The Gryphon was coming toward her now. Floorboards squeaked like mice. The folds of his robe—no, not a robe, a coat, a bulky winter coat—rustled around him. Silver glinted in his right hand. A knife.
She stared at him as he approached. She knew she ought to run, but she couldn’t. Her knees were locked, her muscles rigid. Anyway, there was no point in running. He would always catch up with her. She could never escape him. Never. She could board a plane bound for the other side of the world, and when she disembarked in Australia or Singapore or Taiwan, she would find him waiting at the airport, holding up a sign with her name on it, a name written in blood.
The knife swam out of the darkness, cutting a silent wake like a shark fin. Her knife—she recognized it as it loomed closer—the knife from her kitchen drawer, the one she’d used against him. He would cut her with it. Cut her to pieces. Then take her head and leave a clay gargoyle in her hand.
No.
No
.
Her paralysis broke. She turned. Ran. Nearly tripped over her baggy pajama pants. Fast footsteps behind her. The bedroom was too far. She’d never make it. Ahead, a doorway. She ducked inside, slammed the door, locked it. Her hand swatted the wall switch. An amber safelight snapped on. Seven and a half watts. The darkroom. That was where she was. The door thumped. A fist or a shoe. Again. Louder. He was going to break it down.
She ran for the window, covered in black paper to make the room light-tight. Her fingernails peeled the paper away in curling strips of confetti. The window looked just large enough for her to climb through. If she could get it open. The door thumped again. She unlocked the window and tugged at it. Stuck. She was making noises like sobs, though her eyes were dry. She tugged harder. The door shuddered under another blow, but held, and in the same moment the window popped free and slid up. She grabbed the sill, hoisted herself off the floor, and came up short against the iron security bars. Her hands fumbled at the bars, groping for a latch, some way to open them from the inside. There had to be a way—fire hazard if there wasn’t—but this was an old house, pre-code; there was no latch. She was caged like an animal.
She thrust her face at the bars and hammered them with her fists and screamed.
“Help! Police! Help me! He’s in the house, oh, Christ, get in here, hurry,
he’s in the house
!”
They had to hear that. Even from across the road they had to hear it on a still night.
The door boomed, and she heard the pop of a hinge, and she knew the two cops wouldn’t, couldn’t, reach her soon enough. Unless she could buy herself some time. But how?
Maybe she could hide from him. She scanned the converted bathroom in the amber glow of the low-wattage bulb. Toilet, sink, counter. No place offered concealment.
All right. Then she would fight. What she needed was a weapon.
Her gaze flicked over the scattered objects in the room. A paper cutter; could she use the blade? Something that looked like a microscope mounted on an easel—an enlarger, she realized; it might serve as a blunt instrument. Three plastic trays on the counter, worthless. A pair of tongs, some empty bottles, a row of jars. Jars. Chemicals.
She squinted at the labels in the weak light.
Dektol. Chromium Intensifier. Hypo Test Kit. Ektaflo Fixer. Glacial Acetic Acid.
Acid.
Below the bold print, a stylized skull and crossbones. Words in italics:
Causes Severe Burns
.
The acid was stored in a sixteen-ounce glass jar with a metal twist-off cap. The jar was half-full.
She could splash him with it. Burn the skin right off his face. Get him in the eyes and blind him. Blind the motherfucker.
Her heart was banging in her head like a migraine. She unscrewed the cap and held the bottle in both hands, hands that were almost steady. She positioned herself near the door, then flipped down the wall switch. The safelight winked out. Darkness gave her an advantage. She would know he was in the doorway, but he wouldn’t be able to see her for a split second, at least. She would have that long to act.
Distantly she was aware that she wasn’t doing this. She couldn’t be. Less than twenty-four hours ago she’d been afraid even to express an opinion about the Gryphon.
The door exploded open. He came in fast, the knife leading him.
His eyes. Get his eyes.
