Betrayers(71)

“What for?”

“Keep things like scarves in there, don’t you?”

“Scarves? What . . . tie me up?”

“You’re not stupid; I’ll give you that much.”

“Tie me up and then what? Slice and dice?”

“No. Not here, anyway. We’re going for a ride.”

Those thin curls of fear rose again, and this time they didn’t burn away. “Where?”

“You’ll find out.”

The hell I will, she thought. Not going anywhere with you, asshole. Tied up, helpless . . . no way!

The knife swayed again, like a snake’s head. “Move.”

She moved, into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Hers, the master bedroom, was on the right. Just before she reached the open doorway, she stopped and leaned her shoulder heavily against the wall, loosening the press of her fingers on the wet dish towel.

He came up close beside her, nudged her with an elbow. “Move.”

“Woozy,” she said. “Give me a second. . . .”

He stepped over a little, almost in front of her. As soon as he did that she pivoted off the wall, swung the dish towel in an arc against the side of his face, then slapped it down over the hand holding the knife and let go of it. At the same time she kicked him in the shin as hard as she could. He yelled, stumbled, bounced off the opposite wall.

Before he could recover, she was inside the bedroom. Slamming the door, twisting the dead-bolt lock.

He yelled again out there, pounded on the door, and shook the knob and hollered something she didn’t pay attention to. By then she was across the room, at the glass doors that opened out onto a tiny balcony. She unlocked the doors, quick, and threw them open; chill, damp air swirled into the room.

The uphill house next door, close across an areaway, showed dark all along this side. Wouldn’t do any good to stand out there yelling for help, just waste time. It was a long drop from the balcony to the strip of hard ground below. A drainpipe ran down from the roof on one side; you could shinny down that . . . somebody could, but not her. Afraid of heights, had been all her life. No good at clinging and climbing, either—that kind of athletic stuff had never been her thing.

She didn’t hesitate more than a couple of seconds before she pivoted and ran across to the big walk-in closet, the soft-pile carpet muffling the sound of her steps.

“Bitch! You can’t get away from me!”

Hurling himself at the door now, trying to break it in. Fairly thick and the lock wasn’t flimsy, but how long would it hold?

The closet had a pair of louvered folding doors that she kept open. Once she was inside, she pulled them closed. In the darkness she felt her way to the back wall—all bureaulike drawers built in beneath where the pitch of the roof sloped inward at a low angle. In the ceiling just in front of the drawers was the trapdoor that gave access to the attic. She was just tall enough to reach the panel by standing on tiptoe, to slide it open in its metal frame.

Yelling, frenzied thumping out there in the hall—he hadn’t busted the lock yet. Maybe he wouldn’t; maybe it was strong enough to keep him out. . . .

There was a button mounted just inside the trap opening. A stretch and she found it, pressed it. The short set of aluminum steps unfolded electronically from inside a set of brackets, making a low whirring sound as they came down on a slant—a sound that got lost in the noise Delman was making. She went up the steps as fast and quiet as she could, scrambled over onto the storage platform to the left.

Another button was set into a stud up there. And a switch for a couple of overhead bulbs, but she didn’t dare put on the lights. She felt around until she found the ladder button. The low whir came again; the steps started to wind up next to her.

Loud crash below. The lock hadn’t held.

He was in the bedroom now.

Tamara scooted around to lie flat on her belly, then leaned down into the opening to try to slide the trapdoor panel back into place. Couldn’t quite reach it; the frame for the stairs was in the way. If he came into the closet, turned on the light, saw the open trap—

She told herself that wouldn’t happen. First things he’d see were the wide open balcony doors and he’d head straight over there, go out onto the balcony, look over the railing. Think she’d managed to shinny down the drainpipe, was on her way for help, and haul his ass out of here in a hell of a hurry. And she’d wait ten minutes to make sure he was gone, then go on down and call the cops and that’d be the end of Antoine fucking Delman.

Tamara wiggled backward on the platform. A spiderweb brushed her face; she swiped it off. The attic’s damp mustiness seemed to wrap itself around her. She could feel it on her skin as she lay listening.