Linda Howard - Kill and Tell

Her scalp prickled, and a jolt of sheer terror made her heart almost freeze in her chest. She didn't move, couldn't move.

The bedroom door was open. She stood to the side, out of a direct line of vision, but if anyone came into the bedroom, he would see her immediately, and she was trapped against the wall. The only way out of the bedroom was that door. Her apartment was on the second floor, so she couldn't even climb out the window. It was a sheer drop to the ground, too far to jump.

He came to the bedroom door. She couldn't see him, just the faint shadow he threw across the floor. If she hadn't been looking, she never would have noticed. Karen's chest constricted, preventing her from doing more than draw in quick, shallow breaths. She couldn't move, couldn't even have screamed. He didn't come in. After standing there for a moment, looking in, he walked on toward the kitchen, this time making much more noise, as if he thought there was no need now to be quiet. Her ears rang, and her bedroom tilted oddly. Karen forced herself to take a deep breath, silently dragging in oxygen past the tightness in her lungs. Why had he gone on? Why was he making so much noise now?

She stared at her neatly made bed, and slowly it dawned on her: he thought the apartment was empty. The curtains were open, since she hadn't yet gone to bed, so the room was flooded with sunlight, and she had no need to turn on a lamp. There were, she realized, no lights on in the apartment at all for that very reason. The television wasn't on; she had watched it for a little while, but the morning shows hadn't been very interesting, so she had turned it off again after a few minutes. She hadn't been making any noise while she plucked the dying leaves from the ficus tree; to all intents and purposes, the apartment must seem empty to the invader.

She heard him systematically opening and closing drawers in the kitchen, prowling in the refrigerator—God, was he hungry ? She should get out of the apartment, that's what all the experts said. Don't confront a burglar, just get out if you could, and call the cops once you were safe. The eating area of the kitchen had a clear view of the living room. If he were there, he would be able to

see her making for the door. What if he had a gun? He could shoot her where she stood. All of a sudden, she felt calm—or at least much calmer. Whether or not he was armed, she had a better chance of getting through this unharmed if she got out of the apartment. She eased toward the bedroom door, her bare feet silent on the carpet.

Just as she came even with the door, she heard his footsteps approach the eating area. She froze one step short of stepping into view. Once again, her breath hung in her chest, caught on the icy shards of terror. If he came on into the living room—

But furniture scraped across tile, and she knew he was still in the eating area. Her brow furrowed. It sounded as if he were turning all the chairs upside down.

Surely that wasn't normal behavior for a burglar. Look for valuables, take the television and small stereo, and get out. But he hadn't even come into the bedroom to look for jewelry, which was where most women kept their valuable bits and pieces.

She slid that one step more, framed in the doorway but staying far enough back that she could see only a small portion of the eating area. She saw the legs of a chair sticking out. He was turning them all upside down.

He was looking for something… something in particular.

Get out and then call, the advice went. She looked at the phone by the bed. The apartment was too quiet; the only sounds were that of the refrigerator running and the noises he was making. If she called 911, she would have to whisper, and he might be able to hear even that. If she didn't say anything, would they send someone out anyway? Could 911 pinpoint individual apartments?

It didn't matter if they could or not, she realized, so long as they came with sirens blasting. Damn him, he was searching her apartment. Abruptly, the terror left her, and other emotions flooded through her. She felt outraged, violated. He was looking through her things, disturbing the tentative feelings of home she was beginning to form. This was the only home she had now; the house she had always considered home, still thought of as home, was nothing but a burned-out shell. She wasn't going to abandon her home to this bastard.

Karen took a step back, away from the doorway. Gently, so gently, moving slow and easy the way her father had taught her to walk in the woods, she eased toward the telephone. Not turning her back on the doorway, she carefully lifted the receiver out of the cradle and shoved it under her pillow to muffle the noise of the dial tone. Then she punched 911, wincing at the faint click of the buttons. A weapon. She needed a weapon. But she didn't own a handgun, and the knives were all in the kitchen. When he finished the rest of the apartment and came into the bedroom, he would see the phone under the pillow and know someone was there, hiding. She would lose the element of surprise, which was the only advantage she had, so she had to find something before then.

There was nothing in the bedroom she could use, unless she wanted to hit him with her purse, which was sitting beside the chair in the corner—another dead giveaway of her presence, if he happened to see it. Quickly, she did a mental inventory of the bathroom. The disposable shavers she used wouldn't send him screaming in fright, unless he had a phobia about being shaved. The worst damage one of those shavers

could do was a shallow slice. She had perfume, hairspray… hairspray. That was it. He would have to get close, but a gun was the only weapon that afforded distance. She wouldn't have had that luxury even with a knife.

The bathroom door was open only halfway. Karen sidled toward it, taking care not to brush against anything. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel her pulse throbbing in her fingertips, but she felt calmer now, more purposeful.

The door hinges creaked at the least movement, she remembered. She couldn't touch the door. The carpet seemed to drag at her feet. The distance was only a few steps, but it felt like yards. She was in full view of the open bedroom door if the man came far enough into the living room to look through it. How much longer would he be occupied in the kitchen? How many places in a kitchen were there to search? He had already looked in the cabinets and drawers, the refrigerator, under the chairs and table. The only place now to occupy him before he came back into the living room was a small closet to the right of the doorway before you went into the kitchen. If he was methodical, that would be the next place he would search.

Please, let him be methodical , she prayed.

The bathroom door wasn't open as much as she had hoped. She eyed the narrow opening. It looked too narrow, large enough to let a child slip through, but she wasn't a child. Still, she had lost weight. Maybe she could do it—maybe.

Have a plan, just in case.

In the kitchen, he began putting the chairs upright again, sliding them into place. He was a neat burglar, as if he didn't want her to know he had been inside her home. His neatness gave her a few seconds of warning.

She took several quick, silent breaths, visualizing what she was going to do. The hairspray was sitting on the left side of the vanity. The towel hung on a bar on the right. Grab the towel with her right hand, pick up the hairspray can with her left, use the towel to muffle the sound of the cap coming off. She wished she were less neat and had tossed the cap as soon as she bought the spray. She never threw away any cap, though, until the container was empty.

She exhaled to collapse her chest and sucked in her stomach. Pressing her back hard against the doorway, so hard the edge scraped her skin, she sidled through.