Michael Prescott - Blind Pursuit

But that window didn’t open, ever. It was sealed shut.

Gund blinked, then realized the glass had been removed from the frame.

Annie had gotten in that way. Maybe escaped that way, too. Maybe heard him coming and left as he entered via the front door.

With a snarl he lunged for the window. The cat hopped onto the toilet tank with a frightened screech, then slipped outside.

Gund thrust his head into the passageway, glanced up and down its length, the pistol extended before him and ready to fire. He would shoot her regardless of the consequences, shoot to kill even though the noise would bring a dozen cops to the scene.

In his mind he pictured himself placing a single, perfectly centered bullet between her wide, terrified eyes.

“Filth,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

But she wasn’t there. No one was there. The passage was empty save for the cat, gazing up at him curiously, a furred ink spot with a green luminous gaze.

Gund swung the pistol toward the stray, almost enraged enough to waste a shot on that worthless target, and the cat, sensing danger, wheeled abruptly and vanished into the shadows.

Gone. Like Annie herself. Gone.

Annie struggled to her feet, stuffed the photo in her pocket-evidence, she thought vaguely-then padded to the window of the den.

She unlocked it, tugged it open a few inches. The friction of the stiles against the casting produced a teeth-jarring squeal that froze her in terror.

Helpless, she waited for Gund to pound back into the room, drawn by the noise.

He didn’t appear. Hadn’t heard, obviously. But if she forced open the window any farther, he was sure to come running.

The only other exit was the door to the hallway, and Gund was out there.

But maybe the hall was clear. She had to chance it. No alternative.

Soundlessly she crossed the room, then peered past the door frame, shaking in expectation of the gunshot that would take her head off like a clay target in a shooting gallery.

No shot. No Gund. The corridor was empty.

In the bathroom, a snarl of anger.

That was where he’d gone.

All right, then. Down the hall. Now, while she had an opportunity.

She stepped fast but lightly, urgency balanced with caution. The hallway was carpeted-some cheap short-nap stuff, but thick enough to muffle her footfalls.

A screech from Gund’s lavatory. Cat noise. Absurdly she wondered if Stink was in there, if he’d come to rescue her, like Lassie.

Not Stink, of course. The alley cat. Must have slipped in through the window, broken something, diverted Gund.

At the bathroom doorway now. She would have to cross in front of the open door. That was bad, very bad. Gund couldn’t help but see her.

Risking a peek inside, she felt a rush of hope. Gund’s back was turned to her as he stared out the window into the passage.

Go.

Past the doorway in a silent flash of motion, and then she was safely on the other side, hugging the wall.

From the bathroom another enraged growl, terrifyingly close, followed by an explosive crackle of glass.

Thud of footsteps. He was coming out.

Ahead of her, an open door. She ducked into Gund’s bedroom and prayed he wouldn’t come this way, prayed he would return to the den and give her time to escape.

Gund spun away from the window, animal growls erupting from his throat, fury and shame overriding a last effort at restraint.

He struck out with his fist. Smashed the bathroom mirror. Cymbal crash of impact. Cascade of silvered shards. A hundred reflections of himself spilling to the floor.

Out of the bathroom, bellowing. Down the hall to the den. Was she under the desk? No.

Where the hell was she?

Wait. The window. Open a crack.

It had been closed a half minute ago, when he’d left the room.

She must have tried to get out that way while he was distracted by the cat. But she hadn’t succeeded, obviously. She was still somewhere in the apartment.

“Boss?” he whispered, a chilly, feral gleam in his eyes.

The answering silence mocked him.

He left the den at a run.

Annie considered escaping through a bedroom window, but it would take time to go out that way, and time was one thing she was sure she didn’t have.

The hallway was empty again, Gund back in the den. The doorway to the living room was two steps away.

Chance it.

She dashed across the hall, into the living room, brightly illuminated now and somehow rendered more dismal in the glare.

Gund was a sad man with a sad life, but she felt no twinge of pity.

Behind her, a bestial roar.

Insane, she thought as she darted among the sparse furnishings on her way to the front door. He’s completely insane.

And he was coming this way.

From the hall, the mounting racket of his footsteps. He would be inside the living room in seconds.

She reached the door, fumbled for the knob, her hand slippery with perspiration, fingers sliding on the smooth metal.

Get a grip, Annie, she ordered, unconscious of any pun.

Her hand found purchase. The knob turned, the door popped open, and she was outside, shutting the door behind her, then sprinting down the paved walk, into the street, the macadam a dark blur under her racing feet, the corner straight ahead.

Backward glance. Gund wasn’t behind her, not yet.

She’d been sure he would see the door swing shut.

But maybe he hadn’t gone directly into the living room. Maybe he’d looked in the bedroom first.

Gasping, she turned the corner, flew past a line of parked cars, and then her Miata was beside her and she was digging in her skirt pocket for her keys.

Abruptly the wire fence of the auto lot clanged with a violent impact-the Doberman, leaping at her, slavering wildly, releasing a crazed volley of barks.

“Shut up!” she gasped, hating the dog, its insane ferocity reminding her of Gund.

She found her keys-no, wrong ones; those were the spares she’d taken from Gund’s kitchen. Thrust her hand into her pocket again, the dog howling, a banshee wail.

Was Gund in the street by now, seeking her out? Would he hear the noise, connect it with her? Was he running here at this moment?

She fished out the right set of keys this time, unlocked the car, flung herself inside.

Which key was it? Too many on the ring. House key, mailbox key, shop key, office key…

The dog attacked the night with long ululant wails. Gund must have heard it, must be on his way.

Garage-door key, storage-locker key, luggage key…

Car key.

She tossed a split-second glance in the rearview mirror, expecting to see Gund round the corner, but the street remained empty and still.

Key in the ignition. Twist of her wrist, the engine firing. Headlights on, and she spun the wheel hard to the left and tore free of the curb.

Her foot slammed down on the gas pedal. The Miata shot forward, outracing its own headlights.

Shaking all over, fighting for breath, Annie sped north, toward the lights of downtown-and the police station.

Eyes shut.

Jaws clenched.

A bead of sweat traveling slowly down her cheek, her neck, the curve of her breast, disappearing finally inside the waistband of her shorts.

Erin, kneeling on the floor, naked from the waist up, gripped the central coupling nut of the sillcock in the cellar wall and tried again to loosen it with a counterclockwise turn.

Her leg was chained to the spigot. She had no hope of defeating either of the padlocks securing the chains, not without tools or the means to make some. And Oliver had removed everything useful.

Her only chance at mobility and self-defense was to disassemble the sillcock. If she could detach the spout-and-handle component from the horizontal pipe feeding into the wall, one end of the chain would fall away, and she would be free.