But the killer was so intent on killing that Eric didn't have a chance, particularly after the man plunged the scissors deep into the area just below Eric's Adam's apple.
This was very different from the kind of violence you saw on TV programs. For one thing, both men were kind of clumsy. The killer stumbled a couple of times in his frenzy, and Eric, for his part, kept making a kind of wheezing braying noise, like one of the dusty old donkeys she used to ride at the Illinois State Fair. The killer made sounds, too. And that's what they weresoundsnot fine fancy words put in his mouth by some screenwriter. He grunted, he groaned, he yelped, he yippedand when his blade struck home, he made curiously ecstatic sounds… 'orgasmic' would not be too strong a word. His cry was pure pleasure as the scissors went in and out, in and out
Eric's head flopped backwards, soon followed by his entire body, his arms waving for balance as he fell across his desk, the killer staying right with him, ripping the scissors from the trachea area and plunging them once again into Eric's chest.
She was afraid she'd scream.
She was afraid he'd see her.
She ran.
She ran back down the narrow corridor to the main reception area then across the lobby to the front door.
She ran to the elevator and pushed the button ten, twenty, thirty times. But the elevator doors did not part. She kept glancing back over her shoulder, to see if the front door opened. To see if the man with the bloody scissors was coming for her
She pressed the elevator button ten, twenty more times. Then, more in frustration than anything else, she started banging her fists on the elevator doors until she realized how crazy she was being. He'd hear her for sure.
She ran to the neat red overhead sign that read: FIRE. Flung back the door. Started down the stairs two at a time. Stumbled once, slamming her knee painfully against the edge of a concrete step. Swore. Started to cry. Swore at herself this time for being such a sissy. No time to cry. Only time to run.
Run.
She ran.
CHAPTER 20
He stood across the street from Jill's apartment, staring up at the only lighted window. She passed by it occasionally, her slender body provocative in silhouette. Probably wearing her Danskins.
Eric Brooks was less than an hour dead.
Full night now. Traffic a steady flow of lights and the smells of gasoline and rubber. The occasional booming, blaring radio.
The sidewalks were full, too. Lovers. He'd had a lover once. Been faithful, too. At least for a time. But then
He watched the window.
He was going up there soon.
Very soon.
CHAPTER 21
Jill looked longingly at the fireplace. With autumn setting in, it was nearly time for a fire. But she hadn't bought any logs yet, nor cleaned out the grates.
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow.
Her argument with Eric finally starting to fadeit took her a long time to calm down once she'd been angeredshe went into the kitchen for a glass of Chablis.
She'd spent a good share of last year's photography profits having custom-cabinets installed. At that time, she'd still had dreams of marrying Mitch Ayers. Following the divorce, Mitch would be poor. This would be a perfect place for them to start a marriage.
Or so she'd thought.
Now, reaching into the open refrigerator for the bottle of wine, she forcefully willed Mitch from her mind.
She wasn't dishonest with herself: she knew she wasn't over him completely yet. But one day she would be and when she waswell, maybe she'd meet somebody even nicer who wanted to move in here.
Somebody who actually would move in.
Not run back to his wife.
She carried the wine goblet into the living room. She enjoyed the eclectic nature of the furnishings in therethe antique fireplace mantel contrasting with the shining hardwood floors and off-white sofa.
She put on a Kenny G CD and strolled over to the window for her peek out at the street below. She'd always liked the excitement of this particular thoroughfare: it reminded her of her high-school days. She'd done a lot of cruising up and down streets in the company of boys determined to despoil her. But
She smiled. In college, it got even crazier, though it was still kind of funny. All that spluttering of Donald's. All his protesting. All his bring-down-the-Government talk. And all the while living on a big fat inheritance.
Then she saw him.
Across the street.
Looking up here.
She didn't have a detailed look at him but she was sure he was the man in the blue Volvo.
She wished she'd heard from Marcy Browne, the private investigator. Wished she knew who this man was for sure. And what he wanted.
What if he wasn't a TV tabloid reporter?
What if he were something far more ominous?
She let the drape fall and walked back to the fireplace mantel. Now that he knew she was aware of him, maybe he'd leave. Maybe he'd get scared that she'd call the police.
She sipped her Chablis. Her heart was pounding and she resented being upset again. Eric was enough for one day. She didn't need this, too.
She charged across the room to the window, swept back the drape and glared out into the night.
Gone.
He was gone.
She let the drape fall again and walked across to the hutch where the phone rested.
She consulted the number she'd written on her phone pad this afternoon.
'Marcy?'
'Uh-huh?'
'This is Jill Coffey.'
'Oh, hi. Excuse all the pig noises. I just ran over to McDonald's and bought myself a little dinner.'
'That's finego right on eating. I just wondered if you'd gotten any information yet on the Volvo.'
'Not so far. I'm waiting for Nate to call me back.'
'Nate?'
'Yeah. Cop friend I have. He's going to run the number for me.'
'Oh.'
'But he got stuck doing something else for his boss first. He says he'll run it soon as he can. You sound kind of nervous.'
'I am. He was across the street just a few minutes ago.'
'Guy in the Volvo?'
'Uh-huh. Except this time I didn't see the Volvo. This time he seemed to be on foot.'