Wendy pistoned out both arms and released a looping tongue of acid from the jar. The Gryphon grunted in surprise and spun sideways, shielding his face with his forearm. Acid hissed on his sleeve. Only his sleeve.
She’d missed. Missed his face completely. Done no damage at all.
You fuck-up, Wendy, she thought in miserable terror. You blew it, blew it, blew it.
She shook the bottle. Nothing left but drops. She threw it at him, a pointless gesture. He knocked it aside with a swing of his arm and lurched forward, the knife shining like teeth.
“Bitch,” he gasped.
He advanced on her. She backed up as he closed in. The hard lip of the Formica countertop banged into her spine. She reached behind her, searching the counter for a weapon, the paper cutter maybe, or—
The enlarger.
She closed both hands over the central steel column, eighteen inches long, and swung the instrument like a dub. The laminated baseboard slammed into the Gryphon’s forehead and broke off with a rifle crack. Waves of vibrations radiated through her wrists, echoes of his pain.
The knife leaped at her. She batted it down, then whipped steel across his face. His head snapped sideways. He stumbled backward. The knife dropped from his splayed fingers. She lashed out again. This time he blocked the blow and grabbed the enlarger. She let go of it and ran, brushing past him toward the open door. With a snarl he lunged for her. He seized the belt of her robe, but the loose knot instantly came undone and the belt snaked through the loops like kite string through a child’s fingers, gone.
Then she was out of the darkroom, running down the hall. Stumbling, tugging at her loose pants like a movie clown. Caroming from wall to wall. Breath coming in torn gasps. She looked back, but he was not in pursuit, not yet. Maybe he was groping for the knife on the floor, or maybe he was hurt too badly to follow at once.
She’d held him off, all right. Long enough for Sanchez and Porter to get here. So where the hell were they? They had to have heard her screams. Had to.
Unless they were dead. Oh, Jesus, they must be dead.
She was on her own, then. No cavalry on the horizon.
What could she do now? Get outside and run.
But where? No other homes nearby. If she fled into the canyon behind the house, the Gryphon would hear her thrashing in the chaparral and hunt her down. Okay, then take a car. Jeffrey’s car. Parked in the driveway because the garage was his studio. Yes, that would work, had to work. She was thinking very fast, everything clear. She didn’t want to die.
She stumbled into the dark living room. Jeffrey lay on the sofa, fully dressed save for his shoes, his head resting limply on a pillow. For a split second Wendy had the impression he was asleep, and a hot needle of anger stabbed her: How could he sleep through all this? Then she realized that of course he couldn’t, nobody could, and as she lurched closer she saw the wetness smearing his neck, the parted skin flaps, the chocolate puddle on the floor.
She had no energy left for grief or horror or even shock. She took in what she saw and registered it—yes, he’s dead, Jeffrey’s dead, what did you expect?—and she knew she would have to feel something about it later, but not now, because now there were footsteps in the hall.
She needed his keys. His car keys. She leaned over him and thrust her hands into his pants pockets. The smell of his blood was strong in her nostrils.
I’m sorry, Jeffrey, so sorry I got you involved.
Her questing fingers fished out a key chain. She sprinted for the front door. For the first time she noticed that it was open. The Gryphon had picked the lock and walked right in. Those were the footsteps she’d heard. While she’d been rising from bed and pulling on her borrowed robe, while she’d been imagining hot chocolate and quiet conversation at the kitchen table, Jeffrey had been shocked out of sleep by a knife thrust that left him strangling on his own blood.
Don’t think about it. Don’t.
As she ran down the porch steps, she heard the Gryphon pound into the living room. It wouldn’t take him long to guess where she’d gone.
The rough gravel of the driveway bit the pads of her feet through Jeffrey’s wool socks. She tugged at the driver’s-side door of the Camaro, praying it was unlocked—but no, Jeffrey had locked it; of course he had; nobody left a car parked anywhere in L.A. without locking it. She fumbled with the keys on the chain, feeling their shapes.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Come on, dammit.”
