by Theresa Weir
“Come on. Hands behind your back.”
“Hallie! Attack!” Claire pointed at the dog’s supposed prey.
Sleepy from the unaccustomed heat, Hallie just thumped her tail against the floor.
“Get him! Get him, girl!”
Hallie got to her feet and stood there smiling, her tail wagging, but Claire could tell she wanted nothing more than to lie back down. How could she not understand the urgency of the situation? Weren’t dogs supposed to have a sixth sense?
Claire gave up and tried another tactic. “I— uh ... I have to go to the bathroom.”
He was looking at her in a disgusted manner. As if he’d heard that line a million times.
“I do.”
She shifted from one foot to the other, to prove her point. The problem was, now that she thought about it, she did have to go. She recalled the beer she’d drunk at The Brewery. Looking back, it seemed like days ago, but her bladder had a different spin on it.
Bored and thankful to be out of the limelight, Hallie returned to her spot near the door, circled a few times, then lay back down.
“If you remember correctly,” she said, “I was at a tavern. I had a couple of beers. You know how beer goes through you.”
Finally something he seemed able to relate to. “Okay.” He pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants and motioned her away. "But I’m coming along. And no shutting the door.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. No way was she going to the bathroom with him watching her.
“If you’re afraid I’m going to get turned on by some mothball-smelling woman taking a pee, you’re nuts. Go on.” He motioned with the gun again.
She really had to go. Bad.
“Okay, but keep your back to me. Don’t look.”
“Believe me. You don’t have anything I want to see.”
He kept guard at the bathroom door, his body slightly turned to the side, his back not completely toward her. But it would have to do. At least he’d returned the gun to his waistband.
“You’re not from around here,” she said, trying to dredge up some form of conversation while she gingerly pulled down her pants, all the while keeping an eye on his back while concentrating on quickly getting the job done. “I’m not from around here either.” Finished, she quickly pulled up her long underwear and jeans.
“Don’t try to suck up to me.”
“I’m not— Don’t turn around!”
Claire took a quick inventory of the sink. A can of deodorant and some hairspray she hadn't used in a month. She took a silent step to the left. Then another. She paused, then grabbed the deodorant, finger to the nozzle. Before she could chicken out, she jumped at him, holding down the button, the can aimed at his face, at his eyes. She let out a scream as she scored a direct hit. She continued to press the button, screaming in terror at his possible—probable—retaliation as the fog of spray hit him.
He let out a surprised yelp of his own. Or rather a cry of agony. Bent at the waist, he pressed the heels of both hands to his eyes.
She dropped the deodorant and bolted past him, knocking into him as she went. Two steps later, she was being tackled to the ground, the air rushing from her lungs as she made contact with the wooden floor, stomach first.
“Son of a bitch,” he moaned, his body pinning hers to the floor.
He was mad. He was furious.
He writhed and bellowed on top of her.
She reached behind her and managed to grab a tuft of his cropped hair. She yanked.
He bellowed again, but didn’t release his hold.
He jerked her fingers from his hair, quite a few strands coming with it, then proceeded to drag her across the floor to the dropped extension cord. The next thing she knew, his knee was in her spine, her arms pinned behind her back as wrapped the cord around her wrists. Al the while, Hallie watched, her mouth open in what looked like a happy smile.
“Normally,” he said as he worked, his voice breathless, “I don't like to manhandle women. But I can say I'm actually enjoying this." He gave the cord another tug, then moved to the side. “Bend your knees and bring your feet up in the air."
She should have been afraid of him, terrified of him, but the only emotion she felt was anger at being treated so callously. Instead of bringing up her feet, she rolled to the side and kicked at him with her heavy boots, making satisfactory contact with his knee. He let out a grunt of surprise, shoved her hard to her stomach again, pulled her feet up and wound the rest of the cord around her until she lay there like a roped rodeo calf. Then he got to his feet and headed straight for the bathroom.
She heard water splashing in the sink. He must have been washing out his eyes.
“I hope they catch you and put you in a maximum-security prison for the rest of your life!" she shouted. “I never used to believe in the death sentence!" She continued to shout so that he could hear her. “But your gentle manner has pretty much persuaded me to cast my vote in a new direction!”
She watched as he stepped out of the bathroom. Without a glance in her direction, he cut through the living room to disappear into the bedroom.
Ears straining for the slightest sound, she heard the creaking of the bed, heard him shifting his weight, getting more comfortable. Then silence.
What?
She listened.
The silence gave way to gentle, rhythmic snoring.
She made a sound of frustration while trying to kick her feet, only managing to pull her bindings tighter.
~0~
“Hey, man. You alive?”
Was he dreaming? It seemed so real, like something that was actually happening.
“Hey, man. You alive?” the voice repeated.
No.
“Hey, man.”
Dylan blinked, trying to focus. He couldn’t. There was something in his eyes.
Blood. He had blood in his eyes.
