Michael Prescott - Blind Pursuit

Panic struck her like a fist. All breath and heat left her body in a rush, and abruptly she was winded and clammy and more afraid than she had been in her life, more afraid than she had been as a small child in a blazing house, more afraid than she had been in the rear compartment of the van last night.

In her mind she could hear it-the crackle of flame, the hiss of steam, the slow crisping and peeling of her own flesh.

No. No. No.

Had to stop him. Had to.

Her one hope was to communicate, find a way to make contact, get in touch with the nascent conscience deep within him that understood remorse.

But she couldn’t speak. Something was wedged in her mouth, a scrap of cloth, secured with another strip of fabric wound around her head.

The noise she made was a whimper, a beaten-dog sound.

“Awake, Doc?” He swung the mallet again, and the stake descended another half inch. “Good.”

She whipped her head from side to side, fighting to loosen the gag. Words, eloquent words, words that could save her life, bumped up against the wadded obstruction between her teeth and died there unexpressed.

The gag would not come free. He had knotted it tight.

Don’t let him do this, make him change his mind, I’m scared, oh, Jesus Christ, I’m so scared…

He put down the mallet, stood up slowly. The moon had set, and only strong starlight illuminated his face. She saw a smoky suggestion of a flat nose and receding chin. His big hands flexed at his sides.

“You’ve been a bad girl, Doc. I’m extremely disappointed in you.”

Her choked groan was the feeble protest of an animal in a trap.

Flashback: the bedroom of her parents’ house, Annie shrieking, smoke everywhere, red glow in the stairwell, and the pungent smell of gasoline She would smell it again when he soaked her in gas.

Not fire. Anything else, the gun, a knife, a noose-but not fire, not fire!

He crouched near her. Laced his fingers in her hair. His touch was tender, but the expression on his face was a twisted caricature of self-torture, a ham actor’s exaggerated display. Eyes narrowed in a painful squint. Lower lip thrust out like a pouting child’s. Stripes of wetness banding his cheeks.

She stared up at him, pleading with her gaze. Could he read her thoughts in her eyes, and would it matter if he did?

“God damn you.” His breath, coming fast and shallow, was hot on her face. “I came back to finish our session. Thought you’d be able to help me.”

But she could. She wanted to scream the message at him. If he would just give her another chance, she would help him, treat him, do whatever he wanted.

He stood. Oddly he seemed to have heard the words she could not speak. He answered her with a slow shake of his head.

“I’m sorry, Doc. I wish this hadn’t become necessary. But it has.”

She watched through a prism of tears as he trudged toward the embankment.

When he returned, he would have the gasoline with him, and then there would be only the final moments of helpless, racking terror as he drenched her with it and lit the match.

She hadn’t known her heart could work so hard, hadn’t known it was possible for each separate beat to shake her like an inner explosion, hadn’t known a human being could endure this extremity of fear.

He reached the embankment and started to climb.

Desperately she pulled at the ropes, knowing her efforts were wasted, knowing it was over for her, everything was over, and she would never see Annie again, or a blue sky, or her own face in a mirror.

Useless to resist. Death by fire was her destiny. As a child she had cheated fate, but not this time.

This time-she moaned again, pressing her cheek to the dry earth-this time she would burn.

Sunrise brightened the windows of Annie’s living room, spreading a limpid film of light over the glass. She sat up on the sofa and rubbed her bleary eyes.

Last night she had snatched less than four hours’ sleep. A nightmare had shocked her awake-some confused memory of the fire in her parents’ house, as usual. This version of the event, however, had been strangely different from her previous dreams in two respects.

First, in the nightmare she and Erin had been not children but adults, planted incongruously in the bedroom they’d shared as young girls. Second, while Annie had escaped, somehow Erin had been left behind in the infernal smoke and heat.

And she had burned.

Annie shuddered, reliving the nightmare for the hundredth time since waking. The image that haunted her was vivid and surreal, some detail out of Dali or Bosch. Irrationally she shut her eyes to block out the sight-a useless defense when the vision was imprinted not on her retinas but on her brain.

It was Erin she saw, Erin clothed in flame, hair writhing, skin blistering, limbs thrashing, mouth stretched wide in an endless scream.

That terrible fantasy lingered in her mind as she took her morning shower. She stood under the hot spray for many long minutes, letting the needles of water numb her, until the nightmare finally had been banished.

Then she changed into clean clothes and ate breakfast, barely noticing the taste. Stink received a saucer of milk, in which he displayed his usual perfunctory interest.

Already the day was getting warm. The announcer on the news-talk station predicted unseasonably high temperatures for the rest of the week.

Twice Annie phoned Erin’s apartment from her living room. She no longer expected her sister to answer. The calls were a senseless ritual now.

It didn’t occur to her to check her own message machine in the study until after eight o’clock. The red LED was flashing excitedly-three bursts, endlessly repeated-three messages.

Had Erin called?

Annie fumbled with the controls, rewound the tape, listened to the playback. Slowly her hopes dimmed, then finally died.

None of the messages was from Erin. All three were from friends Annie had phoned yesterday afternoon, when she’d been trying to track down her sister.

“Jeez, Annie, hope I didn’t wake you-this is Darlene-I’m awfully worried…”

“Sorry to call so early, but Greg and I wanted to know if there’s been any word…”

“Did you find her? Oh, sorry, uh, this is Rhonda, it’s about seven. So did you? Call if there’s any news, or if you want to talk

…”

All of them must have phoned while she was in the shower, letting the water wash away the sleepless night.

She would have to return these calls and update some of her other friends also. No doubt most of them were equally concerned but had wanted to keep the line clear.

Well, she could call from work. No chance she was going to be able to concentrate on selling flowers today, anyhow.

There was a time when running her shop had seemed important to her-exciting and even glamorous. Was it as recently as yesterday morning she’d felt that way?

Now the shop was only a distraction. Still, even a distraction would be welcome in the absence of any productive avenue of inquiry she could pursue.

At eight-fifteen she raised the garage door with her remote control and backed the red Miata into the driveway, blinking at the bright sunshine. Under other circumstances she would have thought it was a beautiful day. Dark-boled mesquite trees and slender, pale eucalyptus rustled their tresses of leaves, green against the deep blue of the sky.

At the end of the driveway, she stopped the car opposite the mailbox. It hadn’t occurred to her to check her mail yesterday. She got out and lowered the lid.

Bank statement, credit card bill, news magazine, advertising circular, and a business-size envelope.

Her breath stopped, heart froze. For a baffled instant, she didn’t know why.