She hesitated a beat, and he nudged the muzzle of the gun into her right butt cheek.
“You bastard,” she hissed. “I’ve got an entire police force under me that’s going to tear your fat ass to shreds for this. They’ll boil the meat right off your bones.”
“Spunky, huh? We’ll see about that. Okay, George, put the cake on the dresser there near the bed. That’s right. Now, you and little wifey-poo here climb in the bed and pull the covers up. But keep your hands out where I can see them. Got that?”
“In the bed? Together?” George asked.
She looked at her husband’s eyes for the first time. He was in a complete state of shock. No help there.
“At least let me open my surprise,” she said, moving quickly toward the dresser before he could say anything.
“You want to open it? Why not? Go ahead, it’s for you, after all.”
In the mirror, she saw him watching her move. Enjoying this. Saw George climbing into the four-poster bed, still in his robe. He pulled the covers up and splayed his hands out on top. Then he put his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes.
“George?” she said to his reflection, “You may not have noticed, but we’ve got a shit-for-brains psycho doughboy in our bedroom. He’s going to rape me and kill us all. And you’re in bed with your eyes closed? Jesus, George!”
Her husband of twenty years never even blinked.
And she could see Happy in the mirror, too, his eyes were still all over her. She tried to shield her hand with her body as she pulled open the small sock drawer where she kept the scissors. She reached in, dug through the socks, all the way to the back, her fingers desperately searching but coming up empty. Wait, maybe the other drawer? Where she kept her bundle of old love letters from George? Yeah. The scissors were right on top.
“Whatcha doin’ over there, honeybun?” he said.
She glanced in the mirror. He’d pulled up a chair and was sitting now, watching her, into the live nude show, the gun loose in his right hand.
“Scissors,” she said, holding them up so he could see them. “To cut the ribbon.”
“Oh. Sure, why not?”
But now that she had them, what was she going to do with them? Charge him? She’d be dead before she took three steps. No. She’d open the box, try to palm the scissors somehow, hide them behind her back, wait for her chance. She cut the pink grosgrain ribbon and ripped it away. Then she lifted the top off the box and dropped it to the floor.
“Bring the box over here,” he said, his voice flat and thick with lust now.
“Okay.” She lifted it and turned toward him, the scissors still in her left hand.
“Leave the scissors on the bureau. So you’re not tempted to be a bad girl. You know what happens to bad girls.”
“Sure.”
She carried the box to him, her mind clawing for another weapon, another plan, a little hope here, please. The box was full of red crepe paper and heavier than a box with a cake should be.
“Put it on the floor. By my feet.”
She did it.
“Look inside. Take a peek at what you got.”
She pulled the paper away and felt something metal, smooth, heavy, shaped like a small drum. She lifted it out and stood up with the thing in her hands. Okay. Smash him in the face? Bring it down hard on the hand with the gun? Which? Now! She had to do it now, or-
She heard the click as he cocked the trigger back.
“Silly girl,” he said, the gun pointed at her face. “Put it on the floor, and get into bed with your husband.”
“What is this thing?” she asked, looking at the object in her hands. The silver drum had a small fan built into the lid, beneath a wire mesh. And there was a dial and some buttons.
“I’ll tell you when you’re all tucked in under the covers with Georgie, okay?”
The bad dream wouldn’t end unless she ended it. She looked at him one last time, searching his feral eyes for God knows what, mercy, sanity, and then she slammed the metal drum down on the top of his head as hard as she possibly could.
He screamed in surprised pain and tilted the chair back to get away as she raised the drum again, blood pouring from a deep gash in his forehead. They could both tell the chair was going over backward with his weight, and she dropped the drum and dove for the gun with both hands, trying to wrench it from his fingers as he hit the floor.
“George!” she screamed. “Go get the girls! Get them out of the house! Run! Now!”
Happy was on his back on the floor now, dazed but still functioning. She pounced on him, knees in the middle of his chest. She had one hand around his wrist and the other around the barrel of the pistol. She slammed the hand against the wooden floor, hard, once, twice, trying to shake the gun loose. But the goddamn barrel was so short she couldn’t seem to get good enough leverage to pry it out of his fingers.
“Let go!” he said, his voice surprisingly calm.
“Fuck you!” she screamed. She gave up on the gun and went for his eyes with her fingernails, raking his face with both hands, ten bright red stripes appearing instantly on his face.
“Bitch!” he screamed, and then she was flying backward, slamming into the dresser and collapsing to the floor. She saw George on his feet, coming toward her, no shock in his eyes now, coming to help her.
“George, watch out! He’s still got the-”
“Good-bye, George,” the baker said, and shot her husband in the head, a fine red mist where the top used to be. Her husband staggered and fell, his body sprawled across hers. He was dead. She had to get him off. She had to get to the kids, she had to-
The man who had killed her husband and was now going to kill her was standing above her, the gun pointed at her head. His face was shredded, and the blood was pouring down his white baker’s shirt, splashing onto her. He put the muzzle of the pistol in the middle of her forehead.
She was going to die now without saving her children.
“Good night,” he said. But instead of pulling the trigger, he brought the butt of the gun down hard on the top of her head.
SOMETIME LATER, SHE opened her eyes. She was in her bed, her head on a blood-soaked pillow. She tried to move her hands, but they were tied to something. Bedposts. Feet, too. The baker had pulled the chair up next to the bed, facing her. He had the metal drum in his lap. She couldn’t see his face anymore because of the mask. It had two glass eyes and a protruding round mouthpiece that made him look like a giant insect.
“Know what your surprise is?” she heard him say through the mouthpiece, lifting the drum. His voice was distorted, making him sound like a computer recording or something. Her head hurt terribly, and she wanted him to go away. She hurt in another place too, and knew that he’d abused her while she’d been unconcious.
“No,” she murmured, “please.”
“It’s a sleep machine,” she heard him say.
“What does it do?”
“Puts people to sleep. Either for a few hours or forever, depending on the strength of the formula. It’s new. I’m testing out different strengths for my company. Your family is helping out with our little experiment.”
“Oh. Strengths of what?”
“Same stuff we used on the Chechens in the Moscow theater siege. Remember that? We pumped it into the theater through the air-conditioning system to disable the Chechen terrorists. Kolokol 1, the stuff is called. An opiate-derived incapacitating agent. What I’m doing, my job here, is testing the various levels of lethality for use in a hostage-rescue situation. At this level, my guess is it takes effect very rapidly. Certainly with children. Probably within ten seconds or so with adults. We’ll see.”
“Oh,” she heard herself say again.
