SHE WATCHED HIM GET up from the room’s only armchair—Peter’s chair—and cross to the fireplace. Inexorably, her eyes moved to the hunting rifle, propped in a far corner of the room. Twice during the last hours he’d gone to a position in the room that put them at equal distances from the gun. It had been, almost certainly, a ruse to test her—or to tempt her. Did he hope that she would make a try for the gun, giving him an excuse to begin struggling with her? Rapists, she’d heard, got their kicks from the fight women put up, not from the actual sex act.
At the fireplace, he raised the hunting knife and drove it down into the redwood mantel. Then he took an oak log and threw it carelessly on the fire. A shower of sparks erupted, some of them falling on the rug beside the stone hearth. Smiling slightly, he looked at her—then looked down at the rug, already smouldering. Finally—languidly—he stepped on the rug, grinding out the sparks.
“When we leave,” he said, “maybe I’ll set it on fire. But not now. Not tonight. We need a place to sleep. Right?”
She didn’t answer.
“Right?”
In reply, she sighed. It was, she hoped a bored-sounding sigh, projecting long-suffering impatience, rather than the sick, empty fear she felt, almost a physical sensation centered in the pit of her stomach.
He levered the hunting knife from the mantel. Holding the knife loosely in his right hand, delicately balanced, he came toward her.
“You’re not talking much.” He stood over her, still toying idly with the broad-bladed knife. He’d told her how he’d gotten the knife and the rifle. Last night, he said, hidden in the undergrowth beside the road, he’d seen her lights go out. He’d let another hour pass, making sure she’d gone to sleep. Then he’d gone into town, and gotten a room. This morning, he’d bought the gun and the knife and the chains, then returned to resume his vigil, this time parked in his car on the county road close beside the turnoff to the access road. He’d told his story in great detail, plainly for the purpose of impressing her with his planning, his prowess. His whole life had come down to a sharp, single focus: the humiliation and destruction of Austin Holloway. With that done—with the million dollars to prove it—he would be transformed. Austin Holloway’s power would become his power. He would be invincible: a superior being, capable of anything. Nietzsche’s superman.
All of it calculated, subconsciously, to conceal from himself the terrible truth: that he was just another strutting, posturing punk who fondled his gun and his knife as if they were phallic extensions of himself—and who cowered among his own fantasies, too frightened to come out and face reality.
“I said, you’re not talking much.” He spoke softly, insinuatingly, with a different, more sensual inflection. His expression was different, too: suggestive, subtly lascivious. He was thinking of bed—thinking of her. During all their time together—from noon until now, eleven o’clock—he hadn’t touched her, hadn’t spoken of sex. Instead, he’d talked of his megalomaniacal plans. But she’d seen him watching her—seen him run his eyes over her body—slowly, deliberately, speculatively.
How would it begin? Would he hold the knife to her throat while he forced her to undress?
Would she do it?
Could she do it?
Should she do it?
He took one last step. Sitting on a straightback chair, she was forced to look up at an uncomfortably sharp angle to see his face. The point of the knife was less than a foot from her face. He meant for her to look at the knife—meant for her to tremble at the sight, to mutely beg him for mercy.
So she mustn’t look at the knife.
She must continue to look up into the face, staring straight into his dull, deadman’s eyes. She mustn’t let him see that, yes, she was terrified of the knife gleaming like burnished silver in the soft light from the two kerosene lamps.
“What’re you thinking about?” he asked softly.
What should she say? How should she say it? Words were her only weapons—her only hope. She must try to manipulate him, confuse him, keep him off balance—all without antagonizing him.
But how? With which words?
“I was just thinking,” she said, “that I wish I was home.”
Why had she said it. Why? To what purpose—what possible advantage?
“So you can go to sleep in your own little bed. Is that it?”
“It’s something like that.”
“With your man. With Peter.” He spoke in a flat, hostile voice, as if he were pronouncing an obscenity. Earlier in the day, when he’d asked her whether she was married, she’d told him about Peter. She’d done it without thinking, without calculating the consequences.
