He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. She looked at him as he fingered a small switch on the side of the helicopter’s door. Both of them. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel.
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