Then he glanced at the other closet.
He drew himself up and walked over to it, grasped the doorknob, turned it, flung open the door—and a large meat cleaver thudded into his chest with all the force of a lineman sacking a quarterback.
He staggered back, blood spurting from around the cleaver embedded deep in his chest, staring with horror and disbelief at the huge figure standing in the closet, and before the pain could even register, he died. He never felt the impact when his body fell upon the bathroom floor.
Edna heard the crash and scowled. “Harold?”
There was no answer. She reached out and turned off the TV.
“Harold?” she called again.
Why couldn’t he ever answer when she called? It drove her crazy when he did that. With a sigh of exasperation, she got up and went over to the bathroom.
“Harold, you still in there?” she called through the door. “What was that crash? You break something again?”
No answer.
She tried the door. It was unlocked. She went inside and looked around. Now where the hell was he? She sniffed several times. Whiskey. If figured. She knew he hid his whiskey bottles all over the house, but she didn’t even bother looking for them anymore. She was thankful that he wasn’t one of those angry, nasty drunks. Whenever Harold had too much to drink, he would simply pass out, and at least then she’d get a little peace and quiet. Maybe one of these days he’d just pass out and never get back up, she thought. It would serve the big jerk right.
She heard a rustling sound behind the closet door. He was probably in there with his whiskey bottle. She jerked the door open and was confronted by a large rat sitting atop one of the storage cartons. She gasped and drew back from it with a grimace of disgust—and suddenly a large hand was clamped over her mouth and the missing steel knitting needle was driven through her neck, rippling through her voice box and emerging through her throat.
She struggled uselessly, realizing with horrifiying clarity that she was being murdered. She gagged, choking on her own blood as it bubbled up into her throat, seeping between the fingers of the huge hand covering her mouth. Waves of white-hot pain washed over her, and then all sensation disappeared as numbness quickly spread throughout her body and she sank down into oblivion.
Chapter One
The group of small children playing baseball in the street scattered to make way for the silver, custom-striped van with the canoe and camping gear strapped to its roof. The teenagers inside grinned at the children who waited until the very last moment, asserting themselves with challenge in their eyes, before grudgingly getting out of the street. They could remember being much the same themselves not very long ago, regarding the street in front of their homes as turf rather than as a thoroughfare for cars.
“It’s the white house on the left,” said Chris, a shapely nineteen-year-old with reddish-brown hair, large eyes, and an energetic, slightly nervous manner. She pointed as they passed the house and pulled over to the curb on the opposite side of the street.
Andy and Debbie were both the same age as Chris. Andy was slim, with dark hair, brown eyes, an athletic build, and clean-cut, handsome looks. Debbie was slightly shorter than her boyfriend, with full, naturally wavy chestnut hair that fell down to her shoulders and a wide, sultry mouth. She had the kind of figure that would even attract attention in a sweat suit. They both stepped down out of the van and came around the back to join Chris as they crossed the street.
“Hey, Shelly,” Chris called over her shoulder. “Come on out and meet your date!”
“Bring her to me!” a muffled voice called from the rear of the van.
Chris glanced back dubiously at Andy and Debbie, walking with their arms around each other. Andy merely shrugged. Debbie sighed and looked at him with a wry grimace. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” she said. She like Vera and she regretted allowing Andy to talk her into setting up this blind date.
Andy grinned and kissed Debbie. Behind them, the rear door of the van opened and a chubby figure in faded jeans and a navy windbreaker came out, wearing a white mask and brandishing a huge knife.
Chris glanced at Andy and Debbie and shook her head. “Sex, sex, sex,” she said. “You guys are getting boring, you know that?”
“So what would a weekend in the country be without a little sex?” said Andy, grinning.
“Cool it, Andy,” Debbie said quickly, nudging him in the side and giving Chris and anxious glance.
Andy looked contrite. Debbie had told him what happened to Chris last summer, telling him to be careful of what he said around her, and he had already blown it. “I didn’t mean it that way—” he said, apologetically. Chris interrupted him, not wanting to pursue it.
“I know you didn’t,” she said, reasssuring him. The one thing she didn’t need, especially this weekend, was to have her friends walking on eggshells around her because of what happened to her. “Look, guys,” she said, “I want you to have a good time this weekend. What happened to me at the lake happened a long time ago. I’m fine. Really. Forget about me.”
Debbie looked concerned. She didn’t fail to notice the way Chris had stiffened suddenly or the strained note in her voice as she tried to sound casual, as if it didn’t matter. “I’m supposed to forget that we’ve been friends for—”
Andy yelled with surprise as the masked figure crept up behind him and plunged the knife into his back. The rubber blade bent as it struck his shoulder and Andy spun around angrily, grabbing the toy knife away and giving his “assailant” a hard shove.
“Damn it, Shelly!” he snapped. “Why do you always have to be such an asshole?”
“I beg your pardon,”
