by Lisa Jackson
God would save her.
He always did.
If not, then it was because He was calling her home. Her faith would sustain her . . . and yet as she listened to the tires hum against the pavement and splash through water, she sensed that she was doomed.
Please, Father, not yet. I’m young . . . I have so much to offer. So much of Your holy work to do.
She bit back sobs when she thought of her mother and father. She loved them both so much. She couldn’t die tonight. No! She was a fighter and, though small, was athletic. She had been on the tennis team in high school and kept herself in shape. Hence the jogging.
But as the truck drove farther into the night, her hopes died. Where was this lunatic taking her? Why had he singled her out? Or had it been random? Had she just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? All her parents’ warnings, all their suggestions about safety, she’d ignored them because she’d known God would take care of her. And now . . . now what?
She wasn’t naive enough not to understand what he probably wanted, that he intended to rape and kill her. And she couldn’t allow that. Wouldn’t. Fighting tears and panic, she quietly struggled against the tape that bound her hands behind her back and held her ankles together. If she could only get free, she’d find a way to reach over the top of the front seat and wound him, maybe strangle him with the tape he’d used to subdue her.
But murder is a sin, Mary . . . remember. And if you try to harm him, he might lose control of the car. You, too, could be injured.
So what if they wrecked, she thought wildly. And if she killed a man in self-defense, surely God would understand. Please, Jesus, please.
Even risking injury and a collision was better than what he had planned.
Mary was certain of it.
But her bonds wouldn’t move, not so much as shift a fraction of an inch, no matter how much pressure she put on them, how desperately she struggled.
Panic rose inside her.
She was running out of time. He wouldn’t drive forever. She kept at it, straining against the rope and tape while the miles, the damning miles, rolled past beneath the wheels of this big truck. They were driving farther and farther away from Baton Rouge. Farther and farther away from any chance she would be saved.
Fear chilled her to the bone.
Her arms ached, her legs were cramped and useless.
Mama, I love you, and I’d wanted to make you proud by joining the order.
Daddy, forgive me for being stupid and letting this maniac grab me. You warned me to always take my cell and never run after dark. You gave me a weapon and I refused it . . . I’m sorry . . .
She felt the truck slow as he exited off a main road, probably a freeway, and so, he was, no doubt, getting closer to his ultimate destination. New terror surged through her and she frantically tried again to slide one hand from the grip of the duct tape. Her heart was knocking, sweat running down her body, fear sizzling down every nerve ending.
Free yourself, Mary. God helps those who help themselves!
“It’s no use,” he said, jolting her. He hadn’t said a word since the attack. Not one. His voice was surprisingly calm. Steady. Creating a fear that cut straight to her heart. “You can’t get away.”
Again she thought she might throw up. Who was this madman? Why had he chosen her? His voice was unfamiliar, she thought, and yet she wasn’t certain of anything anymore. She was barely staving off full-blown panic.
“Only a few more minutes.”
Dear Father, no. Please stop this. Intervene on my behalf. If you want me with you, please let me come to you some other way, not by the hand of a sadist, not so cruelly, not by a madman.
Trembling, she thought of all the martyred saints, how horridly they’d died for their beliefs. She tried to steel herself, to find her faith. If this was a test, or truly God’s will, then so be it. She would die stoically, putting all her faith in the Father.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .
She felt the truck slow, then turn quickly, as if maneuvering off a smooth road. The wheels began to jump and shimmy, as if going over stones or cracked pavement. She strained to hear over the grind of the engine, hoping for the sounds of traffic, for signs that they weren’t as isolated and alone as she feared. But the familiar rush of passing cars, of shouts, or horns had disappeared, and any hope she had left sank like a stone.
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus . . .
For what seemed like hours, but was probably less than five minutes, he continued to drive, and finally, at last, he braked hard and the big rig slammed to a stop. She slid forward, then back.
Her heart jammed into her throat. She began to quiver from the inside out. Terror slid through her veins.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death . . .
He cut the engine. Rain peppered the roof of the car. Mary could barely breathe. Amen.
A door clicked open and she felt the sticky heat of the night seeping into the interior as he climbed outside. She heard the squish of his boots or shoes into the mud. Heard a thunk—the front seat being pulled forward?
A second later she was dragged roughly out of the car.
Her running shoes sank into deep loam and she nearly fell over. The musky odor of the swamp assailed her and she thought of snakes and alligators, merciless predators who were nothing compared to the monster who had abducted her. She squirmed, trying to wrestle away.
“Stop moving!” he yelled and she felt a new fear. If he wasn’t afraid of speaking so loudly or sharply, they were alone . . . totally alone. Oh, God, this was it! She was going to die here in the darkness, in what seemed like a bayou of sorts. “I’m cutting your feet free, but if you try to run . . .” Again he pressed the muzzle of steel against her temple. “. . . I’ll kill you.” She nearly peed in her jogging shorts. He was going to murder her anyway. She knew it. If she got the chance, she was going to run. Better to be shot in the back than raped for hours and brutalized in a dozen sickening ways. She had to get away. Had to. The minute he cut her feet free . . .
