Obsession

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  There she immediately fell into bed, burrowing under the covers, closing her eyes, doing her best to keep her mind a blank.

  When that didn’t work, she tried counting. Numbers, not sheep.

  By the time she reached twenty-seven, she was out like a light.

  Sometime after that, she began to dream. Dark dreams, scary dreams. In them, she was running for her life. . . .

  Suddenly she found herself observing what looked like a shabby office. The details were hazy, but she knew it was night, and the room she was looking into was dark except for a small amount of light filtering in through what she knew was a door to her left, although she couldn’t see it; a wall protruding into the room blocked her view. Her vision sharpened, focused, and she realized that she was in the scene, too, in a second room that was connected to the first by an old-fashioned wooden door that stood open. She was sitting in a hard, wooden chair facing that open door. She was actually tied to the chair, tied hand and foot, and gagged, too.

  She was terrified. Her heart was racing. She was sweating, shaking. Something terrible was about to happen, she knew.

  Looking around, searching for what it was that was scaring her so, she saw the shadowy outline of metal file cabinets and a serviceable metal desk and chair lining the wall near her. Behind the desk was a closet. Its door was partly open, and she saw that there was a mirror on the inside of the door. In the mirror she could see her own reflection.

  She had masses of curly auburn hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Her skin was so pale it looked ghostly in the dim light. She was shapely, curvaceous, stacked . . .

  A terrible dread filled her.

  There was a man in the other room now. No, two men, shadowy figures whose features were concealed from her. She watched them through the open door. One forced the other to his knees. The man who remained standing had a gun in his hand, and he was pressing the mouth of it into the curve between the other man’s shoulder and neck. He was screaming something—she could hear him but couldn’t make out the words—and the man who was on his knees was now crying.

  She was screaming, too, she realized, but no one could hear her, screaming silently because she loved the man on his knees, the man who she knew was about to be killed. Fighting to be free of her bonds, of the chair, she drew the attention of the man with the gun. He smiled at her—she saw that quite clearly—and she knew he was evil, knew he was going to pull the trigger in the next second and murder this person whom she loved, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it.

  Then the gunman’s head exploded, just exploded into a ball of pink mist and gore, and what was left of him dropped to the floor at the same time as the kneeling man collapsed. He, too, keeled forward, sprawling face-first on the floor, his body limp in a running river of blood.

  Even as silent screams of horror ripped through her body, another man stepped into the opening between the two rooms. He was in a shooter’s stance, facing her, and in his clasped hands was a big silver gun. He was tall and formidable and aiming right at her. . . .

  A shaft of light touched his features, illuminating them.

  Jolted awake, Katharine opened her eyes, looked straight into the face of the man she’d just seen aiming a gun at her in her dream, and screamed to wake the dead.

  14

  "What is it? What’s wrong?” he demanded. His hands—strong, warm hands—closed around her bare upper arms. She could feel their imprints like a brand on her chilled skin.

  Her startled-awake eyes met his—hard blue eyes, caught in a shaft of indirect light—and she exploded out of the warm cocoon that had sheltered her, coming bolt upright into a sitting position as another scream, jagged and raw and searing in its intensity, tore of its own accord out of her throat.

  “Jesus Christ.” He winced. His hands tightened on her arms.

  “Get your hands off me. Let me go.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No.” Panicking, she began to struggle, trying to break free of his hold without success. She was trapped, he had her trapped, there was nothing she could do, she was helpless and at his mercy and, as she already knew all too well, he had no mercy.

  “Damn it to hell.” He gave her arms a little shake. His fingers dug into her skin. He was close, too close, leaning over her, his face just inches away from hers, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do about it.

  He owned her.

  This time her cry was one of distress. It was softer, more piteous, as she recognized her plight. He had her fast; unless and until he was ready to let her go, she would never be able to break away.

  “I’m not hurting you.” He must have misinterpreted the sound she had made as one of pain, because his grip on her arms loosened.

