"Go upstairs and lie down," he said.
"I'm going out," she said.
He shook his head. "No," he said. "Not when you're talking like this. Go upstairs and rest."
She came down a step. "I'm not going to stay here to be-'
"You're not going out," he said. "Now go up and rest. When you've calmed down we'll-try to talk sensibly."
She looked at him standing there with his hands to the wall and the banister, looked at her coat on the chair-and turned and went quickly up the stairs. She went into the bedroom and closed the door; turned the key, switched on the lights.
She went to the dresser, pulled a drawer open, and got out a bulky white sweater; shook it unfolded and thrust her arms in and sleeved them. She pulled the turtleneck down over her head and gathered her hair and drew it free. The door was tried, tapped on.
"Joanna?"
"Scram," she said, pulling the sweater down around her. "I'm resting. You told me to rest."
"Let me in for a minute."
She stood watching the door, said nothing.
"Joanna, unlock the door."
"Later," she said. "I want to be alone for a while."
She stood without moving, watching the door.
"All right. Later."
She stood and listened-to silence-and turned to the dresser and eased the top drawer open. She searched in it and found a pair of white gloves. She wriggled a hand into one and the other, and pulled out a long striped scarf and looped it around her neck.
She went to the door and listened, and switched the lights off.
She went to the window and raised the shade. The walk light shone. The Claybrooks' living room was lighted but empty; their upstairs windows were dark.
She raised the window sash quietly. The storm window stood behind it.
She'd forgot about the damn storm window.
She pushed at its bottom. It was tight, wouldn't budge. She hit at it with the side of her gloved fist, and pushed again with both hands.
It gave, swinging outward a few inches-and would swing no farther. Small metal arms at its sides reached open to their fullest. She would have to unclamp them from the window frame.
Light fanned out on the snow below.
He was in the den.
She stood straight and listened; a tiny-toothed chittering came from behind her, from the phone on the night table; came again and again, long, short, long.
He was dialing the den phone.
Calling Dale Coba to tell him she was there. Proceed with plans. All systems go.
She tiptoed slowly to the door, listened, and turned the key back and eased the door open, a hand held against it. Pete's Star Trek gun lay by the threshold of his room. Walter's voice burred faintly.
She tiptoed to the stairs and started slowly, quietly down, pressing close to the wall, looking down through the banister supports at the comer of the den doorway.
"'… not sure I can handle her myself…"
You're goddamn right you can't, counselor.
But the chair by the front door was empty, her coat and handbag (car keys, wallet) gone.
Still, this was better than going through the window.
She made it down to the hall. He talked, and was quiet. Look for the handbag?
He moved in the den and she ducked into the living room, stood at the wall, her back pressing tight.
His footsteps came into the hall, came near the doorway, stopped.
She held her breath.
A string of short hisses-his usual let's-see-now sound before tackling major projects; putting up storm windows, assembling a tricycle. (Killing a wife? Or did Coba the hunter perform that service?) She closed her eyes and tried not to think, afraid her thoughts would somehow beckon him.
His footsteps went up the stairs, slowly.
She opened her eyes and freed her breath bit by bit, waiting as he went higher.
She hurried quietly across the living room, around chairs, the lamp table; unlocked the door to the patio and opened it, unlocked the storm door and pushed it against a base of drifted snow.
She squeezed herself out and ran over snow, ran and ran with her heart pounding; ran toward dark tree trunks over snow that was sled-tracked, Pete-and-Kim-bootmarked; ran, ran, and clutched a trunk and swung around it and rushed-stumbled-groped through tree trunks, tree trunks. She rushed, stumbled, groped, keeping to the center of the long belt of trees that separated the houses on Fairview from the houses on Harvest.
SHE HAD TO GET TO RUTHanne's. Ruthanne would lend her money and a coat, let her call an Eastbridge taxi or someone in the city-Shep, Doris, Andreas-someone with a car who would come pick her up.
Pete and Kim would be all right; she had to believe that. They'd be all right till she got to the city and spoke to people, spoke to a lawyer, got them back from Walter. They were probably being cared for beautifully by Bobbie or Carol or Mary Ann Stavros-by the things that were called by those names, that is.
And Ruthanne had to be warned. Maybe they could go together-though Ruthanne had time yet.
She came to the end of the belt of trees, made sure no cars were coming, and ran across Winter Hill Drive. Snowpillowed spruce trees lined the far side of it; she hurried along behind them, her arms folded across her chest, her hands in their thin gloves burrowed in her armpits.
Gwendolyn Lane, where Ruthanne lived, was somewhere near Short Ridge Hill, out past Bobbie's; getting there would take almost an hour. More, probably, with the snow on the ground and the darkness. And she didn't dare hitchhike because any car could be Walter, and she wouldn't know till too late.
Not only Walter, she realized suddenly. They would all be out looking for her, cruising the roads with flashlights, spotlights. How could they let her get away and tell? Every man was a threat, every car a danger. She would have to make sure Ruthanne's husband wasn't there before she rang the bell; look through the windows.
Oh God, could she get away? None of the others had.