Michael Prescott: Blind Pursuit

Large hands, rough-textured. Stroking her hair, her face.

Was he going to rape her? Mustn’t think about that, mustn’t think about anything.

His touch was clumsy yet tender, almost loving, but the word that issued from his mouth was uttered like an obscenity: “Filth.”

Abruptly she was lifted. Surprise nearly jostled a gasp out of her. She felt her body tensing reflexively. With an effort of will she relaxed.

He draped her over his right shoulder, supporting her with one hand, and rose to his feet. She heard no grunt of strain. A big man, powerful. She remembered that he had looked tall and heavyset in the lobby.

How could she ever hope to fight him even if she got free? He must outweigh her by a hundred pounds.

She replayed the few words he’d spoken, tried to remember if she’d heard his voice anywhere before. It was distinctive enough-gravelly and breathy at the same time, deep but not resonant.

Not one of her current patients; she was sure of that. Nobody she’d ever treated, as best she could recall.

A stranger, almost certainly. Yet he seemed to have strong personal feelings toward her, both positive and negative, an unsettling blend of desire and hostility.

Scary. Scarier by the minute.

He was climbing down out of the vehicle now. A brief pause as he bent and hefted something, apparently in his left hand. It swung in time with the rhythm of his stride, rubbing against his pants leg; she heard the whisper of friction.

He carried her through yards of musty enclosed space, then out into the open. Night breeze on her face, chillier than it would be in town. The wind blew unobstructed here, in the desert’s open spaces.

His shoes crackled on dirt and dry brush, then on what sounded like gravel.

He stopped. Metallic tinkle. Keys.

He was unlocking a door. The hinges mewled as he pushed it open.

Inside.

Smell of dust and neglect. Drumbeat of his footfalls on a hardwood floor.

She heard him panting now. So he was human, at least. He was showing fatigue. Perhaps if he slipped up, she’d have some kind of chance against him.

The sound of his footsteps altered. Not the hollow crack of contact with wood, but a more solid thud, suggestive of concrete. It took her a moment to realize that he was going down a flight of stairs.

Cellar? Must be.

The implications of a cellar weren’t good. A hidden place, a place for buried secrets and suppressed desires. Bodies had a way of turning up in cellars.

She tried hard not pursue those thoughts.

At the bottom now. His breath puffed in short bursts. Lugging her all this distance had worn him out. If she sensed any opportunity, she would take it.

Keys again. Another door, easing open.

This new space felt smaller. The air was stale, spiced with unclean smells.

Soft thump as he set down whatever item he’d been carrying in his left hand. Then he shrugged her off his shoulder, deposited her carefully in a chair. It creaked and wobbled. Wooden chair, not new.

The rope around her ankles came loose.

He was releasing her. She had only to continue her rag-doll charade a minute longer. Then with her hands free-attack.

He fumbled at the rope securing her wrists to her thigh. If he had a knife, he would simply slice through the knot. No knife, then. And the high-voltage weapon he’d used-one of those stun guns, obviously, the kind she’d seen in TV news clips-was probably tucked away in his pocket, not instantly accessible.

She would not wait for him to raise the blindfold. She could do that herself, as soon as he had freed her hands.

As part of her tae kwon do training, she’d learned to do push-ups on her fists, a habit she had maintained even after discontinuing the class. Her wrists were strong, her knuckles toughened.

In a karate-style punch, executed with the first two knuckles projecting from the fist, she could damage her abductor’s larynx or dislocate his jaw. After that, a knee to the groin or an elbow to the ribs, and he would be immobilized.

Except in harmless classroom sparring, she’d never used violence against another person. But she was certain she could do it. In defense of her life, she could do whatever was necessary.

Hesitation, squeamishness-these were weaknesses she couldn’t afford. Once she sprang, she would be in a fight for survival, as savage and unforgiving as any struggle of animals in the wild.

She was ready. Ready to kill or die.

Her hands were fully untied now, no longer lashed together or pinned to her leg. But he had not let them go.

He held them in her lap, stroking her fingers, palms, wrists…

His grip tightened. His thumbs squeezed her wrists hard.

“So,” he hissed.

She stayed limp, breathing deeply, deeply, her eyes open wide behind the blindfold.

“It’s no good, Dr. Reilly. I know you’re awake.”

No, he couldn’t know that. It was a bluff. Had to be.

“You gave a good performance. Extremely convincing. But I’m afraid your pulse rate has given you away.”

His thumbs dug deeper into the veins of her wrists.

“It’s at least one-twenty. Much too fast for a person who’s genuinely unconscious.”

Still she gave no response, tried to brazen it out.

“You’ve been playing possum for a reason, I imagine. You were planning to try something. Well, let’s get one thing straight between us right from the start.”

Abruptly he clamped her wrists together, clutching them in one hand, while with the other he jerked the tape free of her mouth.

Pain seared her lips as the adhesive pulled away. Involuntarily she let out a sharp cry.

“You don’t toy with me, Doc. Not ever. No tricks, no scams. Understood?”

Though it was pointless to try fooling him now, she couldn’t bring herself to answer. Her throat seemed paralyzed.

He shook her by the shoulder. The rickety chair legs squeaked.

“ Understood?”

Had to respond or he might turn more violent. No predicting what he would do.

Weakly she nodded. “I understand.”

The hoarse rasp of her own voice startled her.

“Good,” he breathed, still holding her wrists. “I’m gratified to see that you take me seriously. But I’m not entirely certain you’ve learned your lesson.” Rustle of clothing. “Maybe this will make you a better student.”

Inches from her face, a faint electric crackle.

“No,” she croaked. “Please don’t. Not again.”

She hated to beg, because she knew begging-helpless submission-was what he wanted. But she couldn’t face the prospect of more pain, and worse, another blackout, when she would be utterly defenseless and he could do whatever he liked.

“Don’t,” she said once more, her body rigid in expectation of a new jolt of agony.

The stun gun sizzled angrily for a moment longer, then fell silent without touching her.

“I’ll cut you a break this time,” he said.

An involuntary shudder of relief trembled through her.

“But,” he added coldly, “any more nonsense, and you’ll learn what pain really is.” He released her wrists. “Now sit still. Don’t move a muscle till I tell you to.”

Footsteps, receding. The door clicked shut.

“All right, Doc.” His voice, muffled, came from outside the room. “Remove the blindfold. And take a look at your new home.”

The blindfold was snugged tight over her face, and she had to undo the knot before she could remove it. The task was made more difficult by the nervous trembling of her hands.

Finally the cloth slipped free. She blinked against the sudden glare.

An unshaded lightbulb hung from the ceiling by a chain, providing the room’s only illumination. Not more than a hundred watts, but dazzling after her long interval of darkness.