Michael Prescott: Blind Pursuit

Only once he was under the carport roof, concealed from any likely observer, did he again feel safe.

Fumbling the key ring out of his pocket, he unlocked the trunk and popped the lid. Gently he deposited her inside, placing her on her back.

From a utility pouch clipped to his belt, he removed cut lengths of rope. Bound her ankles first, then her wrists. To further restrict her movements, he lashed her wrists to her right thigh.

Good. Very good.

A roll of heavy electrician’s tape was also among the contents of the pouch. He tore off a six-inch strip and prepared to seal her mouth. Hesitated, studying her face. His first opportunity to look at her, really look at her, up close, in the flesh.

Dangerous to indulge himself like this, under these circumstances. Still, he could not turn away. She held him fascinated.

Of the women he had taken, she was by far the most beautiful. By far.

He admired her as a connoisseur of art would admire a fine painting, attentive to every detail. It was an undiluted pleasure to study her lovely face as minutely as he liked, with no risk that she would return his gaze or challenge his absolute control.

She was thirty years old, balanced at that delicate equilibrium point between youthfulness and full maturity. Her skin was smooth, powdered with faint freckles; a light suntan endowed her with a pink, scrubbed look, wholesome somehow. Offsetting these girlish features were her strong cheekbones and blunt jaw, which gave her face a squarish shape, and her wide, serious mouth, not a child’s mouth at all.

Her auburn hair, combed away from her forehead, shone even in the carport’s wan fluorescence. A stray lock lay along her temple like a spiral of sewing thread, reddish-gold.

Peeling back her eyelids, he stared into gray eyes, smoky and mysterious.

He parted the flaps of her robe. Removed one of his gloves so he could stroke her white pajama top, feel its softness. Satin.

The clean lines of her neck, the bare skin stretched taut over her thin collarbones, the scatter of reddish freckles on the margin of her cleavage, cupped in the buttoned neckband…

He reached for the top button, wanting to see her breasts…

No.

He jerked his hand away as if slapped.

His mouth twisted. A noise that was both grunt and gasp hiccupped out of him. Its echo hopped like a frog among the metal stanchions of the carports.

Dirty. Unclean. Corrupt.

Quickly he taped her mouth, then clawed a blindfold out of his pants pocket and snugged it over her eyes, knotting it in the back of her head.

Helpless now. Deprived of mobility, speech, sight. She was a free agent no longer. She was his.

Erin Reilly was his.

The Ford’s trunk thumped shut like a coffin lid.

Her keys gave him access to her apartment. Strange to be here, in another person’s living space, and in a home so different from his.

No dull glaze of dust on the tables and fixtures. No soiled spots in the carpet, long ignored and now permanently set. No brittle carapaces of dead insects lining the baseboards, shiny in the lamplight.

His own apartment was a ground-floor unit, cramped and airless, the windows staring blankly at the stucco wall of the building next door. Erin Reilly’s place conveyed a sense of openness and freedom, with its views of the city and mountains, its promise of light and air, its immaculate floors and whitewashed walls, its silent testimony to the serenity of a well-ordered life.

He almost hated Erin for having all of this around her-and then he remembered that she would have it no longer.

In the bedroom closet he found a set of three valises, small, medium, and large. He chose the medium-size suitcase. Opened it, then began pulling random clothes off hangers and stuffing them inside.

No. Random was wrong. He forced himself to concentrate on selecting items that went together as outfits. It must look as if she had done the packing.

What else? Footwear. He tossed in a pair of fringed western boots.

Undergarments. They were neatly folded in a bureau drawer.

Toilet articles. In the bathroom he collected them. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Shampoo. Deodorant. Comb. Hairbrush. Other things, including some feminine products he’d never seen before and couldn’t identify.

Stationery. His gloved hands rifled the drawers of a mahogany desk in the den. He found a bundle of pale olive envelopes and matching sheets of writing paper that bore her letterhead.

The suitcase was bulging when he zipped it shut.

As he toted it to the front door, worry nagged him. He was certain he was forgetting something.

Of course.

Slung over a chair in the dining room was her purse. He rummaged through it, taking inventory of its contents.

Wallet, thick with credit cards and currency.

Compact. Lipstick. Eyeliner.

Appointment book.

Spiral-bound memo pad and pen.

Bottle of pills, nearly empty-birth-control, he assumed without reading the label.

Miscellaneous other items, none of significance.

He pocketed the cash, then shrugged the purse’s strap over his shoulder.

Leaving her apartment, he turned off the lights. It was something she would do.

He avoided the elevator, afraid of encountering one of the tenants, took the stairs instead. The suitcase felt heavier at each landing, heavier still as he lugged it outside.

The parking lot remained empty of people. He put the suitcase in the Ford’s backseat, then opened the trunk.

Erin was beginning to stir as the effects of the stun gun wore off. It was preferable to keep her unconscious as long as possible.

He took out the Ultron, pressed the switch. Lightning flickered between the two electrodes in a blue crackling arc, the noise too faint to be heard from the building.

He shoved the gun into her chest, held it there for a full five seconds.

She was twitching again as he withdrew the gun. Briefly he worried that with her mouth taped, she might choke on saliva.

Oh, nonsense. She would be fine.

He climbed behind the wheel, adjusted the driver’s seat to fit his longer frame, then started the car.

Out of the parking lot. Two blocks east on Broadway. Then onto a residential side street, an older subdivision of tract homes, ranch-style brick houses landscaped in cactus and yuccas.

The moon had set. Stars burned pinholes in the sky. A false dawn, the russet glow of the city’s ambient light, faintly brightened the horizon.

He slowed the Taurus and parked at the curb behind a gray Chevy van.

His van.

It was a 1988 Chevrolet Astro, a cargo model with bucket seats up front and no seating accommodations in back. He’d bought the vehicle used; the previous owner had logged nearly 100,000 miles on the odometer while putting dents in the fenders and side. The price had been reasonable.

The Astro had come equipped with an optional heavy-duty towing package that permitted it to haul up to six thousand pounds. That feature, which had made it possible for him to hitch a U-Haul trailer to the van not long ago, would now come in handy again.

Quickly he hooked the van’s towing bar to the Ford’s front end, stringing safety chains on either side. He keyed the Ford’s ignition to the “accessory” position, shifted the transmission into neutral, checked to confirm that the parking brake was released.

Somebody’s dog began to bark. The racket might draw attention to the street. Better hurry.

The Astro had both a sliding side panel and dual rear doors. He opened the latter and looked in on the windowless, uncarpeted cargo compartment, empty except for a small huddle of items draped by a tarpaulin. Under the tarp were two red canisters, a coil of rope, a mallet, and a pair of metal stakes.