The Face in the Window

by Heather Graham

  Cocoa yapped.

  Keith swore.

  “Dammit! Why didn’t you help?” he demanded of his passenger, depositing his human burden as best he could.

  There was no answer, other than Cocoa’s excited woofs.

  His passenger had disappeared.

  * * *

  “You’re right!” Beth managed to say, forcing her frozen mind into action. “The storm is rough enough. Let’s not listen to bad news!”

  She turned the radio off.

  “Hey, I have a Sterno pot, if you’re hungry. I can whip up something.”

  He shook his head, not moving, staring at her with his redrimmed eyes. You’ve been through worse than this! she reminded herself.

  Worse?

  Yes! When she had met Keith, when there had been a skull in the sand, when she had become far too curious…

  Toughen up! she chastised herself. You’ve come through before!

  “I think I’ll make myself something.” Stay calm. Appear confident. How did one deal with a serial killer? She tried to remember all the sage things that had been said, recommendations from the psychiatrists who had spent endless hours talking with killers that had been incarcerated. Talk. Yes. Just keep talking….

  Then she remembered her husband’s own words of caution. If you ever pull out a gun, intend to use it. If you find that you have to shoot, shoot to kill.

  She didn’t have a gun.

  But then again, there was another question.

  What if he wasn’t the serial killer? Just because she had found herself alone with this man and heard that there was a killer on the loose, did that mean this man was the one?

  Weapon! She needed some kind of weapon.

  And would it be the same? If you ever pull out a gun, intend to use it. Would that work with, if you ever pull out a frying pan, intend to use it?

  She reached into one of the shelves for a can of Sterno and matches, trying to pretend the man who now looked like a psycho and stood in the door frame—still just staring at her—wasn’t doing so. She forced herself to hum as she lit the Sterno, and then reached for the frying pan. She held it as she rummaged through the cabinet.

  Then she felt him coming nearer…

  Her back was to him, he was making no sound. The air around her seemed to be the only hint of his stealth.

  She pretended to keep staring at the objects in the cabinet.

  She turned.

  God!

  He was next to her, before her, staring at her, starting to smile…

  She swung the frying pan around with all of her might. She caught him on the side of his skull, and the pan seemed to reverberate in her hands. He was still there, still standing, just staring at her.

  And then…

  He reached out.

  She screamed as his hands fell upon her shoulders.

  * * *

  The flooding had grown worse. Still, Keith had no choice but to trust in his knowledge of the area and his instincts. He took the turn-off, then said a silent prayer of relief as the tires found the gravel and rock of his driveway.

  The man calling himself Joe Peterson was missing. He had run from the car. Leaving his aunt. There was only one house in the area—his. And Beth was in it.

  Something streaked out of the windblown brush and pines that lined the drive.

  Someone ahead of him, making his way to the house.

  * * *

  Mark Egan’s hands fell upon Beth’s shoulders. His eyes met hers.

  They held a dazed and questioning look.

  He sank slowly to the floor in front of her, trying to catch hold of her to prevent his fall. She stepped back, then turned to flee.

  His hand, his grip still incredibly strong, wound around her ankle. She fell, stunned. She still had her frying pan.

  Never pull out a frying pan unless you intend to use it!

  She raised it to strike again. She didn’t need to. The vise of his fingers around her ankle eased. She scurried to the far side of the kitchen floor, staring at him. Was he dead? She inched ever so slightly closer on her knees, frying pan raised to strike.

  He didn’t move.

  She remained still, desperately thinking. She loathed a movie wherein the victim had the attacker down—then just ran, eschewing the idea that a killer might rise again. She lifted the pan to strike again, then gritted her teeth in agony.

  What if she was wrong? What if he was just a drugged-out musician?

  She looked around the kitchen, desperate to find something. She saw what she needed. A bottom cabinet was just slightly ajar. She saw an extension cord. The good thing about spending her life around the water and boats was that she could tie one sturdy knot.

  She scrambled for the extension cord and turned back to tie up her victim. To her astonishment, he had risen.

  He was staring at her again.

  His eyes were no longer dazed.

  They were deadly.

  * * *

  The elements were still raging. The area in front of the house looked like a lake. Keith knew if he left the old lady in the car, he might well be signing her death certificate. He fought the temptation to leave her, to rush out in a panic, thinking only of his wife.

  The dog was yapping.

  “Cocoa, if you don’t shut up…!” Keith warned.

  To his astonishment, the Yorkie sat still, staring at him gravely. Keith opened the door, reached into the back, picked up his human burden. Cocoa barked once—just reminding Keith he was there. “Come on, then!” he said, and Cocoa jumped up, landing on the old woman’s stomach. Keith hurried toward the house. Was the man in the trailer really just the old woman’s nephew—who had run because of him? Or was he a killer? What if he were in the house, if he had come upon Beth…?

  Keith made his way to the front door.

  * * *

  Run. There was no other option.

  The rear door was at the back of the kitchen. She ran; he was right behind her.

  When she opened the door, the wind rushed in with a rage. She had been ready. He hadn’t. The door slammed shut in his face.

  Beth ran out into the storm.