She selected what felt like a car key and tried to use it, but in the darkness and in her mounting panic she couldn’t find the keyhole.
Heavy footsteps drummed on the porch. He was coming.
Finally the key slid into the slot. She turned it and heard the click of the door lock’s release. She groped for the handle. Where was it? Where the hell was it?
Ragged breathing chugged down the driveway. She looked back and saw the Gryphon loping toward her. A canvas bag swung by its strap from one fist; he was rummaging in the bag as he ran.
She found the handle at last. The car door swung open. She threw herself behind the wheel and slammed the door and locked it. The ignition key was the next one on the chain. She inserted it on the first try and jerked it savagely. The engine coughed and sputtered but wouldn’t turn over.
“Jesus. Oh, Jesus.”
The driver’s-side window shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. Her head jerked up, and she saw the Gryphon standing beside the car, the hammer in his hand raised for a second strike.
Hammer? Where had he gotten that? From the bag, of course, the bag.
The hammer swung down. The steel knob punched a hole in the window, smashing glass like ice. Frantically Wendy jiggled the ignition key. This time, thank God, the engine caught. The hammer burst through the broken window into the car, the steel claw pecking at her like an angry bird. She screamed and shifted into reverse and hit the gas. The Camaro skidded backward, tearing the hammer out of the Gryphon’s grasp. Wendy spun the steering wheel. The Camaro fishtailed off the driveway onto the lawn, bounced over the curb, and rocked on its shocks in the middle of the street. She slammed the gearshift into drive and shot forward, speeding north, higher into the hills.
Relief surged over her in a cresting wave.
“I made it,” she said aloud, the words tentative and tremulous, like a child’s prayer. “Oh, God, I made it, I really did, I got away.”
She was rounding the nearest curve when headlights flared in her rearview mirror. Domelights twinkled. A siren rose in a ululant wail.
The police car. But Sanchez and Porter were dead. Weren’t they?
Then she understood.
The Gryphon had taken the car. He was still after her. He refused to give up.
Wendy laid her foot on the gas, demanding speed, while behind her the blue and red beacons spun closer, gaining ground.
The road coiled into a series of tight turns. She shifted into low gear for better traction and climbed higher. She knew she’d made a mistake in heading north. Should have gone south into the city. Nothing she could do about it now. She would have to get over the mountain and find help in the San Fernando Valley on the other side.
The Camaro shuddered with a sudden impact from behind. Wendy looked in the rearview mirror. Saw the patrol car accelerate to ram her again. A sharper blow this time. The steering wheel jerked free of her hands. The road skewed sideways. The Camaro skidded into the shoulder, tires kicking up sand and gravel. A telephone pole expanded in the funnels of her headlights. Wendy swerved left. The pole brushed past, shearing off the Camaro’s sideview mirror on the passenger side.
Close one, she thought shakily.
The sour taste of vomit rose in her throat. Her stomach bubbled.
She crested the mountain and was swept onto Mulholland Drive, the winding ribbon of road that ran along the spine of the Hollywood Hills. The dark, hunched shapes of houses whipped past, first on one side, then on the other. In those houses were people who had no part in any of this. The thought seemed unreal.
The patrol car, domelights blazing, siren caterwauling, rear-ended her again. Wendy was flung forward in her seat, the Camaro wobbling drunkenly toward the white guardrail. Beyond the rail, noting but black space and a sheer drop. The Camaro thudded into the rail and skidded along it with a screech of tortured metal, shooting up white pinwheels of sparks. She spun the wheel hard to the left and swung back onto the road.
The siren was abruptly cut off. “Got you now, you bitch!” boomed a thunderous male voice, God’s voice, loud in the sudden stillness. “Got you now!”
What the hell ... ?
The loudspeaker. In the squad car. Not God. Just him. Just the Gryphon.
“Got you!” he roared again. The squad car accelerated as the siren screamed to life once more.
“No, you don’t,” Wendy breathed. “You motherfucking bastard, you don’t.”