The Face of Fear Read Free Page A

left?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’d like to have some.”
    “I’ll get it for you.”
    “I’ll get it myself,” he said. “But first I’ve got to take you into the bedroom and tie you up. Now, now. Don’t be scared. If I didn’t tie you up, sooner or later you’d try to escape. If you tried to escape, I’d have to kill you. So, you see, I’m going to tie you up for your own good, so that you won’t make it necessary for me to hurt you.”
    Still holding the knife at her throat, he kissed her. Her lips were cold and stiff.
    “Please don’t,” she said.
    “Relax and enjoy yourself, Edna.” He untied the sash at her waist. The robe fell open. Under it, she was naked. He gently squeezed her breasts. “If you cooperate you’ll come out of this just fine. And you’ll have a lot of fun. I’m not going to kill you unless you force me to it. I’m no butcher, Edna. Me ... I’m nothing but your ordinary, everyday rapist.”

2
    Graham Harris sensed that there was trouble coming. He shifted in his chair but could not get comfortable. He glanced at the three television cameras and suddenly felt as if he were surrounded by intelligent and hostile robots. He almost laughed at that bizarre image ; the tension made him slightly giddy.
    “Nervous?” Anthony Prine asked.
    “A little.”
    “No need to be.”
    “Maybe not while the commercials are running, but—”
    “Not when we’re back on the air again, either,” Prine said. “You’ve handled yourself well so far.” Although he was as American as Harris, Prine managed to look like the stereotypical British gentleman: sophisticated, rather jaded yet just a bit stuffy, completely relaxed, a model of self-confidence. He was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair, an exact copy of the chair in which Graham had suddenly found himself so uncomfortable. “You’re a most interesting guest, Mr. Harris.”
    “Thank you. You’re interesting yourself. I don’t see how you can keep your wits about you. I mean, doing this much live television, five nights a week—”
    “But the fact that it’s live is what makes it so exciting,” Prine said. “Being on the air live, risking all, taking a chance of making a fool of yourself—that keeps the juices flowing. That’s why I hesitate to accept one of these offers to syndicate the show or to go network with it. They’d want it on tape, all neatly edited down from two hours to ninety minutes. And that wouldn’t be the same.”
    The program director, a heavyset man in a white turtleneck sweater and houndstooth-check slacks, said, “Twenty seconds, Tony.”
    “Relax,” Prine told Harris. “You’ll be off in fifteen more minutes.”
    Harris nodded. Prine seemed friendly—yet he could not shake the feeling that the night was going to go sour for him, and soon.
    Anthony Prine was the host of Manhattan at Midnight, an informal two-hour-long interview program that originated from a local New York City station. Manhattan at Midnight provided the same sort of entertainment to be found on all other talk shows—actors and actresses plugging their latest movies, authors plugging their latest books, musicians plugging their latest records, politicians plugging their latest campaigns (as yet unannounced campaigns and thus unfettered by the equal-time provisions of the election laws)—except that it presented a greater number of mind readers and psychics and UFO “experts” than did most talk shows. Prine was a Believer. He was also damned good at his job, so good there were rumors ABC wanted to pick him up for a nationwide audience. He was not so witty as Johnny Carson or so homey as Mike Douglas, but no one asked better or more probing questions than he did. Most of the time he was serene, in lazy command of his show; and when things were going well, he looked somewhat like a slimmed-down Santa Claus: completely white hair, a round face and merry blue eyes. He appeared to be incapable of rudeness. However, there were