Kiss the Girls

there, she knew. She thought about killing him. Her first and only violent fantasy. She imagined going to Wick Sachs’s house. An eye for an eye. She remembered the appropriate passage from the Book of Exodus. Eidetic memory, right.
    She really wished that Alex had stayed, but she didn’t want to embarrass him in front of Sampson. She wanted to talk to Alex the way they always did, and she wished he was with her now. She wanted to be in his arms tonight. Maybe more than just in Alex’s arms. Maybe she was ready for more.
One night at a time.
    She wasn’t sure what she believed anymore, or if she believed in anything at all. She was praying lately, so maybe she did believe. Rote prayers, but prayers all the same.
Our Father who art… Hail Mary full of…
She wondered if a lot of people did the same thing. “I do love the idea of you, God,” she finally whispered. “Please love the idea of me back.”
    She couldn’t stop obsessing about Casanova, about Dr. Wick Sachs, about the mysterious, disappearing house of horror, and the poor women still trapped there. But she was so used to the continuous, terrifying nightmares that she finally drifted off to sleep, anyway.
    Kate never heard him come into the house.

Chapter 93

    T ICK-COCK.
Tick-cock.
    Tickory, dickory, cock.
    Kate finally heard a noise. A floorboard creaked on the right side of the bedroom.
    Tiny, tiny sound… but unmistakable.
    That wasn’t her imagination, wasn’t a dream. She sensed that he was there in her bedroom again.
    Let it be a crazy thought; let it be a scene in a nightmare; let this whole past month be a nightmare I’m having.
    Oh Jesus, oh God, no!
she thought.
    He was in her room. He’d come back! This was so bad that she couldn’t make herself believe it was happening.
    Kate held her breath until her chest ached and threatened to cave in. She never
really
believed he would come back.
    Now she realized that was a terrible mistake. The worst of her life, but not the last one she was allowed, she hoped.
    Who was this extraordinary madman? Did he hate her so much that he would risk everything? Or did he think he loved her so much, the sick, pathetic bastard?
    She sat tensely on the edge of the bed and listened intently for another sound. She was ready to spring at him. There it was again…
a tiny creak.
It was coming from the right side of the room.
    Finally, she could see the full, dark silhouette of his body. She gulped air greedily and almost gagged.
    There he was, goddamn him to hell.
    A powerful, hateful energy, like currents of electricity, surged between them. Their eyes finally met. Even in the darkness his eyes seemed to burn through her. She remembered his eyes so well.
    Kate tried to roll away from him, from his first strike.
    The blow came fast and hard. He hadn’t lost his quickness. Excruciating pain ripped through her shoulder and down her left side.
    Karate training kept her moving somehow. Sheer stubbornness. A will to live that was becoming her trademark. She was off the bed. Up on her feet. Ready for him.
    “Mistake,” she whispered. “Yours, this time.”
    She saw the outline of a body again. This time against the moonlight streaming in a bedroom window. Fear and loathing gripped Kate. Her heart felt as if it might stop, just pack it in on her.
    She fired a powerful kick. Hit him hard in the face and heard the
crunch
of bone. It was horrifying yet wonderful to hear.
    A high-pitched voice shrieked out in pain. She’d hurt him!
    Now do it again, Kate.
She bobbed, moved, kicked hard at the dark, shifting body, striking the stomach area. Again he grunted in pain.
    “How do you like it?” Kate screamed at him. “How do
you
like it?”
    She had him, and Kate vowed that she wasn’t going to lose this time. She was going to capture Casanova all by herself. He was ripe for the catching. First, she was going to hurt him, though.
    She punched him again. Short, compact, lightning fast, and powerful. Satisfying beyond anything she could imagine. He was staggering, moaning out loud.
    His head snapped back hard. His hair flew out. She wanted him
down
on the floor. Maybe unconscious. Then she would turn on a light. Then she just might kick him while he was down.
    “That was a love tap,” she told him. “Just a start.”
    She watched him stumble in front of her. He was going down.
    Woof—something, someone,
struck her square in the back. The blow knocked all the breath out of her.
    She couldn’t believe she’d been