'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.
'Police!'
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
