake through your fuckin’ heart.”

If she ran for the stairs and tried to get to the pistol in her bedroom, she surely wouldn’t be as lucky as she had been the last time. This time he would catch her before she made it to the second floor.

“I’ll cut your goddamned head off.”

He loomed over her, within arm’s reach.

She had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

“Gonna cut out your tongue. Stuff your fuckin’ mouth full of garlic. Stuff it full of garlic so you can’t sweet-talk your way back from hell.”

She could hear her own thunderous heartbeat. She couldn’t breathe because of the intensity of her fear.

“Cut your fuckin’ eyes out.”

She froze again, unable to move an inch.

“Gonna cut your eyes out and crush them so you can’t see your way back.”

Frye raised the knife high above his head. “Cut your hands off so you can’t feel your way back from hell.”

The knife hung up there for an eternity as terror distorted Hilary’s sense of time. The wicked point of the weapon drew her gaze, nearly hypnotizing her.

“No!”

Sharp slivers of light glinted on the cutting edge of the poised blade.

“Bitch.”

And then the knife started down, straight at her face, light flashing off the steel, down and down and down in a long, smooth, murderous arc.

She was holding the bag of groceries in one arm. Now, without pausing to think about what she must do, in one quick and instinctive move, she grabbed the bag with both hands and thrust it out, up, in the way of the descending knife, trying desperately to block the killing blow.

The blade rammed through the groceries, puncturing a carton of milk.

Frye roared in fury.

The dripping bag was knocked out of Hilary’s grasp. It fell to the floor, spilling milk and eggs and scallions and sticks of butter.

The knife had been torn from the dead man’s hand. He stopped to retrieve it.

Hilary ran toward the stairs. She knew that she had only delayed the inevitable. She had gained two or three seconds, no more than that, not nearly enough time to save herself.

The doorbell rang.

Surprised, she stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked back.

Frye stood up with the knife in hand.

Their eyes met; Hilary could see a flicker of indecision in his.

Frye moved toward her, but with less confidence than he had exhibited before. He glanced nervously toward the foyer and the front door.

The bell rang again.

Holding on to the bannister, backing up the steps, Hilary yelled for help, screamed at the top of her voice.

Outside, a man shouted: “Police!”

It was Tony.

“Police! Open this door!”

Hilary couldn’t imagine why he had come. She had never been so glad to hear anyone’s voice as she was to hear his, now.

Frye stopped when he heard the word “police,” looked up at Hilary, then at the door, then at her again, calculating his chances.

She kept screaming.

Glass exploded with a bang that caused Frye to jump in surprise, and sharp pieces rang discordantly on a tile floor.

Although she couldn’t see into the foyer from her position on the steps, Hilary knew that Tony had smashed the narrow window beside the front door.

Frye glared at her. She had never seen such hatred as that which twisted his face and gave his eyes a mad shine.

“Hilary!” Tony said.

“I’ll be back,” Frye told her.

The dead man turned away from her and ran across the living room, toward the dining room, apparently intending to slip out of the house by way of the kitchen.

Sobbing, Hilary dashed down the few steps she had climbed. She rushed to the front door, where Tony was calling her through the small broken windowpane.

 
Holstering his service revolver, Tony returned from the rear lawn, stepped into the brightly-lit kitchen.

Hilary was standing by the utility island in the center of the room. There was a knife on the counter, inches from her right hand.

As he closed the door he said, “There’s no one in the rose garden.”

“Lock it,” she said.

“What?”

“The door. Lock it.”

He locked it.

“You looked everywhere?” she asked.

“Every corner.”

“Along both sides of the house?”

“Yes.”

“In the shrubbery?”

“Every bush.”

“Now what?” she asked.

“I’ll call in to HQ, get a couple of uniforms out here to write up a report.”

“It won’t do any good,” she said.

“You never can tell. A neighbor might have seen someone lurking here earlier. Or maybe somebody spotted him running away.”

“Does a dead man have to run away? Can’t a ghost just vanish when it wants to?”

“You don’t believe in ghosts?”

“Maybe he wasn’t a ghost,” she said. “Maybe he was a walking corpse. Just your ordinary, everyday, run-of-the-mill walking corpse.”

“You don’t believe in zombies, either.”

“Don’t I?”

“You’re too level-headed for that.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know what I believe any more.”

Her voice contained a tremor that disturbed him. She was on the verge of a collapse.

“Hilary . . . are you sure of what you saw?”

“It was
him
.”

“But how could it be?”

“It was Frye,” she insisted.

“You saw him in the morgue last Thursday.”

“Was he dead then?”

“Of course he was dead.”

“Who said?”

“The doctors. Pathologists.”

“Doctors have been known to be wrong.”

“About whether or not a person is dead?”

“You read about it in the papers every once in a while,” she said. “They decide a man has kicked the bucket; they sign the death certificate; and then the deceased suddenly sits up on the undertaker’s table. It happens. Not often. I admit it’s not an everyday occurrence. I know it’s pretty much a one in a million kind of thing.”

“More like one in ten million.”

“But it
does
happen.”

“Not in this case.”

“I
saw
him! Here. Right here. Tonight.”