Whispers by Dean Koontz Page A

toward me, and I’ll empty the gun on you. I’ll spread your guts all over the room. I swear to Christ I will.”
    He grinned and nodded.
    Shivering, she said, “Now, I’m going to the bed. I’ll sit down there and phone the police.”
    She moved sideways and backwards, crablike, one small step at a time, until she got to the bed. The telephone was on the nightstand. The moment she sat down and lifted the receiver, Frye disobeyed her. He stood up.
    â€œHey.”
    She dropped the receiver and clutched the pistol with both hands, trying to keep it steady.
    He held his hands out placatingly, palms toward her. “Wait. Just wait a second. I’m not going to touch you.”
    â€œSit down.”
    â€œI’m not coming anywhere near you.”
    â€œSit down right now.”
    â€œI’m going to walk out of here,” Frye said.
    â€œLike hell you are.”
    â€œOut of this room and out of this house.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou won’t try to shoot me if I just leave.”
    â€œTry me and you’ll be sorry.”
    â€œYou won’t,” he said confidently. “You aren’t the type to pull the trigger unless you don’t have any other choice. You couldn’t kill me in cold blood. You couldn’t shoot me in the back. Not in a million years. Not you. You don’t have that kind of strength. You’re weak. Just too damned weak.” He gave her that ghastly grin again, that wide death’s head smile, and he took one step toward the door. “You can call the cops when I’m gone.” Another step. “It would be different if I was a stranger. Then I might have a chance to get away scot-free. But after all, you can tell them who I am.” Another step. “See, you’ve already won, and I’ve lost. All I’m doing is buying a little time. A very little bit of time.”
    She knew he was right about her. She could kill him if he attacked, but she was not capable of shooting him while he retreated.
    Sensing her unspoken acknowledgment of the truth in what he had said, Frye turned his back on her. His smug self-confidence infuriated her, but she could not pull the trigger. He had been sidling carefully toward the exit. Now, he strode boldly out of the room, not bothering to glance back. He disappeared through the broken door, and his footsteps echoed along the hallway.
    When Hilary heard him thumping down the stairs, she realized that he might not leave the house. Unobserved, he could slip into one of the downstairs rooms and hide in a closet, wait patiently until the police had come and gone, then slither out of his hole and strike her by surprise. She hurried to the head of the stairs and got there just in time to see him turn right, into the foyer. A moment later, she heard him rattling the locks; then he went out and threw the door shut behind him with a loud wham!
    She was three-quarters of the way down the stairs when she realized he might have faked his departure. He might have slammed the door without leaving. He might be waiting for her in the foyer.
    Hilary was carrying the pistol at her side, the muzzle directed safely at the floor, but she raised it in dread anticipation. She descended the stairs, and on the bottom step she paused for a long while, listening. At last, she eased forward until she could see into the foyer. It was empty. The closet door stood open. Frye wasn’t in there either. He was really gone.
    She closed the closet door.
    She went to the front door and double-locked it.
    Weaving slightly, she walked across the living room, in the study. The room smelled of lemon-scented furniture polish; the two women from the cleaning agency had been in yesterday. Hilary switched on the light and drifted to the big desk. She put the gun in the center of the blotter.
    Red and white roses filled the vase on the window table. They added a sweet contrasting fragrance to the lemon air.
    She sat down at the