nothing in here to help her. Without hesitation, she ran to the bathroom. Another lock, more protection. But once he got in here, she was trapped and it would be over.
She slammed the bathroom door and turned the lock. It was thicker than the bedroom door, not hollow. She cursed then, wishing she’d moved some furniture in front of the bedroom door to buy her some more time. Too late, too late. She switched on the bathroom light. She saw herself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the wild-eyed woman who looked as if she’d stared Satan right in the eye.
A weapon. She needed a weapon. When he came through the bathroom door she wasn’t going to just stand here and let him kill her. What? She pulled open the medicine cabinet. She flung bottles off the shelves. The racket dinned around her as bottles hit the tile floor, breaking, shattering, rolling. She heard the bedroom door crash against the wall. He was in the bedroom now. He was looking around. In another second he’d know she’d come in here. Thank God the bathroom was old-fashioned, high ceiling, large. She had some room. There was nothing to help her in the medicine cabinet.
She fell to her knees and pulled open the cabinet beneath the sink. Cleaning supplies. A toilet brush, sponges, one green and one yellow, both shrunk from a lot of use, a can of Ajax, a roll of toilet paper, several toiletries bags for traveling, and a bottle of Pine Sol—oh, yes—but it was nearly empty. She flung it onto the floor. Oh, God, there, in the very back, was a can of Lysol bathroom spray. Basin, tile, and tub cleaner—it was foamy, and it came out in wild, thick spurts. She picked up the can and started shaking it. It was nearly full. She pressed down her finger and out poured the foam. Stop, stop, she had to have enough for him.
She heard his voice not three feet away from her; he was pressing his face close to the door.
“Little sweetie? I’m right here and I don’t have a lot more time to spend on you. You know? I cut the phone wires, and no telling how long it will be before someone from the phone company shows up. And I’d hate to have to hurt your little nurse with the big tits. Now, you gonna open that door for me? If you do, I’ll make it real quick, you won’t feel a thing. Otherwise—” He let his voice trail off, hoping to terrify her, but she was smiling now, terror at bay.
She was holding the bottle of Lysol. What to do? How to get to him?
Slowly Lindsay rose, smiling a ghastly smile, and walked to the door, careful not to stand directly in front of it in case he fired through it.
“Come on, now,” Oswald said again. He sounded cajoling, wheedling. Good Lord, she thought, was he so stupid as to think she’d let him in?
A sharp retort, and a bullet slammed through the wood and came into the bathroom, hitting the tile over the bathtub. Shards of tile splintered and flew outward. She felt some strike her, sharp little bites, but didn’t really notice.
It was time. She knew it was time.
She inched over to the door. She stretched out her right hand toward the latch. She saw the blood soaking through the flannel of her gown, lots of blood, but it didn’t concern her at the moment. It just looked odd, so ugly and wet and red against the soft white material of her gown. There was no pain. Just when he fired again, through the doorknob, Lindsay clicked the lock open. Another one—yes, just one more.
He fired again, cursing loudly now, furious now, and she grasped the doorknob and jerked open the door, flinging it back.
He held the gun limply in his hand. The door struck him and he went careening back. But he still had the gun and he wasn’t slow, but he was surprised, and that gave her a second.
He grunted, trying to react, but Lindsay was faster. She brought up the can of Lysol, shoved it into his face, and pressed down. Thick white foam went directly into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, foaming thicker and thicker.
He screamed and the foam filled his mouth, overflowing now. He dropped the gun, falling back, his hands on his face, his fingers digging out the foam in his mouth, out of his eyes. Lindsay dropped the can. She leaned forward and hit him as hard as she could with her fist in his belly. Then she stepped back, raised her leg, and kicked him in the balls. He yowled and fell to his knees. She raised her right leg and kicked him in the neck.
He was screaming now, lying on the floor on his side, holding his belly. He looked rabid with all the foam coming out of his mouth. She was panting now, and he was looking up at her and there was such pain and fury in his eyes that she felt the paralyzing fear come over her again. She backed up. There was that smell again, that fear smell, and it wasn’t coming from her any longer. It was coming from him.
“I’m gonna hurt you bad,” Oswald gasped. “God, are you gonna hurt.” He was on his knees, trying to stand. He saw his gun on the floor and went flying forward to get it.
Lindsay raised her leg and brought her foot down on his kidneys. He fell flat on his face, screaming.
Taylor came through the front door, two policemen behind him, and all of them froze for a millisecond at the horrible screams they heard.
Taylor crashed against the bullet-ridden bedroom door and flung himself into the bedroom. He stopped. He stared. He watched Lindsay kick the man in the kidneys, and now he fell backward onto the floor, curling up immediately into the fetal position, yelling, bawling. She raised her foot again and he shouted, “Enough! Lindsay, that’s enough.”
The power surged through her, pulsed through her, making her invincible, making her strong. It was monstrous and it was splendid and she wanted to kill this little worm. She would kill him, now.
She raised her foot to hit him in the head, but Taylor caught her leg, jerking her toward him. He caught her in his arms and pulled her against him. He felt the fierce pounding of her heart, felt the rippling and tensing of her muscles and understood what was happening to her.
“You got him,” he said over and over. “You got him and he’s very sorry now. You hurt him bad, Lindsay. It’s over now, sweetheart. Over.”
She was so stiff, so far away from him, from herself. It took several more minutes before the tension eased out of her.
Lindsay looked up at him. “Lysol cleaner,” she said. “Foam. I surprised him and got him with the Lysol not an inch from his face. He looks like a rabid dog with all that foam in his mouth.” She laughed, a creaky, ugly sound. “Or like a meringue pie. He kept trying to dig it out with his fingers. I don’t know if it burned his eyes, though.” Then, just as suddenly, she squeaked, “My arm.”
Then she stared at the blood-soaked flannel, saw drops fall to the floor. She was very silent, trying to take it in, trying to understand. She blanched, stared vaguely up at her husband, and fainted for the first time in her life.
“Oh, God! Don’t do it, you asshole!”
Taylor whipped around. Oswald had grabbed for his gun. One of the officers already had his in his hand. He yelled for Oswald to stop, not to be a fool. “Drop the gun, damn you!”
Oswald, dumb with pain, focused his fury on the source and raised the gun toward Lindsay.
The officer fired.
Oswald made a small mewling sound. He turned his head in the direction of the officer, tried to say something, then fell onto his side.
“I think,” Taylor said, “we need two ambulances.” He was profoundly grateful that Lindsay hadn’t seen this part of it.
He picked her up and laid her on the bed, ripping her flannel sleeve as he said, “Is Oswald dead?”
“No, but he’s hurt bad. Dave got him in the head, but not a death wound, at least I hope to God not.”
“Good. We’ve got to keep him alive long enough to find out who hired him.”
“How’s Mrs. Taylor?”
Taylor bared her upper arm. “The bullet went through the fleshy part, thank God. She’s bleeding like stink, but she’ll be all right.” He looked down at her messed-up face. He smiled. “She saved herself. She probably would have killed Oswald if we hadn’t come in time to save his filthy hide. Just keep him alive, guys.”
The officer was wrapping a towel around his head.
Taylor leaned down. “I love you,” he said, and kissed her mouth.
He heard one of the officers say, “I hope she doesn’t ever get mad at me. Just look what she did to this guy.”
“It’s a media circus,” Demos said, panting as he came into the hospital room. “They nearly got me, but Glen