  “Let me go.”

  Succeeding in jerking her arms free of his hold at last, she scrambled over a soft surface—a bed, she was on a bed in a dark room illuminated only slightly by that grayish shaft of light—until a corner trapped her. Whirling to face him, she crouched, squeezing back against walls that felt cold against her bare thighs, at bay on the bed, knowing him for her enemy.

  “Keep away from me,” she warned.

  He cursed again, under his breath, and straightened. She could feel his eyes on her, although she could not see his features at all now that the light was directly behind him. He was silhouetted by the grayish rectangle of light, an open door with light coming through it. He looked big and strong and formidable standing there blocking the door, blocking the light, and she shrank back into her corner, staring at him with huge eyes.

  “You had a nightmare.”

  His voice with its slow drawl was meant to be soothing, she thought. But it did not soothe her. Instead, it touched something deep inside her, some buried memory, some forgotten association, and in response her stomach knotted with anger and fear.

  “Who are you?” It was a strained cry torn straight from her heart. Even as she said it, she knew the answer, knew who he was, knew all about him, but . . . but . . .

  In the same instant that she reached for it, the knowledge all went away. Vanished, poof, just like that, like a puff of smoke blown to oblivion by the wind.

  “Katharine. It’s me. It’s Dan.”

  A light came on, momentarily blinding her. Wincing, she turned her face away from the source. He had turned on the lamp beside the bed.

  Dan. As his name registered, her eyes adjusted to the light and she was able to look at him directly. He stood beside the bed, his hair rumpled, his eyes heavy-lidded and tired, the lines in his face more pronounced than she remembered, the stubble on his jaw discernibly heavier. He was wearing only his loose black pants, minus the belt, which meant that she could see about an inch of blue pin-striped boxers as the pants clung to his hips for dear life. His chest, and his feet, bare.

  It appeared that, like her, he had been asleep.

  “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

  That voice again. Oh, God, she knew that voice, knew it well, but the context was impossible to dredge up. Sucking in air, she cast a quick, furtive glance around, trying to get her bearings, trying to get a handle on what was happening. It was clearly night. She could see the darkness of the world outside through a sliver between the imperfectly drawn curtains. There was a steady drumming sound, insistent and rhythmic, that in her agitation she was only just now becoming aware of. It must be raining. The sound was rain hitting a tin roof.

  All at once, she knew where she was: in the bedroom of his fishing cabin, crouched on his bed, wedged tightly back into the farthest corner of it as a matter of fact, staring at him like a trapped wild thing. Her heart pounded. Her pulse raced. Her breathing came fast and hard.

  “You were having a nightmare,” he said again.

  A nightmare. She blinked, remembering, seeing it all again in lightning-fast replay. Her eyes sought and held his.

  She had seen him, almost as clearly as she was seeing him now, in her dream. But the self who had b
een there with him in her dream had not been the skinny blonde she was now. It had been the real her, the authentic her, the self she knew in her heart and soul she truly was. And he had been pointing a big silver gun at her.

  Good Neighbor Dan my ass. Distrust permeated every fiber of her being.

  She didn’t know what was going on, but she did know this: She had to get away from him. She had to get out of there.

  Until she figured out what was happening, she was going solo.

  But he stood between her and the door. He was bigger, stronger, far more ruthless. To get away from him she had to be smart.

  “A nightmare,” she repeated, as if she were slowly accepting it.

  He nodded. “Must have been a bad one.”

  His eyes were hooded and dark as he watched her with the same kind of calculation a predator might turn on its prey. Meeting his gaze, she managed—at least, she hoped she managed—to look merely worried and bewildered.

