Whispers Read Online Free PDF Page B

behind her and turned.
    A man came out of the foyer closet, knocking a coat off a hanger as he shouldered out of that confining space, throwing the door back against the wall with a loud bang! He was about forty years old, a tall man wearing dark slacks and a tight yellow pullover sweater—and leather gloves. He had the kind of big, hard muscles that could be gotten only from years of weightlifting; even his wrists, between the cuffs of the sweater and the gloves, were thick and sinewy. He stopped ten feet from her and grinned broadly, nodded, licked his thin lips.
    She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his sudden appearance. He wasn’t an ordinary intruder, not a total stranger, not some punk kid or some shabby degenerate with a drug-blur in his eyes. Although he didn’t belong here, she knew him, and he was just about the last man she would expect to encounter in a situation of this sort. Seeing gentle little Wally Topelis come out of that closet was the only thing that could have shocked her more than this. She was less frightened than confused. She had met him three weeks ago, while doing research for a screenplay set in the wine country of Northern California, a project meant to take her mind off Wally’s marketing of The Hour of the Wolf , which she had finished about that time. He was an important and successful man up there in the Napa Valley. But that didn’t explain what the hell he was doing in her house, hiding in her closet.
    “Mr. Frye,” she said uneasily.
    “Hello, Hilary.” He had a deep, somewhat gravelly voice which seemed reassuring and fatherly when she had taken an extensive private tour of his winery near St. Helena, but which now sounded coarse, mean, threatening.
    She cleared her throat nervously. “What are you doing here?”
    “Come to see you.”
    “Why?”
    “Just had to see you again.”
    “About what?”
    He was still grinning. He had a tense, predatory look. His was the smile of the wolf just before it closed hungry jaws on the cornered rabbit.
    “How did you get in?” she demanded.
    “Pretty.”
    “What?”
    “So pretty.”
    “Stop it.”
    “Been looking for one like you.”
    “You’re scaring me.”
    “You’re a real pretty one.”
    He took a step toward her.
    She knew then, beyond doubt, what he wanted. But it was crazy, unthinkable. Why would a wealthy man of his high social position travel hundreds of miles to risk his fortune, reputation, and freedom for one brief violent moment of forced sex?
    He took another step.
    She backed away from him.
    Rape. It made no sense. Unless. . . . If he intended to kill her afterwards, he would not be taking much of a risk at all. He was wearing gloves. He would leave no prints, no clues. And no one would believe that a prominent and highly-respected vintner from St. Helena would drive all the way to Los Angeles to rape and murder. Even if some would believe it, they’d have no reason to think of him in the first place. The homicide investigation would never move in his direction.
    He kept coming. Slowly. Relentlessly. Heavy steps. Enjoying the suspense. Grinning more than ever as he saw comprehension enter her eyes.
    She backed past the huge stone fireplace, briefly considered grabbing one of the heavy brass implements on the hearth, but realized that she would not be quick enough to defend herself with it. He was a powerful, athletic man in excellent physical condition; he would be all over her before she could seize the poker and swing it at his damned thick skull.
    He flexed his big hands. The knuckles strained at the snug-fitting leather.
    She backed past a grouping of furniture—two chairs, a coffee table, a long sofa. She started moving toward her right, trying to put the sofa between her and Frye.
    “Such pretty hair,” he said.
    A part of her wondered if she were losing her mind. This could not be the Bruno Frye she had met in St. Helena. There had been not even the slightest hint of the madness that now contorted