He advanced upon Quade, his head lowered, the long skinning-knife gleaming in his hand.
John Aldous knew that words would avail nothing in these last few minutes between him and Quade.

The latter had already hunched himself forward, the red knife in his hand poised at his waistline.

He was terrible.

His huge bulk, his red face and bull neck, his eyes popping from behind their fleshy lids, and the dripping blade in the shapeless hulk of his hand gave him the appearance as he stood there of some monstrous gargoyle instead of a thing of flesh and blood.

And Aldous was terrible to look at, but in a way that wrung a moaning cry from Joanne.