Off Season - Jack Ketchum [73]
The man ducked a blow and stepped backward and reached into his pocket, smiling. He pulled out the knife.
It was not even open yet, but to Marjie, seeing the knife in his hand was like seeing a snake coiled to strike. She froze. Instantly a wave of exhaustion swept through her body, nearly toppling her against him. She felt dizzy and miserably, shamefully weak.
She backed slowly away. “No,” she said. “Please, whatever you want. Anything. I’m sorry. I swear it. Please, whatever you want. Please.”
He advanced on her. She could not tell what he was thinking or what he would do. She could not take her eyes off the knife. She felt the wall of the cave at her back again. He walked toward her. He still had not opened the knife . . .
The man was not really angry. It amused him that she had tried to fight. All the same, he would have to show her, show all of them. He was not to be laughed at. He moved close to her and tapped her on the head with the heavy handle of the knife. He tapped her lightly but it would hurt. He laughed. He would have fun with her awhile. He tapped her again on the top of her head.
He tossed the knife from one hand to the other and back again, to confuse her, so she would not know where the blow was coming from. Then he hit her hard on the ear—where she had hit him, of course—and heard her cry out, and saw the trickle of blood roll down the side of her neck.
He pushed her back against the wall and held the knife in front of her face as he opened it. He opened it slowly, giving her fear time to grow. He watched with pleasure as terror transformed her face and made her soft to him. He turned the bloodstained blade delicately in his hand, only inches from her soft white cheek.
He wondered if he should cut her now . . .
She wanted to speak to him, to calm him, but it was impossible for her. Her voice was gone in what felt like a high wind, a continual struggle for breath. Her body shivered uncontrollably. He held the knife between two fingers and pointed it at her. He moved it up to a level directly between her eyes and then began to move it slowly forward. She pressed her head back to the wall and watched with an irresistible fascination as the blade advanced on her. Oh, please, please, she wanted to say, but only closed her eyes as the point of the blade touched the bridge of her nose and then suddenly withdrew, sliding a terrible thin line of fiery pain across her forehead.
Then he was staring down at her body, his smile vanished, his face dark and serious. His hands went to her shirt, and in a single motion that jolted her back against the wall he tore it open. Beneath the shirt her breasts were naked. She wiped the blood from her eyes and looked down and saw that the tip of his knife was only inches from her stomach, moving forward in the same, slow glide as before.
She stared up into the darkness. If she had to die this way, she didn’t want to see it. When it came she did not want to watch and know, the way Laura had known, that the life was pouring out of her. She braced herself against the wall. She felt the cold tip of the knife press against her lightly, just above the navel.
She withdrew, moving back as close as possible to the wall until there was nowhere left to go and she had to suck in her stomach when she felt it again, and still the blade advanced, pressing forward. She felt her flesh retreat and tighten against the slow, even pressure, the growing ache, and then the sudden shock of agony as the tip of the knife invaded her soft flesh. In the cool air of the cave her body felt moist and she knew she was bleeding. The knife stopped but did not withdraw, and her flesh closed over it.
She could hardly