Now, watching him and listening to him, she realized that Peter had become yet another focus for his hatred.
“Where is he now?” he asked finally. “Right now?”
“He’s in—” She broke off. Where? “He’s in Los Angeles,” she finished. “He writes movie scripts, and he’s down there talking about one. It’s a TV script, actually.”
Mincingly—furiously—he mimicked her: “‘It’s a TV script, actually.’” Saying it, his mouth twisted into a savage rictus. “Is that what they taught you in your college?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“‘It’s a TV script, actually,’” he repeated. “Is that how you talk when you’re raised in Beverly Hills? They tell you to use words like ‘actually,’ that don’t mean a goddamn thing. Right?”
“It’s—it’s just a manner of speech.”
“Oh. I see.” Wickedly mocking, he nodded. Once more mimicking: “‘Just a manner of speech.’ Oh, how fancy it all is. How terribly, terribly fancy.”
“It’s not fancy. It’s just—” She spread her hands. “It’s just the way I talk.”
“Does Peter talk like that, too?”
She hesitated, and then decided to say, “No. Peter talks more plainly than I do, I guess you’d say.”
“How long have you lived together?”
“Not quite two years.”
“How many times a week do you and Peter screw?”
She didn’t answer. But, still, she must keep her eyes fixed on his. She mustn’t cower—mustn’t turn away. She mustn’t show uneasiness, or fear.
“How does Peter’s cock feel inside you? Is it big? Is it hard?”
Still desperately holding his gaze, she didn’t reply. Now she saw his expression go blank, as if he was listening to some small, obscene inner voice. He still held the knife in his right hand, as before. But now his left hand was straying across his thigh. Slowly—perhaps unconsciously—he was stroking the bulge of his genitals. Momentarily his eyes lost focus. When he finally spoke, his voice was husky: “Are you getting sleepy?” Asking the question, he moved the knife in the direction of the bedroom, invitingly.
“No.”
“I am.” His voice was still husky—still slightly slurred.
“Then go to sleep.”
“What would you do?” he asked lazily, “If I went to sleep?” As he said it, he continued the slow, erotic caress of his swelling genitalia.
“I’d run,” she said suddenly.
His mouth twisted into a slow, smug smile. “You’re afraid of me, then.”
But his eyes had sharpened. Momentarily, the rhythm of his erotic caress was suspended. Her answer had surprised him, taken him off balance.
She looked down at the knife, then up again into his eyes. “As long as you have that knife, I’m afraid of you.” She paused, then decided to say, “Is that what you want to hear?”
He looked at the knife, holding it up before his eyes, pantomiming a pretense that he was seeing it for the first time. Then, looking at her, he said, “What if I gave it to you? Do you think it would change anything?” He spoke softly, speculatively.
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I think it would. I think it would change everything.”
His left hand had resumed its slow, obscene stroking. Very seriously and deliberately, as if he were rendering a decision on some matter of great importance, he slowly shook his head. “No,” he said softly, “it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t change a thing. I could give you this knife—” Tentatively, he extended it toward her with his right hand while he pointed to a nearby wooden chair with his left hand. “And then I could pick up that chair. And I guarantee you that I’d be the winner.” He let a beat pass, staring at her intently. Behind his eyes, something shifted—something primitive, and predatory. Something more profound than sex, and infinitely more dangerous. Then, once more, he held out the knife. “You want to try it?”
“No,” she answered. “No, I don’t.” Then without forethought, she added: “And you want to know why?”
For a long, silent moment he continued to stare at her while the atavistic light still guttered behind his dull, dead eyes. He didn’t want to answer the question—didn’t want to be jolted out of the mood he’d created for himself. But, still, he wanted to know the answer. So, finally, he said, “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. “I don’t want you to hurt me. But I don’t want to hurt you, either.”
