Michael Prescott - Blind Pursuit

Now, at roughly ten in the morning, the temperature must be ninety degrees. By the calendar it was April, but this was August heat. Heat that killed.

Already she was severely dehydrated. Her mouth was dry; her throat ached. Cramps tightened the muscles of her abdomen and thighs. Since daybreak, sweat had been streaming off her skin; she wondered how much more moisture she had left to lose.

When perspiration ceased, her body’s natural cooling mechanism would be disabled. Her temperature would rise. She would pass from heat exhaustion to heatstroke.

Untreated, heatstroke would be fatal.

And still, after hours of excruciating labor, the goddamned rope had not split. It had started to fray-when she craned her neck, she glimpsed wisps of fiber curling from the loop like uncombed hairs-but her hands remained tightly bound.

Though she kept working, she rested often now. The agony in her shoulders was unendurable for long periods, and the weakness of her arms made any movement difficult.

Perhaps she ought to give it up, conserve her strength. But she was haunted by the thought that one more try might unravel the remaining strands and set her free.

One more try. The words were a magic formula, summoning new strength. Again she lifted her shoulders to attack the rope.

A sudden wave of dizziness rippled up her spine. The world began to slide away, down a long, greased tunnel, leaving her behind. Wind chimes sang in her ears. Such pretty music…

With a teeth-grinding effort she retained her hold on consciousness.

When her head was clear, she locked her jaws, biting down hard on the gag as if it were a bullet, and continued rubbing the stake.

As she worked, the bad thoughts came again, the thoughts that had been her tormentors for hours, eating at her like the vultures sent to prey on Prometheus when he, like her, had been bound to a barren expanse of sand and rock.

If only…

If only she had made it onto the interstate. If only the service station had been open. If only she hadn’t set off the van’s alarm.

Broiling in the sun, eyes shut and lips sealed, she pictured herself escaping from the cellar into an empty house. Swiftly she finds her way to the front door. Outside, she explores the grounds, first examining the gate and perimeter fence, then entering the barn, where she discovers her car, alone in the musty dark. The barn doors swing wide, the Ford’s engine catches, and she backs out into the night, pursued by no one; and as she roars toward freedom and safety, she takes a last look at the ranch, memorizing its layout and appearance for the report she will file with the police.

Her mind lingered on that image-the ranch receding, stark in the moonlight.

Padlocked gate. Barbed-wire fencing. Horse barn and paddock. Wood-frame house with a gravel court.

Familiar.

Yes. She realized it now, for the first time.

Something about the ranch was familiar to her. Strikingly familiar, in fact.

She was almost certain she had seen the place before.

But that was crazy. How could she? And where? And what would it mean if she had?

The rush of questions brought on another slow comber of light-headedness.

Couldn’t think now. The sun was too strong, the ache in her muscles too sharp.

She rested her arms and shoulders once more. Rotating her wrists, she detected perhaps slightly more give in the rope. Or maybe not. She couldn’t be sure. She was tired. So tired and so very hot.

The sun beat down. The sand reflected back its heat in shimmering waves.

Water. Oh, Christ, she wanted water. Water and shade.

Her tormentor had not set her on fire. Yet in a different way, a slower and perhaps crueler way, he was burning her.

Burning her to death.

Though she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, she could not erase the sight of the sun’s red disk, climbing relentlessly toward noon.

A surge of air-conditioned coolness greeted Annie when she opened the flower shop door.

“You turned on the A.C.,” she said to Harold Gund, cutting foam at the workstation behind the counter. “Good move. It’s hot as Hades out there.”

He nodded in a distracted way, then looked up, remembering the reason for her trip downtown. “What happened with the police?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The words came out harsh, and she bit her lip. “Sorry. Let’s just say I won’t be getting any more help from the authorities. Hey, what’s the story with your van? I just noticed it’s all banged up.”

A shrug. “Fender-bender.”

“I’d say a lot more got bent than just a fender.”

“Yeah, well… I’ll have it fixed.”

“Your insurance cover it?”

“Sure.”

“That’s something anyhow.”

He nodded without real acknowledgment.

Funny. Harold got this way at times-oddly detached, as if he weren’t entirely present. His reliability and competence were undiminished, but the spark of personality seemed temporarily extinguished. She wondered if there was any connection between his mood and the damage to the van.

Then she shook her head, dismissing the issue. Whatever was the matter, Harold would have to deal with it.

She had enough problems of her own.

Throughout the day the feelings had been growing.

Snipping the stems of roses with a pair of florist’s scissors, scraping off the lower leaves and thorns with a steel knife, he found that his fingers were tingling.

Opening the walk-in cooler, feeling the chilled and humidified air kiss his face, he noticed that the back of his neck was hot.

He knew why. It had aroused him-what he’d done with Erin last night. Carrying her into the arroyo, pounding the stakes into the ground, seeing her writhe and twitch… He had been unsettled ever since.

Twice during the night he’d woken from a restless sleep to contemplate returning to the ranch and finishing the job.

So far he had fought off those impulses. Erin was his lifeline to health and freedom, his last chance. She could not die until their work was done.

The day dragged on. A UPS truck delivered a shipment from a florist supplier in Phoenix, and Gund unpacked the cartons. A vendor from Nogales dropped by, hawking Mexican paper flowers. Customers came and went. Several of Annie’s friends called or visited, making anxious inquiries about Erin.

Gund paid scant attention to any of it. Outwardly composed, he was struggling inside to clamp down on the feelings and hold them in check.

If he were to relax control, he knew what would happen. He would click off.

That was how he thought of it. To click off was to relinquish control, to let his conscious mind retreat to an insignificant corner of himself while his compulsion rose to the surface and took over.

What he would do then would be shocking, horrible, yet the rational part of him would watch it without influence or authority.

He had come near to clicking off several times already. Only an iron effort of will had allowed him to maintain a degree of precarious self-mastery.

If he lost control now, alone with Annie in the shop… he didn’t want to know what he might do.

And even if he held on until work was over, how could he possibly make it through the night?

Somehow he must. Erin could not die yet. There was much more work for her to do. Much more progress to be made.

Progress. Yes. Already he had shown progress. Perhaps he could use what he had learned to maintain control. If so, he and Erin could continue to explore his illness together until they found a cure.

At least he need not worry about any further escape attempts on her part. After a night and day staked out on the sand, she would be properly chastened and submissive, her spirit broken.