miserable.
“I’ve Got a Thing About You Baby,” Connie said.
She’s a genius, Harry thought admiringly. And seriously obsessed with Presley.
Counting on the perp being pretty much distracted by Connie’s weird seduction, Harry risked showing himself. Because he was directly under the peak of the roof, he rose slowly to his full height, and surveyed the garret on all sides.
Some piles of boxes were shoulder-high, but many others were only a few inches higher than Harry’s waist. A lot of human forms stared back from the shadows, tucked in among the boxes and even sitting on them. But all of them must have been mannequins because none moved or shot at him.
“Lonely Man. All Shook Up,”
the perp said despairingly.
“There’s Always Me.”
“Please Don’t Stop Loving Me.”
“Can’t Help Falling in Love,” Connie said.
Standing, Harry had a slightly better sense of the direction from which the voices arose. Both Connie and the perp were ahead of him, but at first he couldn’t discern if they were close to each other. He could not see over the boxes into any of the other avenues of the maze.
“Don’t Be Cruel,”
the perp pleaded.
“Love Me,” Connie urged.
“I Need Your Love Tonight.”
They were at the west end of the attic, the south side, and they
were
close to each other.
“Stuck on You,” Connie insisted.
“Don’t Be Cruel.”
Harry sensed an escalation in the intensity of the dialogue, subtly conveyed in the gunman’s tone, in the speed of responses, and in his repetition of the same title.
“I Need Your Love Tonight.”
“Don’t Be Cruel.”
Harry stopped putting caution first. He hurried toward the voices, into an area more densely populated by mannequins, groups clustered in niches between boxes. Pale shoulders, graceful arms, hands pointing or raised as if in greeting. Painted eyes sightless in the gloom, painted lips eternally parted in half-formed smiles, in greetings never vocalized, in passionless erotic sighs.
More spiders lived there, too, evidenced by webs that tangled in his hair and stuck to his clothes. As he moved, he wiped the gossamer off his face. Wispy rags of it dissolved on his tongue and lips, and his mouth flooded with saliva as nausea gripped him. He choked down his gorge and expelled a wad of spittle and spider stuff.
“It’s Now or Never,” Connie promised from somewhere nearby.
The familiar answering three words had become less of a plea than a warning:
“Don’t Be Cruel.”
Harry had the feeling the guy wasn’t being lulled at all but was ticking toward a new explosion.
He proceeded another few feet and stopped, turning his head from side to side, listening intently, afraid he would miss something because the booming of his own heart was so loud in his ears.
“I’m Yours, Puppet on a String, Let Yourself Go,” Connie urged, voice falling to a stage whisper to foster a false sense of intimacy with her prey.
Although Harry respected Connie’s skills and instincts, he was afraid that her eagerness to sucker the perp was distracting her from the realization that the perp might not be responding out of his confusion and longing but out of a similar desire to sucker
her.
“Playing for Keeps, One Broken Heart for Sale,” Connie said.
She sounded as if she was right on top of Harry, in the next aisle, surely no farther than two aisles away, and parallel with him.
“Ain’t That Loving You Baby, Crying in the Chapel.” Connie’s whisper had grown more fierce than seductive, as if she was also aware that something had gone wrong with the dialogue.
Harry tensed, waiting for the perp’s response, squinting into the gloom ahead, then turning to look back the way he had come when he imagined the smiling, moon-faced killer stealing up behind him.
The attic seemed to be not merely silent but the source of all silence, as the sun was the source of light. The unseen spiders moved with perfect stealth through all the dark corners of that
“I’ve Got a Thing About You Baby,” Connie said.
She’s a genius, Harry thought admiringly. And seriously obsessed with Presley.
Counting on the perp being pretty much distracted by Connie’s weird seduction, Harry risked showing himself. Because he was directly under the peak of the roof, he rose slowly to his full height, and surveyed the garret on all sides.
Some piles of boxes were shoulder-high, but many others were only a few inches higher than Harry’s waist. A lot of human forms stared back from the shadows, tucked in among the boxes and even sitting on them. But all of them must have been mannequins because none moved or shot at him.
“Lonely Man. All Shook Up,”
the perp said despairingly.
“There’s Always Me.”
“Please Don’t Stop Loving Me.”
“Can’t Help Falling in Love,” Connie said.
Standing, Harry had a slightly better sense of the direction from which the voices arose. Both Connie and the perp were ahead of him, but at first he couldn’t discern if they were close to each other. He could not see over the boxes into any of the other avenues of the maze.
“Don’t Be Cruel,”
the perp pleaded.
“Love Me,” Connie urged.
“I Need Your Love Tonight.”
They were at the west end of the attic, the south side, and they
were
close to each other.
“Stuck on You,” Connie insisted.
“Don’t Be Cruel.”
Harry sensed an escalation in the intensity of the dialogue, subtly conveyed in the gunman’s tone, in the speed of responses, and in his repetition of the same title.
“I Need Your Love Tonight.”
“Don’t Be Cruel.”
Harry stopped putting caution first. He hurried toward the voices, into an area more densely populated by mannequins, groups clustered in niches between boxes. Pale shoulders, graceful arms, hands pointing or raised as if in greeting. Painted eyes sightless in the gloom, painted lips eternally parted in half-formed smiles, in greetings never vocalized, in passionless erotic sighs.
More spiders lived there, too, evidenced by webs that tangled in his hair and stuck to his clothes. As he moved, he wiped the gossamer off his face. Wispy rags of it dissolved on his tongue and lips, and his mouth flooded with saliva as nausea gripped him. He choked down his gorge and expelled a wad of spittle and spider stuff.
“It’s Now or Never,” Connie promised from somewhere nearby.
The familiar answering three words had become less of a plea than a warning:
“Don’t Be Cruel.”
Harry had the feeling the guy wasn’t being lulled at all but was ticking toward a new explosion.
He proceeded another few feet and stopped, turning his head from side to side, listening intently, afraid he would miss something because the booming of his own heart was so loud in his ears.
“I’m Yours, Puppet on a String, Let Yourself Go,” Connie urged, voice falling to a stage whisper to foster a false sense of intimacy with her prey.
Although Harry respected Connie’s skills and instincts, he was afraid that her eagerness to sucker the perp was distracting her from the realization that the perp might not be responding out of his confusion and longing but out of a similar desire to sucker
her.
“Playing for Keeps, One Broken Heart for Sale,” Connie said.
She sounded as if she was right on top of Harry, in the next aisle, surely no farther than two aisles away, and parallel with him.
“Ain’t That Loving You Baby, Crying in the Chapel.” Connie’s whisper had grown more fierce than seductive, as if she was also aware that something had gone wrong with the dialogue.
Harry tensed, waiting for the perp’s response, squinting into the gloom ahead, then turning to look back the way he had come when he imagined the smiling, moon-faced killer stealing up behind him.
The attic seemed to be not merely silent but the source of all silence, as the sun was the source of light. The unseen spiders moved with perfect stealth through all the dark corners of that
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