Whispers by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page B

frighteningly close and deep and empty, his breath foul with onions and stale beer, and he had one hand under her dress, shredding her pantyhose, trying to get his big blunt fingers under her panties and gain a grip on her sex, not a lover’s grip but a fighter’s grip, and the thought of the damage he might do to her softest tissues made her gag with horror, and she knew it was even possible to kill a woman that way, to reach up inside and claw and rip and pull, so she tried frantically to scratch his cobalt eyes and blind him, but he swiftly drew his head back, out of range, and then they both abruptly froze, for they realized simultaneously that she had not dropped the pistol when he had pulled her down onto the floor. It was wedged between them, the muzzle pressed firmly into his crotch—and although her finger was on the trigger guard instead of the trigger itself, she was able to slip it back a notch and put it in the proper place even as she became aware of the situation.
    His heavy hand was still on her pubis. An obscene thing. A leathery, demonic, disgusting hand. She could feel the heat of it even through the glove he was wearing. He was no longer clawing at her panties. Trembling. His big hand was trembling.
    The bastard’s scared .
    His eyes seemed to be fastened to hers by an invisible thread, a strong thread that would not break easily. Neither of them could look away.
    “If you make one wrong move,” she said weakly, “I’ll blow your balls off.”
    He blinked.
    “Understand?” she asked, unable to put any force in her voice. She was wheezing and breathless with exertion and, mostly, with fear.
    He licked his lips.
    Blinked slowly.
    Like a goddamned lizard.
    “Do you understand?” she demanded, putting bite into it this time.
    “Yeah.”
    “You can’t fool me again.”
    “Whatever you say.”
    His voice was deep and gruff, as before, and it did not waver. There wasn’t anything in his voice or eyes or face to betray his hard-muscled tough guy image. But his gloved hand continued to spasm nervously on the sensitive juncture of her thighs.
    “Okay,” she said. “What I want you to do is move very slowly. Very, very slowly. When I give the word, we’re going to roll over very slowly, until you’re on the bottom and I’m on the top.”
    Without being the least amused, she was aware that what she had said bore a grotesque resemblance to an eager lover’s suggestion in the middle of the sex act.
    “When I tell you to, and not a second before I tell you to, you’ll roll to your right,” she said.
    “Okay.”
    “And I’ll move with you.”
    “Sure.”
    “Nice and easy.”
    “Sure.”
    “And I’ll keep the gun where it is.”
    His eyes were still hard and cold, but the insanity and the rage had gone out of them. The thought of having his sex organs shot off had snapped him back into the real world—at least temporarily.
    She poked the barrel of the gun hard against his privates, and he grimaced with pain.
    “Now roll over easy, ” she said.
    He did exactly what she had instructed him to do, moved onto his side with exaggerated care, then onto his back, never taking his eyes from hers. He slipped his hand out from under her dress as they reversed positions, but he didn’t attempt to take the pistol from her.
    She clung to him with her left hand, the gun clenched in her right, and she went over with him, keeping the muzzle firmly in his crotch. Finally she was atop him, one arm trapped between them, the .32 automatic still strategically placed.
    Her right hand was beginning to go numb because of the awkward position, but also because she was squeezing the pistol with all of her might and was afraid to hold it any less surely. Her grip was so fierce that her fingers and the muscles up the length of her arm ached with the effort. She was worried that somehow he would sense the growing weakness in her hand—or that she would actually let go of the gun against her will as her fingers