As if to fling the sense of her answer away from him, he sharply gestured. “That’s bullshit. That’s fucking bullshit. You’d hurt me, if you could. You’d fucking kill me, if you could.”
“No,” she answered. “No, I wouldn’t. I don’t want to hurt you.” She let a long, decisive beat pass. Then, holding his eye steadily with hers, she spoke in a slow, measured voice. Saying quietly: “You’re my half brother. Don’t you see that?”
Suddenly—wildly—he laughed. “That’s clever. That’s really clever.”
She didn’t respond.
“You think you’ll protect yourself, by saying that.”
In reply, she slowly, silently shook her head.
“Half brother,” he spat out. “Shit. I’m just—just what happened when Austin Holloway decided to have a little fun for himself. I grew up in a smelly little house with leaks in the roof and rats in the walls. And you—” Savagely, he slashed the space between them with the knife. “I’ve seen where you grew up. So don’t talk to me about being your brother. You hear?” He broke off. Then, shrilly: “You hear?”
She’d scored on him—deflected his obscene intentions, at least for the moment. Words—her chosen weapon—were working.
But she’d also roused his rage, another danger.
“You said your mother—” She hesitated. “You said she’s in an asylum. You said that my father keeps her there, just like he kept her all her life. Well, my mother—” Once more, she hesitated. It was an obscenity, to use her mother’s affliction to save herself from harm.
But she must do it—must try.
“My mother,” she said, “is an alcoholic. She’s a hopeless alcoholic. So they’re both victims, you see—both your mother and my mother, too.”
“You’re lying. I’ve seen her on TV.”
“She doesn’t get a bottle Saturday night,” she muttered. “She doesn’t get one until Sunday, after she finishes doing The Hour. It’s been like that for—for almost as long as I can remember.” As she said it, she was compelled to drop her eyes before the sudden intensity of his gaze.
Suddenly he stooped over her, furious. Hissing: “You’re a liar. You’re a fucking liar.”
She’d scored again—struck through his defenses again.
“No, I’m not lying.” Her voice, she knew, was calm. Convincing.
With the knife held loosely at his side, forgotten, he still bent over her, searching her face with a taut, terrible intensity. Then, slowly, his mouth twisted. This time, his smile was real. Grotesque, but real.
“Your mother’s a drunk,” he said softly. “And my mother’s crazy. What’d they say about something like that? What is it? Poetic justice? Is that what they call it?”
Hesitantly, she nodded. “Yes. Th-that’s what they call it. Poetic justice.”
“Or maybe it isn’t poetic justice. Maybe there’s another name for it. Maybe you’re just agreeing with me, because of this—” He raised the knife again, holding it toward her, as if to tantalize her with its beauty and power, just beyond her reach.
Trying to hold her gaze steady with his, she didn’t answer. She saw his eyes fall to the knife, which he now raised before him until its point came in line between his eyes and hers. Slowly, lovingly, he rotated the blade as it reflected the pale glow of the lamplight across his face. It was a light show—a diabolical light show.
“When I was in prison,” he said, “I used to lie in bed and think about knives. I used to think about how important they are.” His voice was soft and dreamy. His eyes were pensive, fixed on the knife point. “Do you know how important they are?”
“N—” Her throat closed. “No, I don’t. I mean, I—I’ve never had—” She realized that she was helplessly shaking her head. What did he want her to say? How should she say it? Subserviently? Was that what he wanted from her: subservience? A show of palpable terror?
“If you have a knife,” he said, “and the other person doesn’t, then you’re the master. Whatever you order, the other person’s got to do it. And I used to lie in bed, and think about that. I used to think about how a knife is better than a gun. You pull the trigger, and that’s it, with a gun. But with a knife, you’ve got a special edge. With a knife, you can make someone your slave. But, of course, you have to be delicate. You have to use imagination. You have to understand a knife. And you have to make the other person understand. That’s probably the most important part, you see.” As he said it, his dreamy gaze left the knife, and wandered to her.
