hanger with
his other hand, he let out a quiet gasp.
He stared down at Albert with shocked eyes.
Albert slashed.
The man sucked in a quick breath and stumbled backward, grabbing his gashed thigh. Blood pumped through the cracks between
his fingers. He dropped to the floor. Gasping and squirming, he clutched his wound with both hands.
Keeping the Playboy clamped tight against his left side, Albert crouched over him and slit his throat.
“Charles, what’s going…?” Mrs. Broxton came in from the hall. As she stopped in the doorway, her eyes leaped from the
crumpled body to Albert. “You!” she gasped. Then her back hunched. She spun around and ran.
Albert dropped the magazine and raced after her.
Halfway down the hall, he got close enough to drag the knife down her back. The blade split her slip open to her waist—her
slip and the skin beneath it. Crying out, she fell.
Albert clenched the knife between his teeth. Grabbing her ankles, he twisted until she flipped over onto her back.
When he tore away her underpants, she moaned and covered herself.
“Move your hands.”
“Don’t,” she gasped. “Please.”
“Move ’em or I’ll kill you.”
She shook her head and didn’t move her hands.
Albert took the knife from his mouth. “Think I’m kidding?” he asked.
Before she could answer or take her hands away, Albert pounded the knife deep into her belly.
She grunted, sat halfway up, and fell back.
Albert slipped the blade out and shoved it in again, sliding it into the same slit, shoving it deep.
Convulsions jerked her body.
He pulled out the knife.
She had a raw, vertical split just below her naval. It was three inches long and pumping blood.
She no longer struggled, just lay there sprawled out, sobbing and groaning.
Albert crouched down and slit open the front of her slip. He spread it, exposing her breasts. They were smaller than Betty’s.
More like Miss September’s.
“Nice tits, Mrs. Broxton,” he said.
He watched them rise and fall as she sobbed.
Cupping one of her breasts with a bloody hand, he felt its nipple push against his palm. He squeezed the breast. The blood made it slippery.
His penis was stout and aching in his jeans.
Holding the knife in his teeth, he pulled his zipper down and freed himself.
EIGHT
THE REQUEST
The roar of his Jaguar still rang in Ian’s ears after he was inside his dark house. He stepped cautiously through the kitchen.
Once in the living room with its glassed-in side facing the backyard and pool, he could see well enough to avoid collisions.
For a moment, he considered going outside and sitting quietly in the fog.
Enough time for that later.
He went into his study and turned on a light. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the sharp brightness. Then he
moved them slowly over the desk, the file cabinets, the card table, the two television trays, and the chair and lamp table
in the corner. “It’s gotta be somewhere,” he said.
A simple matter of spending the rest of the night searching through clutter.
What he should do is spend a while thinking.
He went to the easy chair, cleared its seat of three thick file folders, and sat down.
Now, reconstruct it. When was the last time you talked to him? Monday, from the faculty lounge. No, he called me. Wednesday?
I phoned him Wednesday from here. From where exactly? The desk.
Ian walked to the desk. The telephone didn’t seem to be on it. He stepped behind the desk and rolled the swivel chair back to the wall. There, on the floor, was the telephone. But not flat on the floor.
A frayed, black corner of his address book protruded from beneath it.
The phone bumped the floor and jingled once as he pulled out the book.
The index card with Arnie Barrington’s phone number jutted like a bookmark from the top of the address book.
Ian glanced at his wristwatch. One-fifteen. That made it four-fifteen in New York.
Much too late.
Or too early.
He propped up the card on the
his other hand, he let out a quiet gasp.
He stared down at Albert with shocked eyes.
Albert slashed.
The man sucked in a quick breath and stumbled backward, grabbing his gashed thigh. Blood pumped through the cracks between
his fingers. He dropped to the floor. Gasping and squirming, he clutched his wound with both hands.
Keeping the Playboy clamped tight against his left side, Albert crouched over him and slit his throat.
“Charles, what’s going…?” Mrs. Broxton came in from the hall. As she stopped in the doorway, her eyes leaped from the
crumpled body to Albert. “You!” she gasped. Then her back hunched. She spun around and ran.
Albert dropped the magazine and raced after her.
Halfway down the hall, he got close enough to drag the knife down her back. The blade split her slip open to her waist—her
slip and the skin beneath it. Crying out, she fell.
Albert clenched the knife between his teeth. Grabbing her ankles, he twisted until she flipped over onto her back.
When he tore away her underpants, she moaned and covered herself.
“Move your hands.”
“Don’t,” she gasped. “Please.”
“Move ’em or I’ll kill you.”
She shook her head and didn’t move her hands.
Albert took the knife from his mouth. “Think I’m kidding?” he asked.
Before she could answer or take her hands away, Albert pounded the knife deep into her belly.
She grunted, sat halfway up, and fell back.
Albert slipped the blade out and shoved it in again, sliding it into the same slit, shoving it deep.
Convulsions jerked her body.
He pulled out the knife.
She had a raw, vertical split just below her naval. It was three inches long and pumping blood.
She no longer struggled, just lay there sprawled out, sobbing and groaning.
Albert crouched down and slit open the front of her slip. He spread it, exposing her breasts. They were smaller than Betty’s.
More like Miss September’s.
“Nice tits, Mrs. Broxton,” he said.
He watched them rise and fall as she sobbed.
Cupping one of her breasts with a bloody hand, he felt its nipple push against his palm. He squeezed the breast. The blood made it slippery.
His penis was stout and aching in his jeans.
Holding the knife in his teeth, he pulled his zipper down and freed himself.
EIGHT
THE REQUEST
The roar of his Jaguar still rang in Ian’s ears after he was inside his dark house. He stepped cautiously through the kitchen.
Once in the living room with its glassed-in side facing the backyard and pool, he could see well enough to avoid collisions.
For a moment, he considered going outside and sitting quietly in the fog.
Enough time for that later.
He went into his study and turned on a light. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the sharp brightness. Then he
moved them slowly over the desk, the file cabinets, the card table, the two television trays, and the chair and lamp table
in the corner. “It’s gotta be somewhere,” he said.
A simple matter of spending the rest of the night searching through clutter.
What he should do is spend a while thinking.
He went to the easy chair, cleared its seat of three thick file folders, and sat down.
Now, reconstruct it. When was the last time you talked to him? Monday, from the faculty lounge. No, he called me. Wednesday?
I phoned him Wednesday from here. From where exactly? The desk.
Ian walked to the desk. The telephone didn’t seem to be on it. He stepped behind the desk and rolled the swivel chair back to the wall. There, on the floor, was the telephone. But not flat on the floor.
A frayed, black corner of his address book protruded from beneath it.
The phone bumped the floor and jingled once as he pulled out the book.
The index card with Arnie Barrington’s phone number jutted like a bookmark from the top of the address book.
Ian glanced at his wristwatch. One-fifteen. That made it four-fifteen in New York.
Much too late.
Or too early.
He propped up the card on the
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