Barbara Michaels - Shattered Silk

"No. No, I won't."

"You stupid little twit, this is for your own good. Would you rather be hit over the head and stuffed in the trunk of the car?"

Karen shook her head.

"God, you're slow," Shreve said contemptuously. "Do I have to spell it out for you? We are going back to your place and you are going to give me the dress. I'm not driving all that way with you sitting beside me, looking for a chance to jump out."

"I can't give you the dress," Karen said. "I threw it away."

"Sure you did. Drink this. Oh-you think I'm trying to poison you, is that it? Here…" She took a sip, then held the glass out again. "Drink."

There did not seem to be much choice. I can't do anything if I'm lying unconscious in the trunk, Karen thought. But as she choked the liquor down she felt the effects almost instantly. She had eaten practically nothing all day, and the frantic pounding of her heart sent the alcohol racing through her bloodstream. When she rose to her feet, prodded by the gun, she staggered and almost fell.

Her car was still in front, where she had left it. "Keys," Shreve said curtly. After watching Karen fumble in her purse she snatched it and found the keys before she tossed the purse into the car.

Karen got in the passenger seat as directed. Her head was spinning, but she knew there would be a moment, after Shreve shut the door and went around to the driver's side, when she might have an opportunity to make a break for it. There was another set of car keys in her purse. She always carried two sets in case she locked one in the car.

It was a desperate, almost hopeless risk, but she had to take it. There was a far-out chance that Cheryl had not thrown the dress in the trash; Cheryl was always trying to salvage things. But if she had done so, the dress was gone. The weekly trash pick-up had taken place that morning.

Anyway, Karen didn't believe Shreve's assurance that she would be released unharmed. Why should a multiple killer balk at murder number four? Compared to the others, this would be easy. Suicide, while in a state of depression following the break-up of her marriage, with a gun registered to her uncle-a gun that, so far as anyone knew, had never left the house. It would be said that she had arranged the false telephone call to get Cheryl out of the house-that she had played most of the tricks on herself or invented them, further evidence of a mental and emotional breakdown. Cheryl wouldn't believe it; but everyone else would. Even Tony. He had insisted all along that there was no connection between the harmless nocturnal visits and the violent incidents. And Mark…

She didn't dare think about Mark. Shreve must have had an accomplice. She could not have done everything alone…

Karen had worked most of it out while she walked to the car and fumbled for the keys, delaying as long as she could. But she had barely settled herself on the seat, one hand already reaching for the catch that would lock the doors, when Shreve raised the gun and brought the barrel down against her temple. She felt her forehead strike the dashboard and felt nothing more.

KAREN was not completely unconscious for long, but the state that followed her dazed recovery could not really be called consciousness. It was a nightmarish succession of isolated, incoherent memories separated by periods of dizzying darkness. Once or twice she must have tried to sit up, for she felt a hand shove her back into the corner of the seat. The motion of the car was erratic, sometimes smooth, sometimes jerking forward and then stopping. Traffic is always backed up on the bridge this time of day. The sentence floated to the surface of her mind, and her body tried to respond to the possibilities it suggested, but then something pushed her again, so hard that her bruised temple banged against the window glass and she lost track of things again.

The worst moment was when she heard voices, or thought she heard them; she never knew whether the incident really happened. "Your friend doesn't look so good, ma'am." A deep man's voice, that one, and Shreve's, replying smoothly, "I'm afraid she has had a little too much to drink, officer. I couldn't let her drive in her condition." Then something about a hospital, and Shreve's little laugh. "She'll be fine once I get her home and in bed." The hand again, covering her mouth and holding her in place with hurting strength. "Oh, darling, don't be sick here. I'll have you home in a jiffy. Officer, if you don't mind…"

She didn't remember being sick, but there was a sour taste in her mouth when she finally woke, and her head was beating like a tom-tom. Shreve was slapping her face, rhythmically and efficiently.

"Stop it," Karen croaked, raising a feeble hand to protect herself.

"Then sit up and take notice. You'll have to walk a few feet. I'll be damned if I'm going to carry you."

She dragged Karen out of the car and draped a limp arm over her shoulders. Cool wetness stroked Karen's cheeks. "It's raining," she mumbled.

"Pouring, in fact. Filthy driving weather. I hope your little friend is enjoying herself on those back-country roads."

They negotiated the gate and started up the walk. The bricks were uneven and slippery with rain; the boxwood bushes on either side glistened as if varnished. Karen's foot slipped. Instead of trying to recover her balance she let herself fall heavily to her hands and knees. Already her hair was soaked, but the cool water on her aching head cleared some of the cobwebs away. If she could just stay where she was, head bowed, for a few minutes, she might be able to think. One last chance, when Shreve opened the door, her attention concentrated on the stiff lock… And there was Alexander. Darling little Alexander. How could she have resented Alexander's wonderful habit of biting everyone who came in the door? Please, Alexander, do your stuff.

Shreve didn't give her a few minutes. She yanked Karen to her feet and shoved her toward the house. "Take the key. Unlock the door."

Karen dropped the keys. The gun jabbed painfully into her side. "Pick them up. And don't try that again."

She didn't have to make the threat explicit. In the gloom and the driving rain, half-hidden by shrubs, anything she chose to do would be unobserved from the street or the neighboring windows. Another chance gone. If only Alexander…

But when Karen opened the door there was no sign of the dog. Or of anyone else. She fell again, her wet shoes slipping on the smooth, polished floor of the hall. Shreve pushed her inside. The door slammed; the key turned in the lock, and a switch clicked. The chandelier overhead blazed into light so brilliant it cast shadows across the floor. A squat, huddled shadow and a longer one standing over the first: the shadows of killer and victim.

"Crawl if you prefer," Shreve said. "The position suits you. Where is it, upstairs?"

"I told you-"

Shreve's foot caught her in the ribs and toppled her onto her side. The light beat down, plunging fiery fingers into her eyes. Karen covered them with her hands and heard Shreve's brittle laugh.

"I'm beginning to enjoy this," Shreve said.

All right, Karen thought. That does it.

Physically she still felt as wretched as a sick dog, but the surge of anger brought a strange unnatural strength to her limbs. It couldn't last, but while it did she had better take advantage of it.

What could she tell Shreve, where could she take her that might offer a chance of escape? Not upstairs. Not any farther from the doors, front and back. Her strength was no match for Shreve's now, she wouldn't stand a chance in a hand-to-hand struggle, even if she got an opportunity to grapple for the gun. Get out of the house-that was her only hope. Once outside, she'd be safe. It was only on television that the bad guys stood out on the street blazing away at the fleeing hero.