Which was what happened when women glanced at a guy. Different rules. When men did the glancing, oh, it was all right. With men, oh, that’s what they do.

Would things ever change?

But then: What if he was a real psycho? With a knife? A slasher. The man’s piercing eyes had suggested maybe he was. And there was that murder just the other day – some girl in SoHo killed in the basement.

Just like here. Hell, I’ll hold it—

Then Samantha barked a laugh.

The boot-wearer appeared. A fat old guy in a suit and string tie. A tourist from Dallas or Houston. He glanced at her once, nodded a vague greeting and walked into the men’s room.

Then she was turning back to the door of the W.

Come on, honey. Jesus. You got your slutty makeup on just right? Or are you puking up your fourth Cosmo? Samantha gripped the knob again to remind the inconsiderate occupant that there was a queue.

The handle turned.

Hell, she thought. It’d been unlocked all along. She’d probably turned it the wrong way a moment ago.

How stupid can you be? She pushed inside and swept the light on, letting the door swing shut.

And saw the man standing behind it. He wore coveralls and a stocking cap. In a flash he locked the door.

Oh, Jesusjesusjesus …

His face was burned! No, distorted, mushed under a latex hood, transparent but yellow. And rubber gloves, the same color, on his hands. On his left arm, a sliver of a red tattoo was visible between the end of the glove and the start of the sleeve. An insect, with pincers, spiny legs, but human eyes.

‘Ahhhh, no, no, no …’

She spun about fast, grabbing at the door, but he got to her first, arm around her chest. And she felt a sharp pain as he punched her neck.

Kicking, starting to scream, but he clapped a thick cloth over her mouth. The sounds were absorbed.

And then she noticed a small door across from the toilet, two by three feet or so, open onto a blackness – a tunnel or passage to an even deeper basement, below the restaurant.

‘Please!’ she muttered but the word was swallowed by the gag.

Growing limp, growing tired. Hardly afraid anymore. And she realized: the neck punch. He’d injected her with something. Before sleep took her completely Samantha felt herself being eased to the floor then dragged across it, closer and closer to the black doorway.

She sensed warmth, felt the trickle down her leg – fear and the lack of control as whatever drug he’d stuck her with took effect.

‘No,’ she whispered.

And heard a voice in her ear. ‘Yes.’ The word was drawn out for a very long time, as if it weren’t the assailant who was speaking but the insect on his arm, hissing, hissing, hissing.

CHAPTER 28

The Rule of Skin …