  * * *

  Keith burst into the house, Mrs. Peterson in his arms, Cocoa on top of her.

  “Beth?”

  To his astonishment, a man staggered out of the kitchen. Wearing his clothes. The fellow stared at him like an escapee from the nearest mental institute.

  He was unarmed.

  Keith quickly strode to the sofa to deposit Mrs. Peterson. Cocoa stayed on her stomach—growling.

  Keith pulled his gun from his waistband.

  “Whoa!” the man said.

  “Where’s my wife?” Keith barked.

  “She hit me with a frying pan and ran out!” the man said. “Oh my God, I’ve been rescued by loonies!” he wailed. “She hits me—now you’re going to shoot me?”

  “Who the hell are you?” Keith barked.

  “Mark Egan.” He sighed, rubbing his hand. “I’m a musician. What is the matter with you people?”

  Holding his gun on the intruder, loath to take his eyes from him, Keith draped a throw, tossed on the back of the rocker, over Mrs. Peterson. “Get in there,” he ordered, indicating the guest room. “Now!”

  “I’m going!” the man said, lifting a hand. He sidled against the wall, heading for the room. The lantern caused ominous shadows to invade the house.

  “You know, you’re crazy,” he said softly. “You’re both crazy!”

  “If you’ve hurt her, I’m going to take you apart piece by piece.”

  “She attacked me!” the fellow protested.

  “Get in there!”

  It was then they both heard the scream, long and sharp, rising above the lashing sound of wind and rain.

  * * *

  The shed had seemed to offer the only escape from the violent elements, and she could arm herself there. Their shed held scuba equipment; she could grab a diving knife.

  She couldn�
�t get the door to open at first because of the wind. At last, it gave.

  An ebony darkness greeted her.

  She slipped inside, reaching in her pocket for the matches with which she had lit the Sterno. Her hands were shaking, wet and cold.

  Her first attempt was futile. She was wet; she had to stop dripping on the matches.

  At last, she got a match lit.

  There, in the brief illumination of flame, was a face.

  Eyes red-rimmed.

  Flesh pasty white.

  Hand gripping a diver’s knife.

  “Don’t scream!” she heard.

  Too late.

  She screamed.

  * * *

  Keith sped out of the house.

  He was forced to pause, slightly disoriented. The wind and rain were loud, skewing sounds around him. Then he realized that the scream had to have come from the shed, and he raced in that direction, his gun drawn. He wrenched the door open.

  There was darkness within.

  “Beth!”

  “Put the gun down!” came a throaty, masculine reply.

  Beth appeared. Soaked, hair plastered around her beautiful face. There was a man behind her. The fellow who had claimed to be Joe Peterson. He had a knife, and it was against Beth’s throat as he emerged.

  “Put the gun down!” Peterson raged again.

  “Let go of my wife,” Keith commanded, forcing himself to be calm.

  “You’ll kill me. He’s not sane at all, did you know that?” the man demanded of Beth.

  She stared hard at Keith, eyes wide on his. He frowned. She seemed to be trying to tell him she was all right. Insane, yes, it was all insane, there was a knife against her throat.

  “We’re all getting soaked out here. Let’s go back to the house. Keith, did you know we had another visitor?” she asked, as if there wasn’t honed steel pressing her flesh.

  “I’ve seen him.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Peterson?” she asked.

  “He tried to kill her—stuffed her into the trunk of her car,” Keith said. “She’s on our sofa now. And, uh, your guest is in the house. I imagine.”

  “I did not try to kill Aunt Dot! You had to be the one!” Peterson protested, the knife twitching in his hand.

  “Let’s get to the house,” Beth said again. “Mr. Peterson, I’ll walk ahead of you, and Keith will walk ahead of us.”

  Keith frowned fiercely at her.

  “Yeah, all right, go!” Peterson said.

  Keith started forward uneasily. There was one man in the house, and another behind him with a knife to Beth’s throat. There was no doubt one of them was a murderer.

  He entered the house. The door had been left open. Rain had blown in.

  He was followed by Beth.

  And the man with the knife.

  Mrs. Peterson remained as a lump on the sofa; nothing more than a dark blob in the shadows. Cocoa, however, was no longer with her. He had run to the far side of the room, and wasn’t even yapping. He hugged the wall, near the guest-room door, whining pathetically as they entered.

  “There was another fellow with us, too, a musician. Plays for a group called Ultra C,” Beth said to Peterson. She swallowed carefully before looking at Keith again. “What happened to him? He was, uh, in the house when I left.”

  “Gone—I hope!”

  They heard a sound of distress. It was Joe Peterson. He was staring at the lump on the sofa.

  “Mr. Peterson,” Keith said softly. “I’m not going to shoot you. But you are going to get that knife away from my wife’s throat this instant.”

  Beth pushed Peterson’s arm, stepping away from him. Peterson barely reacted. He stared at the sofa. “God! Is she dead?” he asked.

  Cocoa whined. Beth stared at Keith, shaking but relieved. “Cocoa,” she said softly. “Well, I could have been wrong, but if this man had attacked Mrs. Peterson, the dog would be barking right now.”