“Do you understand?” he asked.
“I—” Helplessly, she shook her head. “I’m not sure. I—” She was aware that she was still futilely shaking her head.
“Stand up,” he said softly. “Stand up, and I’ll give you a lesson. I’ll make you understand.”
With her eyes fixed on the blade, she drew her feet beneath her, braced her hands against the arms of the chair, levered herself slowly, heavily to her feet. Would her legs support her? Did he realize that, suddenly, her knees were shaking—that she was hollow at the core, trembling with terror?
“Now—” He lowered the knife until its point was inches from her torso. “Now, first, unfasten your shirt. But do it one button at a time. And when you do it, I don’t want you to look down. I want you to look at the knife. Right at the knife.”
With numb fingers, she found the top button. The knife followed the task, its sparkling point attentive to her hands. The first button came free. The second button was between her breasts. As if to guide her, the knife moved delicately lower. With the second button unfastened, she heard him softly sigh.
“Two more,” he said, lowering the knife to the third button. “Just two more.”
Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She blinked, raised her hand to wipe at her eyes.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”
Beneath the point of her chin, she felt pressure, then pain. It was the knife, forcing her head up.
“The lesson is just beginning, Denise. Just beginning. You don’t want to stop now, do you?”
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move her head without risking more pain. Was she cut? Did she feel a trickle of warm blood running down her throat?
“Now—” As he spoke, she felt the pressure lessen. “Now, the last two buttons, please.”
The knife was in front of her now, offering a sadistic reprieve from the pain. Fiercely she used both hands to clear her eyes of tears, then tore defiantly at the remaining buttons, freeing them.
“Ah—” It was another soft, crooning exhalation. “Ah. Yes—” Deftly, one side at a time, the knife flicked her shirt open. Approvingly, he nodded down at her breasts. “Yes. Very nice, Denise.” He nodded again. Repeating: “Very nice.”
Involuntarily, she stepped back from his obscene stare. Instantly, the knife came up before here eyes. “No, no,” he whispered, as if he were chiding a misbehaving child. “No, no, you can’t do that. Don’t you see, every time you do something your master doesn’t like, you feel the knife? I thought you understood that, Denise.”
“No.” She realized that her voice was dangerously loud, incoherently protesting. She was vehemently shaking her head. Sudden anger rose in her throat, bitter as bile. “No.”
“Yes,” he crooned, moving closer. “Oh, yes.” She saw his manic face move close behind the knife. Then she saw the knife slowly lower between them, disappearing as his eyes held hers.
“Stand still, Denise,” he whispered. “Stand very still. Do just as I tell you. Because that’s the game, you see. The better you behave—the better you obey—the less I have to hurt you. Do you understand?”
She couldn’t answer. Suddenly the trembling returned. She felt her knees shaking. The room was tilting away from her, sliding off into darkness. In her ears, a distant roar was beginning, like faraway surf. At the edge of the darkness, tiny lights were dancing.
“I—I’ve got to sit down.”
“No, no—” Once more, the knife point pricked beneath her chin, them moved toward her throat, under her jaw. “No, Denise, don’t faint. Because, if you faint, you could really hurt yourself when you fall. You see?”
To stop the room from spinning, she closed her eyes, surrendering to a sudden void of blackness, and to the strange, eerie roaring. Was this how it felt to die? Was this how it began?
He was whispering something. She could feel his breath on her face. And now, a miracle, the pain was gone. Her master had granted another reprieve from the knife.
“… over here, now,” he was saying. “Come over here.” As he spoke, she felt him moving away. She opened her eyes, blinked against the tears. He was moving toward the chair, and gesturing for her to follow. He sat in the chair, his legs wide apart. “You sit here,” he said, gesturing to the floor at his feet. “You sit between my legs, here, facing me. And we’ll play another game, Denise.” As he spoke, he suddenly drove the knife into the table beside the chair. The blow was so violent that the table top split.