Shattered

Spanish sofa, sat down with her. He looked around the room and nodded, smiled. “It's nice. I'll like it here.”
        “George? What-”
        Still gripping her arm in one hand, he touched her face, traced the delicate line of her jaw. “You're so lovely,” he said.
        “George, why are you here?” She was somewhat afraid, though not quite terrified. His appearance did not make any sense, but it was no reason for her to go to pieces.
        He let his hand slide along her throat, felt her pulse with his fingertips, then dropped the hand and cupped one of her heavy, unrestrained breasts. “Just as lovely as ever,” he said.
        “Please. Don't touch me like that,” she said. She tried to pull away from him.
        He held her tightly, and his free hand fondled her. He caressed the other breast now. “You said that you'd let me touch you again.
        “What do you mean?” His fingers were digging into her arm so deeply that shooting pains exploded in her shoulder.
        “You said I could make love to you again.” His voice was low and dreamy. “Like before.”
        “No. I never said that.”
        “Yes, Courtney. You did.”
        She looked into his dark-ringed, bloodshot eyes, into the vaguely unfocused blue circles, and for the first time in her life she experienced the fear which belonged solely to women. She knew he might try to rape her. And she knew that even as gaunt as he was, he would be strong enough to do it… But wasn't it ridiculous to fear him this way? Hadn't she been to bed with him dozens of times in the past, before he had started to change? What was there to fear, then? But she knew. It was not the sex that she feared. It was the force involved, the violent potential, the humiliation and the sense of being used . She did not know how he had gotten here or how he had learned their address. She did not know his circumstances or full intentions. But none of that mattered worth a damn. All that mattered right now was whether or not he would rape her. She felt weak, helpless, and oppressed. She was cold and hollow inside, trembling at the prospect of having to accept his forced attentions.
        “You better not stay here any longer,” she said, despising herself for the tremor in her voice. “Alex will be here in a few minutes.”
        Leland smiled. “Well, of course he will. I know that.”
        She could not figure out what he wanted, what he thought he could achieve beyond the brief, vicious taking of her. “Then why are you here?”
        “We talked about that before.”
        “No. No, we did not.”
        “Sure, Courtney. You remember. In the van, we talked. On the way here. You and me. We've talked about it for several days now - how we could take care of them and then be together again.”
        She was no longer merely frightened. She was terrified. Finally he had gone over the edge. Whatever was wrong with him-some physical illness or a psychological disease it had at last pushed him beyond sanity. “George, you've got to listen. Are you listening to me?”
        “Sure, Courtney. I like your voice.”
        She shuddered involuntarily. “George, you are not well. Whatever has been wrong with you for the past two years-”
        The smile faded from his face as he interrupted her. “I'm perfectly healthy. Why do you always insist I'm not?”
        “Did you ever have those X-rays that the doctor-”
        “Shut up!” he said. “I don't want to talk about it.”
        “George, if you're sick, maybe there's still something-”
        She saw the blow coming, but she could not pull away from it in time. His big cal- I loused hand struck her hard alongside the head. Her teeth rattled. She thought that was an almost funny sound…
        But then the darkness rushed up at her, and she knew that she was going to faint Unconscious, she would be even more help' less. And she realized, suddenly, that rape might be the least of her worries. He might not rape her at all. He might kill her.
        She cried out, or thought that she did, and then she fell away into an inky pool.
        
        Leland went out to the van and got the.32-caliber pistol which he had forgotten to bring with him the first time. He came back into the living room and stood by the sofa, looking down at her, admiring her golden hair and her freckles, the exquisite lines of her face.
        Why couldn't she have been nice to him? All the way across the