  “Aunt Dot!” Peterson said numbly.

  “She isn’t dead—wasn’t dead,” Keith said. He looked at Beth. “So it’s your musician.”

  “You realized it, too…But—”

  “He’s out there somewhere. And we’ll have that to deal with. But for the moment…we’ve got to try to keep Mrs. Peterson alive.”

  “Keith, would you get me some brandy and the ammonia from the kitchen?” Beth asked. “We’ll see if we can rouse her. Then we can try to make it to the hospital.” She grimaced. “With the Hummer.”

  Keith walked to the kitchen, then stopped, pausing to pick up the frying pan that lay on the floor. He froze in his tracks as he heard a startled scream rise above the pounding of the rain. He turned to race back to the living room, then came to a dead stop.

  Their living room had been pitched into absolute darkness.

  * * *

  Terror struck deep into Beth’s heart. She had pulled back the blanket, anxious to be there first, to assure herself that the woman hadn’t died.

  A hand snaked out for her from beneath the cover, dragging her down with a ferocity that was astounding. Fingers wound around her throat and she was tossed about as if she weighed nothing.

  Egan. Mark Egan. Drugged-out musician. No. Psychotic killer.

  She saw his deranged grin right before he doused the lantern, holding her in the vise of his one hand like a rag doll.

  “What ya gonna do, big man?” a throaty voice called out in the darkness, next to her ear. “Shoot me—you might kill her. Don’t come after me, or she’s dead.”

  Beth tensed every muscle. She didn’t know if the man had a weapon or not, anything more than the hideous strength of his hands.

  She could hear nothing other than the wind and rain. Stars began to burst into the darkness as his grip choked her. There was no sound of voice. No sound of movement.

  Not even Cocoa let out a whine.

  Then there was a muffled groan. Not Keith, the sound had not come from Keith! It was Peterson who had groaned. So…where was Keith?

  “That’s right,” Egan—or whoever he was—said. “You stay right where you are. The missus and I are going to take the car. Your car. We’ll go for a little ride. Will she be all right? Who knows? But try to stop me now, and you’ll probably kill her yourself.”

  He began to drag her toward the door. He chuckled softly. “I don’t see too badly in the dark. I like the dark.”

  They were nearly there; she could sense it. He threw open the door. Her heart was thundering so that she didn’t hear the whoosh of motion at first.

  She gasped, the air knocked from her as the whoosh became an impetus of muscle and movement. Keith. He flew into them from the porch side, taking both her and Egan by storm and surprise. She twisted. Egan’s grip had been loosened by the fall. She bit into his wrist. The man howled, then went rolling away as he and Keith became engaged in a fierce physical battle.

  Cocoa began to bark excitedly. She felt the little dog run over her hand and begin to growl. Egan cried out in pain again. She could hear Cocoa wrenching and tearing at something—Egan. In pain or not, Egan was still wrestling on the floor with vehemence. Rain washed in from the open doorway. The faintest light showed through, glittering on something…

  The frying pan.

  She picked it up, and in the darkness, desperately tried to ascertain her husband’s form from that of the killer. She saw a head rise—

  She nearly struck.

  Keith!

  The other head was on the ground. There was a hand around Keith’s throat, fingers tightening…

  Blindly, she slammed the frying pan down toward the floor. A scream was emitted….

  She struck again. And again.

  And then arms reached out for her.

  “It’s all right now. It’s all right.”

  * * *

  The lantern was lit. Good old Cocoa was in the bedroom, standing guard over Mrs. Peterson who—despite having been dumped unceremoniously on the floor—was still alive and breathing. Her nephew, Joe Peterson, was t
ending to her.

  Keith hadn’t moved the form on the floor yet. Beth didn’t know if he was dead or alive, but he wouldn’t be blithely getting up this time.

  She’d seen his face. Before Keith had covered it with the throw.

  “Is it…him? The serial killer?” she said.

  “I think so,” Keith murmured, slipping an arm tightly around her shoulders.

  “But you knew it wasn’t Peterson when I did.”

  He turned to her, a pained and rueful smile just curving his lips. “Because anyone who spends any time in Key West knows that Ultra C is an all-girl band,” he said softly.

  “I told him you knew music,” she said.

  They both jumped, hearing the sudden loud blare of a horn. A second later there was a pounding on the door.

  Keith, still gripping his gun, strode to it, pulling it open. Andy Fairmont, from the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office, was there.

  “Jesus!” Andy shouted. “There’s a serial killer on the loose! Have you heard?”

  Keith looked at Beth. She shrugged, and turned to Andy. “Never pull out a frying pan unless you intend to use it,” she said gravely.

  “What?”

  “You’d better come in, Andy,” Keith said, and he set his arm around his wife’s shoulders again, pulling her close.

  * * * * *

  Author Biography

  New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the Romance Writers of America’s Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers’ Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America, and is the founder of The Slush Pile Players, an author band and theatrical group. An avid scuba diver, ballroom dancer and mother of five, she still enjoys her South Florida home, but also loves to travel. For more information, check out her website, TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com, or find Heather on Facebook.

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