  “I . . . don’t really remember.” She suddenly became aware of the chill breath of the air-conditioning caressing her legs, and realized that she was wearing only the scanty lace panties and snug tee. Wedged back in the corner as she was, with her legs bent almost double and her hands pressing into the mattress beside them, there wasn’t a whole lot of her that he could see, she hoped. But still, it was too much. “I screamed, didn’t I?” Shaking her head ruefully, she willed her wired body to let go of the flight impulse for the moment. Letting out a deep breath, she sank down on her butt, drawing her legs up in front of her and wrapping her arms around them for modesty’s sake. “I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “No problem.” He was still watching her carefully. “In fact, I’d be surprised if you weren’t having night-mares. ”

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder,” she said, nodding wisely.

  “Exactly.” He sounded pleased at her acceptance of this as the cause of her symptoms. His eyes searched hers. “Can I get you a drink of water or something?”

  “You know, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take you up on that offer of a baloney sandwich. How about I get dressed and meet you in the kitchen?”

  Some of the tension left his face. “You like mayonnaise? ”

  She nodded.

  “Tomato soup?”

  She nodded again. It actually did sound good. She had missed supper. Lunch, too. Her stomach growled, right on cue.

  “You got it,” he said, and she rewarded him with a tremulous smile.

  His eyes slid over her in one last assessing look, and then he turned and left the room. She got a good view of his bare back and registered just how heavily muscled his shoulders and biceps really were. Wide and powerful-looking, his shoulders tapered down to a narrow midsection and an athletic-looking butt, she saw with a sweeping glance as he walked out of sight.

  She frowned thoughtfully.

  Although she’d been too upset to pay any attention earlier, she had a sudden flash memory of his chest: It was wide and muscular, with well-developed pecs covered by a light smattering of dark brown hair above tight, toned abs.

  In fact, his leanness was deceptive: This was the physique of a well-honed machine. For a moment longer she stayed where she was, trying to get her thoughts in order, to sort things out, to come up with a plan.

  The bottom line was, she had seen Dan in her dream. In the midst of horror and carnage he had appeared, pointing a big silver gun at her. And she had been her auburn-haired, curvy self, the self she saw in her mind’s eye.

  Coincidence? Maybe. The result of scrambled brains, or post-traumatic stress disorder? Maybe.

  But maybe not.

  Her gut was screaming in favor of the not. Uncurling herself from the cramped position she was in, sore muscles protesting every move, she clambered off the bed. Closing the door—it didn’t have a lock—she pulled jeans and a bra from the duffel bag. She dressed quickly—the jeans were a little long, a little tight, but, once she rolled them up at the ankles, doable; the bra was nude stretch nylon that, because of the nature of the material, molded itself effortlessly to her perky what-she-guessed-were-B-cups—even as she tried to come up with a plan. Trading the white T-shirt for a plain black one (the harder to see in the dark), she gave the kitten-heeled sandals a jaundiced look—if she had to run, they would be worse than useless—and left them off. Anyway, under the circumstances, walking around the cabin in her bare feet would probably seem more natural. Then she opened the purse, extracted her driver’s license, credit cards, and cash, and stuffed them into her back pocket. Running a brush through her hair, she smoothed a slick of tinted, strawberry-flavored lip balm over her dry lips and stuck the tube in her front pocket.

  That was it. That was all she could take with her. Everything else she had arrived with would have to be left behind.

  The plan? Ditch Dan.

  Exactly how she was going to accomplish that she didn’t know. Wait until he was asleep and run for it? Hope he decided to take a really long shower and run for it? Bop him over the head with something and run for it?

  The thing was, running for it was the key. And the more she thought about it, the more urgent the need to take action became.

  He had promised to drive her back to the airport tomorrow so that she could, as he supposed, catch a flight out.

  Ain’t gonna happen, was the verdict she arrived at. Either he was hoping to talk her out of it or he had some means in mind to prevent it. Or maybe he meant to try the first, and if that didn’t work go with the second.

  In any case, if she was going over the wall, she needed to do it tonight. The sooner the better, as a matter of fact.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, she opened the door and stepped out of the bedroom.