“I’m gonna go for help. Okay? You hear me?”
Darkness sucked him down, sucked him in, swallowed him.
Dark. So dark...
Later, he came to.
Cold.
He tried to get to his feet.
He couldn’t.
Something held him down.
A seat belt.
With frozen fingers, he struggled with the catch, finally feeling the belt slip away. On weak legs, he stood. With a heavy thud, something fell to the floor near his feet.
A gun.
He put out a hand to steady himself, grabbing the back of the pilot’s seat, his fingers coming in contact with fabric.
Jesus. The pilot. He was still in the plane. Slumped over the controls.
Dead?
Keeping his head bent beneath the low ceiling, he picked up the man’s wrist to feel for a pulse.
He let go.
The body was already stiff.
How much time had passed?
He turned away, feeling sick to his stomach. He picked up the gun, then shuffled to the doorway. He jumped, his legs giving out when he hit the ground, the snow swallowing him.
~0~
Claire rolled around on the cold, hard floor, too pissed to care that she was bruising herself. All she'd accomplished in the last several hours was to cut off the circulation in her arms.
Okay.
Calm down.
You can do this.
She rested. The relaxation of her muscles created slack in the bonds. It was an extension cord—an old, thin one at that. How tough was an old, thin extension cord?
She wormed her way across the floor until she was next to the woodstove. Maneuvering into position, she rubbed the stretched cord against the cast-iron edge of the stove. After a minute, the cord snapped. In familiar territory now—she and the neighbor kids had played this game all the time—Claire brought her legs through the circle made by her arms so that her hands were in front of her. Then, using her teeth, she went to work on the bindings around her wrists.
~0~
The bed was so soft. So damn soft ... Like snow.
Deep, deep snow ...
Dylan was lying in the snow, contemplating life, when he thought he heard the sound of voices. He raised his arm, hoping to get their attention. Something smacked into the tree, just inches above his head. Bark flew.
That’s weird.
He heard another pop. More bark flew. That’s when he realized the someone was shooting at him. He staggered to his feet—and tumbled headfirst over the edge of an embankment.
Chapter 5
Pain.
That was the first thing Dylan was aware of.
The second was the groggy realization that the mothball woman was standing in the doorway, a gun—his gun—in her hand, pointing it at his head.
He squinted, trying to bring her into focus. All he could make out was shiny dark hair.
Last night, when he'd watched her come out of the tavern all bundled up, wearing that silly-ass hat, he'd figured she had to be at least a hundred.
But then, later, he'd noticed her hair. Noticed the way it reflected light. Like a kid's. It had looked so soft, still holding the magic of innocence and youth. He'd wanted to touch it. For a moment, her hair had taken him back, reminding him of his fleeting childhood.
Sorrow could be sharp. Sorrow could be dull. But the sudden stab of bittersweet longing took him by surprise, made him pull in a quick, aching breath.
Last night, he’d had every intention of waking up to untie her. He’d never meant to leave her bound for very long.
But it seemed he’d overslept.
So many mistakes. So many bad moves.
Life was hard.
And it kept getting harder.
Give him a playing field where everything was clear, where people did what they were supposed to do. That’s what he liked. He could handle that. But real life. It was like chess without the rules.
He shifted his hips against the mattress. He shoved himself to a sitting position. Son of a bitch. His side hurt like hell. He probably had a couple of cracked ribs. His head hurt even more.
“Gotta go.”
His voice sounded kind of sloppy, kind of thick, even to him.
He knew he had to keep moving, knew someone was after him, but he couldn’t remember why.
“Who are you?” she asked, the gun still pointing at his head.
“Who am I?” he asked in a contemplative voice. Good question. “You know who I am? I’m the guy who goes around to all the hand dryers in all the gas stations of the world, and once I find those dryers, I take out my trusty pocket knife and scratch the immortal words, Wipe Hands on Panties.” He paused, waiting.
She didn’t say anything, but she looked confused as hell.
“Impressed?” he asked. “You should be.” That confused her even more. Join the club. It confused him, too. But it was funny. Just funny as hell. He laughed, then quickly stopped. God, his head hurt.
He wished the room would quit swirling. “Gotta hit the road.”
“I’m holding a gun on you.”
“That’s okay. I still gotta go. Got places to go, people to meet.” What the hell was he talking about? “But you gotta watch out.” He waggled a finger at her. “I want you to know it was only because of my tactical skills that I was able to outmaneuver and beat them at their own game.”
“Beat who?”
His head was spinning. He felt drunk. He thought about his work. Thought about the people he’d taken out. He hated it, hated his life and what he had become. “I’m an assassin, you know,” he said confidentially. It was true. That’s what his life had been reduced to. “I’m nothing more than a hired gun.”
He heard her quick intake of breath. She was scared of him. He was sorry about that. But a lot of people were scared of him. He shoved himself to his feet and stood there swaying, the pain in his side mind-numbing, his head screaming.
