In for the Kill

11

New York, the present

Florence barely had time to go to the kitchen and have a drink of water from a plastic bottle before the Federal Parcel deliveryman knocked on her door. It must have been a straight shot for the elevator.

She placed the water bottle back in the refrigerator. The cold air that tumbled out felt good on her stocking feet. And the hall carpet felt soft after the tiled kitchen floor.

She opened the door to find the deliveryman smiling at her. A nice-looking guy with a nice smile. That was the word he brought to mind-nice. Regular. And he was cradling a long white box of the sort flowers came in.

"Florence Norton?" he asked, making a show of looking at something on his side of the box, an address label, probably.

"That's me," Florence said, returning his nice smile, wondering if the box contained flowers, wondering if this guy was married or otherwise attached.

He used a balled fist between her breasts to shove her hard back into the apartment, then stepped inside, closed the door, and lifted the box's lid a few inches so he could reach in and withdraw a gun.

The room spun and her chest ached where he'd pushed her. Anger became fear became paralysis.

"Keep your head," the man said. "That might keep you alive."

Florence felt herself nod. The muzzle of the small, blue-steel gun looked like a tunnel to death. Which was what it would be, if she didn't do what this nice man said.

"Step to the center of the living room," he said.

Keeping the gun low for a moment, he moved to the window and closed the drapes.

"If this is a robbery-" Florence began.

"Keep your mouth shut or I'll shut it with a bullet."

That got through.

"Now you can undress."

Not robbery. Something more. Something worse.

Her dread was like a drug, slowing her motions. Florence undressed slowly and deliberately, keeping her elbows in close, movements tight, trying to make what she was doing look like anything but a striptease.

"All the way," he said, when she was down to panties and bra. "Leave your clothes on the floor. I'll pick them up and fold them for you later."

She felt more naked than she ever had in her life, yet strangely she wasn't embarrassed. Maybe because the stakes were so high. Or because of her terror. She would cling to any hope. She told herself the nice man was right. If I keep my head and do as I'm instructed, I might get through this.

Might.

It was all she had, all she could allow herself to believe.

"Sit down on the sofa."

She obeyed, keeping her knees pressed tightly together, her arms crossed over her breasts.

He laid the white box down alongside the sofa, where she couldn't see its contents, then straightened up holding a thick roll of wide silver-gray duct tape.

Useful for so many things.

Quickly and skillfully, with the practiced motions of someone who'd rehearsed or done it countless times before, he taped her wrists together, then her ankles, then her knees. It had happened almost before she started to panic, aghast at her sudden immobility. She strained against the tape. He seemed to expect this and hurriedly ran a length of tape around her back and taped her wrists so she couldn't raise her arms from her lap.

She was about to scream when a rectangle of tape was slapped painfully over her mouth. Her lips were parted about half an inch and stayed that way. She began breathing noisily through her nose and realized she was crying.

She panicked and began to squirm desperately.

He smiled and patted her gently on the head until she was calm enough to sit still.

"It's going to be all right," he said. "I promise."

She nodded.

"There's nothing to get excited about," he assured her.

But at the same time he pulled the white box out where she could see its contents-gleaming steel, and what looked like a portable electric drill or saw.

Yes, a saw!

Meticulously, with a lazy kind of precision, he undressed before her, standing directly in front of the sofa so she'd have to look at him.

He had an erection, but how could he violate her, with her legs taped so tightly together? The inaccessibility of her position was some small comfort to Florence. If only she could move something other than fingers, toes, or her head. If only she could make some noise, attract someone's attention. Anyone's attention. She needed help.

Any kind of help!

Without glancing at her, the intruder turned his back and sauntered toward the hall, toward her bedroom and the bathroom.

Then came a familiar sound; pipes clanking in the walls.

Water. Preparation!

Florence knew that the man in her bathroom must be the Butcher.

Panic took her again and her body shuddered as if she were freezing. Her tears blurred the room around her. Her rapid breathing through her nose sounded like a small animal nearby panting.

A warmth spread beneath her and she knew she was urinating on the sofa cushions. An acute humiliation cut through her panic, only making it worse.

There was no hope here. None.

She attempted mightily to scream, but the only sound in the apartment was that of running water.