  Except for the glow coming from the kitchen, the short, narrow hall was dark and full of shadows. Over and above the sound of rain drumming against the roof, she heard voices, faintly, which shook her for a moment until she realized that they must be coming from the television. As she reached the doorway that led into the living room, she saw at a glance that the TV was indeed on with the volume turned low. Light from the kitchen spilled over the half-wall so that the living room was almost as brightly illuminated as the kitchen itself.

  The doorway that led into the kitchen was a couple of feet to her left. Through it she could see a slice of space that included part of the kitchen table, which sported two paper plates with two white-bread sandwiches—one sandwich, presumably baloney, on each—with a bag of Lay’s potato chips in the middle of the table. A slight rattling sound was unexplained. She assumed that Dan, who was out of her sight, must somehow be the source of it. The merest hint of a yummy tomatoey smell told her (a) that her nose was once again minimally functional, and (b) he was indeed making tomato soup.

  Another rumble from her stomach reminded her that she really was extremely hungry.

  Once again she glanced into the living room, undecided as to the next best step. Her goal was to get away. To do that, the first thing she needed to do was lull Good Neighbor Dan into thinking that nothing had changed: She still trusted him.

  Even though she most emphatically did not.

  Too many things just didn’t add up. Who he was and what he was up to she didn’t know, not for sure. But . . .

  His car keys lay beside a cell phone—presumably his cell phone—on the coffee table.

  As soon as her brain registered that, her eyes widened. Her pulse quickened. Her breathing suspended. Her gaze fixed on the keys, riveted there, while all sorts of thoughts ran through her mind. There was no doubt about what set of keys it was: She had seen him insert them into the Blazer’s ignition too many times for there to be any mistake.

  All she had to do was pick up the keys, go out the door, get into the Blazer, and drive away.

  For a moment the simplicity of it stunned her. Without the Blazer, he wouldn’t even be able to give chase.

  The sharp, unmistakable clang of tinny metal on tinny metal made
her start. Glancing sharply toward the sound, she realized that she could see Dan in the kitchen. He was standing at the stove with his back to her, under a round wall clock that said it was just a little after ten-thirty, stirring a metal spoon around inside a ratty-looking aluminum pan that was steaming over a gas burner alive with a flickering blue flame. He was still shirtless, and the size and style of those flexing back muscles reinforced her conviction that he wasn’t what he wanted her to think.

  Okay, so maybe up until now she had been dumb as a rock. People could change.

  It was clear that he had no clue that she was nearby, watching him.

  Carpe diem—seize the day. Even as the words popped into her mind, her heart started to pound. This was it: her chance. Casting another assessing glance at Dan, she went for it, moving stealthily toward the coffee table, her bare feet soundless on the tightly woven cords of the rug. Pulse racing, practically holding her breath lest he should look around and spot her, she picked up the keys carefully, so carefully that they wouldn’t jingle and betray her. The noise from the TV provided a cover; so, too, did the patter of the rain and his efforts in the kitchen. Holding the keys tightly in her fist, she moved away, all the while shooting lightning glances in Dan’s direction. He continued to stir the soup, oblivious.

  It was only a few steps to the door. Reaching it, she cast a nervous glance over her shoulder to find Dan, still at the stove, pouring milk from the carton into the soup. With her heart now thumping so loudly that its thudding in her ears was all she could hear, she took a deep breath and went for it, turning the knob, so quietly, pulling open the door inch by careful inch, praying that it wouldn’t creak, and then when the opening was wide enough, slipping through it out into the cool, damp darkness of the porch.

  By that time, her heart was pounding so hard she was surprised it didn’t burst through her chest. The muted roar of the rain sounded loud as a NASCAR track in her ears. Did he hear it? How could he not hear it—or smell its earthy scent as it poured in through the opening? A quick, scared glance back revealed that he gave no evidence of being aware that anything was amiss. In fact, he was once again stirring soup.