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lage. His hand had actually been pulverized, twisted and mutilated into something unrecognizable. Near tears, she got up and went to the phone. Regardless of what he said, she was going to call for help. She picked up the receiver. It was dead. She went to the window and stared down into the icy, deserted streets. It was a world of white on white, barren, ice-coated and hostile. Covered with a thick coating of ice, the broken telephone line was dangling from the pole outside of Rosemary's apartment. She slammed the receiver down and headed for the door leading out to the second floor landing. She twisted the knob and heard it click, but it wouldn't open. Then she saw the nails. Nails had been hammered through the door and into the casing from the inside. She raced back into the kitchen and glared down at the little fat man. |
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"What the hell's goin' on here?" |
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Harvey stared back at her, his eyes glazed. |
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"That pounding sound was you, wasn't it?" |
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He continued to stare at her, his fat, round face void of expression. |
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"For Christ's sake, Harvey, you're gonna bleed to death. We gotta get you outta here." |
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"We can't," he said stubbornly. |
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"Why the hell not?" she screamed. |
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"Because . . . because they're looking for me." |
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