But he had anticipated her plan. In one swift motion, he cut away the tape on her ankles. Then he stood and sliced through the tape binding her wrists and quickly grabbed hold of her arm in a grip that was punishing and intense. Her shoulder sockets still hurt from her arms being twisted behind her back but this, his touch, was much, much worse. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned as if he sensed she was about to bolt, then applied such painful pressure to her arm that she squealed through the gag and dropped to her knees.
He yanked her up roughly. “Let’s go.” Prodding her with the cold muzzle of the gun and holding on to her arm with strong fingers, he forced her forward.
She heard the sound of frogs and crickets, sensed the soft dirt and leaves compact beneath her feet, felt the drizzle of warm rainwater run down the back of her neck and drip from the tip of her ponytail.
She thought she smelled a river nearby, but wasn’t certain and broke down altogether, sobbing wretchedly as she nearly stumbled against something hard and unmoving. A tree? Rock? This was a bad dream, it had to be. A horrid nightmare.
And yet she was wide awake.
“Step up,” he ordered against her ear and she obeyed, her feet catching a little as she climbed two steps, then heard him open a screen door. A key clicked in a lock. “Inside.”
Oh, dear God, this was the spot where he intended to kill her.
Her throat closed as she smelled the dry, musty interior of this hidden place. She thought she heard the sound of frantic tiny claws, like rats scurrying for cover, and her skin prickled in newfound fear.
The screen door slapped behind her and she jumped.
She wanted to scream, to rail against him and God for abandoning her—like Jesus cried in agony upon the cross—as her kidnapper pushed and prodded her farther into a room that smelled unused, dirty, and forgotten. As if this cabin
or whatever it was hadn’t been used in years. Boards creaked under her feet. Her throat was so dry she couldn’t call up any spit.
Dread inched up her spine as she heard him close the heavy door. He pushed her forward and she wondered if she’d fall off a ledge, be thrown into some dark hole, a deep exposed cellar, and be left here to die. Whimpering, barely holding on to her bladder, she stepped tenuously forward and then she heard it . . . a muffled noise, as if someone else were in the room.
She nearly passed out.
Dear God, he hadn’t brought her to a place where other men were waiting, had he? Fear pounded a new, frantic tattoo in her heart. Her stomach curdled and yet she smelled something, someone else.
A mixture of sweat, musk, and cold, stark terror trembled over her skin.
She’d heard of barbaric rites against women and braced herself for whatever sick fate awaited her.
“Okay, now, be a good girl,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, his hot breath fanning the nape of her neck. “Do everything just as I say and I won’t hurt you. You’ll be safe.”
She didn’t believe him for an instant.
His silky words were a trap. A trick she wasn’t going to fall for.
“Strip.”
She froze. Thought she would be sick.
He pressed the gun to her chest and she thought for a minute of disobeying, but in the end, she did what he suggested. Knowing the gun was trained on her, she pulled off her T-shirt and slid out of her shorts. Shaking, she’d never felt more vulnerable in her life. Tears rained from her eyes. Fear clenched her gut. How many people, men, were watching her? How many were going to touch her. Her stomach retched and she thought she might pass out.
“That’s good.”
She froze in her jog bra and panties.
She didn’t have to get completely naked?
“Now, put this on.” She heard a zipper hiss downward and then she was handed something soft and silky—a dress? Fumbling, her fingers nearly useless, she hurriedly bunched the smooth fabric and found a way to step into it. She didn’t know what it was, but it would cover her nakedness, and right now that was all that mattered. “Turn it around,” he ordered and blindly she gathered and rotated the fabric, then pulled the bodice of the dress upward, over her waist and higher to cover her breasts. Awkwardly, she found the long sleeves and pushed her hands through. Then he was behind her and he held one of her arms again as he slowly pulled the zipper upward where it stopped near her shoulders. His breath was hot. Nasty. Nearly wet as it touched the nape of her neck.
Now . . . if she could just find a way to stop him. But that was impossible.
Slowly, still holding her with one hand, he trailed the barrel of the gun against her skin, so that the cold metal caressed her neck.
Goose pimples rose on her skin.
If she spun around quickly now, she might catch him unaware, be able to knock the weapon from his hand, rip off her blindfold, and run like crazy. She was fast. And with the adrenalin pumping through her bloodstream, she could run five or six miles without stopping to catch her breath.
“Uh, uh, uuuuh,” he murmured so close that she felt his chest against her back, his erection, through the soft folds of the dress, pressed into the cleft of her rump.
Her chin wobbled. He was going to rape her . . . and probably the silent others in the room would have their turns with her, too.
Why? Oh, Father, why?
Run, Mary! Take a chance! So what if the gun goes off?
The arm holding her shoulder snaked around her waist, drawing her tight against him. “Now, Mary,” he rasped and she nearly wilted when she realized he knew her name. She hadn’t been a random target. He’d wanted her for whatever evil purpose he had planned. “Here’s what you’re going to do to save yourself. Are you listening?”
