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'Strip,' he said. He snatched the clump of black nightgown off the floor and tossed it to Lynn. 'Put it on.' |
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As she caught the gown, John saw the look in Cassy's eyes. She seemed to understand what he had in mind. And to understand that there was only one black nightgown, and he'd given it to his wife. She looked like a kid who hadn't been picked for a game, and was trying not to show her letdown. |
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She flinched at the sound of a gunshot. This blast had a hard, flat sound. Not the shotgun. A revolver. |
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'Get your clothes off,' John told her. |
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In the wake of the blasts, John heard screams and shouts and wailing and giggles. Sounds of a madhouse where slaughter was in full swing. |
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Dropping to his knees, he cut through the belt that bound the teenaged boy's hands together. The kid started to fight him. John slashed his throat. Clamping the knife between his teeth, he tugged off the boy's wet T-shirt. It had been all black a moment ago. Now the black was mixed with red. He threw the shirt to Cassy. |
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She looked stunned by what he'd done. But she pulled the shirt over her head. It came down halfway to her knees. |
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Lynn already wore the nightgown. |
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Both women looked sickly pale where they weren't covered by the garments. |
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'Come here,' he snapped. 'Quick.' |
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They rushed up close to him. |
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