She nodded, hating herself. Hating him.
“You’re going to take this gun and you’re going to shoot it into a pillow.”
What?
“That’s right, I’m going to put it into your hand, but you’re not going to turn around and kill me with it, okay? I won’t let that happen. My hand will be over yours. Like this, see . . .” He pressed the gun into her shaking, sweating hand and curled her index finger over the trigger. His strong grip guided hers, and when she tried to turn it, he forced the hand forward.
“All you have to do is squeeze.”
Her whole body trembled. This was insane. Crazy. She wasn’t going to shoot blindly into the dark. For a second she wondered if this was some nutty college prank, the kind sororities and fraternities were famous for, but she didn’t believe it. She hadn’t pledged any house on campus and was going to drop out of All Saints College soon. Besides, this overriding sense of pure, malicious evil didn’t have a drop of fun or jest in it.
It was no prank.
“Come on,” he urged, his breath whispered out in excited little bursts. She heard it again, that muffled cry—laughter? Terror? Where was it? Nearby? Far away? Someone hiding in a closet, or watching her? One person? Two? A dozen?
So scared she physically shook, she knew that if it weren’t for the steely fingers pressed intimately over hers, the weapon in her hand would have clattered to the floor.
If only this was a nightmare!
If only she would wake up in her dorm room!
“You’ve got five seconds.”
No! Again the muffled noise.
“Five.”
Please, Father help me.
“Four.”
Do not abandon me, I beg of you.
“Three.”
I am your humble servant.
“Two.”
Have mercy on my soul!
“One.”
He squeezed the trigger for her.
Bam! The gun blasted, jerked in her hand.
A muted squeal came from somewhere nearby.
She smelled cordite and burning material and something else . . . the stringent odor of urine?
Another tortured, strangled groan.
New terror crystalized.
Dear God, had she just shot another human being?
Please, please, no!
What was this? She started shrieking in terror behind her gag, struggling to get away, but the lunatic held her tighter, kept his hand over hers and quickly untied her blindfold.
She immediately retched, just as her abductor yanked the gag from her face.
In the glow of a single small lantern she witnessed what she’d done. A man who was vaguely familiar was seated in a chair, a thin pillow strapped around his torso. His hands were bound behind him, his ankles strapped to the metal legs of the chair. He was slumped forward, and beneath him, in an ever-widening pool, was the blood draining from his body. Feathers were still drifting toward the floor, like wispy snowflakes, slowly settling into the oozing reddish stain.
Mary lost the full contents of her stomach and she threw up on the floor and the front of the white dress he’d forced her to wear. She was crying, trembling as she watched the man die. His eyes glazed in the soft golden light, and Mary, tears tracking from her eyes, sobs erupting from her throat, was certain she saw his spirit leave his body.
Dear God, she’d murdered an innocent person, tied to the chair. She moved her gaze to focus on the small gun still clutched in her hand . . . her gun. . . . the little pistol her father had given her for protection.
And with it she’d killed a man.
No, Mary. Not you. The monster who kidnapped you. Take the gun. It’s still in your hand. Turn it on him. God would never punish you for taking his filthy, sin-filled life.
Just as the thought reached her, his grip on her hand tightened. “You killed him, Mary,” he said almost endearingly, as if he wanted to caress her.
She shivered, started to protest, but felt the pressure in his grip increase. He yanked her backward so that her body was pressed to the hard wall of his chest, the back of her legs wedged against his thighs and shins, her rump nestled against his cr
otch, his erection bulging against her cleft again. Her heart hammered wildly. Sheer terror paralyzed her.
“Killing’s a sin.” His breath was hot and silky, the air filled with his depravity. “But you know that, don’t you?”
She didn’t respond, just felt the rain of her own tears against her cheeks. It didn’t matter what she said. She was doomed. She knew it. There was no escape.
“You just sinned, Mary,” he whispered seductively and she swallowed hard. Searched desperately in her soul for her inner strength. Knew what was coming.
Father, forgive me . . .
“And we all know the wages of sin is death . . .”
Slowly he rotated her hand in his, then pushed the muzzle of her own pistol to her temple.
CHAPTER 3
“Three o’clock would work out,” Abby said, cradling her cell phone between her shoulder and ear. Two days after she’d listened to Luke on the radio and made a pitch for the Nolan-Smythe nuptials, Abby was carrying a sack of groceries in one arm and her portfolio in the other. She’d spent most of the day before and the early hours of this morning at her studio in town, going through her bills and consulting with some college seniors for their graduation pictures, before stopping at the store, then racing back home.
She dropped the sack onto the kitchen counter where Ansel was seated by the window, his tail switching as he watched birds flutter near the feeder hanging from the eave. “Shoo,” she whispered as the woman on the other end of the line made arrangements to view her house.
Her FOR SALE BY OWNER sign had been up less than seventy-two hours and she’d already received several calls from potential buyers, this being the first who actually wanted to “view the property,” after hearing the price and details.