He began to move toward her.
“Stay back.”
She jabbed at the air with the gun, holding it with both hands, taking a step away from him.
He caught up with her, backing her into a dresser beside the door. The scent of her hair stopped him for a brief second. Without conscious thought, he lifted a piece of that shimmering sweetness to his cheek, the strands snagging on his unshaven jaw. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
And inhaled again.
God, but she smelled good.
Dylan opened his eyes to see the barrel of the gun inches from his nose. He pulled back a little, so things weren't so blurry. Past the barrel of the gun was a pair of blue-green eyes, looking scared, looking nervous.
Now she looked more like a little kid than any old lady.
“Who takes care of you?” he asked, curious, concerned.
“What?” The word held astonishment, as if she couldn't quite believe what she'd heard.
“Who takes care of you?” he repeated.
The gun barrel quit its wavering. “I take care of myself.”
“A queen is strong, but she still needs a knight.”
The room tilted. His legs felt rubbery. He let go of her hair and dropped his arm.
He was thirsty.
Damn thirsty.
He pushed past her and headed in the direction of the kitchen.
In the refrigerator, he found what he was looking for: water. He unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottle to his mouth. He was still guzzling the water when he heard a click. It was the sound of a pistol being cocked.
“Get out of my house,” the mothball woman demanded. “Now. ”
He continued to drink, water running down his chin until he polished off the entire bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Had he taken the bullets out of the gun? He couldn't remember. Wished to hell he could remember.
He was losing it.
He watched her as she stood there, the gun shaking all over the place.
And as he stood there staring at her, he got the oddest urge.
To kiss her.
Which was weird as hell, considering the fact that she was pointing a gun at his head.
He smiled at her.
He could see that worried her even more. “W-why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “Quit looking at me like that.”
Instead of kissing her, he walked past her and found his coat on the couch where he’d left it. He shrugged into it, grimacing at his bruised ribs. He’d forgotten about them. It was hard to keep track of everything. There was just so damn much going on.
“What are you doing?”
She’d followed him.
“Leaving.”
He didn’t feel quite so dizzy.
He crossed the room. When he opened the door, cold air hit him full in the face, reviving him.
Hell, he was okay.
~0~
The storm that weathermen had been predicting for days had finally hit.
Heedless of the thickly falling snow, Claire watched in disgust as Hallie followed the man to her battered Jeep. “Here Hallie.” Holding the gun in one hand, she slapped the other hand against her thigh. “Come here, Hallie.”
Hallie ignored her and continued to smile her adoring dog smile directly at the very primate who’d abducted her mistress.
Claire watched as the man stuck the key in the ignition. Watched as he started the engine. Watched as he tried to pull away. The Jeep died and he had to start it again.
“I’ll shoot you!” she shouted, grasping the butt of the revolver with both hands, assuming a serious stance with legs braced apart.
He reversed, stuck the Jeep into first, and spun away, the tires sliding in the rapidly building snow.
Claire watched as her Jeep, her one connection to the outside world, disappeared around the corner.
“Damn. “
She lowered the gun.
At least he was gone. That was the important thing.
She thought about the way he’d smiled at her, a secret kind of smile, a smile that had scared her, that had made her heart flutter. And then she looked at Hallie
, who was staring down the deserted road as if her doggy heart had been broken. Claire patted her head. “I guess we’ve both got rotten taste in men."
~0~
An hour later, Claire was wolfing down a breakfast bar when her gaze landed on the purse she’d dropped on the kitchen table last night. She opened it and pulled out the voodoo doll.
Hmm.
A woman on a mission of revenge, she jumped to her feet and hurried to the bedroom, to the bed to examine the pillow where the felon had rested his head. She found a couple of straight dark hairs about two inches long.
Excited, she returned to the kitchen and quickly found a squeeze container of school glue. With the glue, she attached the hair to the doll’s head. Then she turned the voodoo doll over to the bad side, found a black needle, and jabbed it into the doll’s head, at the temple.
~0~
With one hand on the wheel, Dylan tugged off his jacket, trying to ignore the pain in his side. He felt dizzy again.
He rolled down the window and stuck his head partway out, doing the dog thing. It didn’t help. He pulled his head back in.
He blinked, trying to see through the falling snow.
He blinked again. It was a slow blink this time. An I--can-hardly-keep-my-eyes-open kind of blink.
When he opened his eyes again, there was a tree, a huge evergreen tree in the middle of the road.
It didn't move when he hit it.
Chapter 6
Claire went through the cabin, making sure the back door and windows, even the upstairs windows in the loft were locked. Then she spent some meaningful time staring at the gun she’d left lying on the kitchen table next to her purse and box of generic cornflakes. She was no weapons expert—only having been given a crash course from Libby, who’d been trying to get Claire to buy a handgun for years—but she finally figured out how to remove the cartridge.
Empty.
With the cartridge out of the way, she squinted down the chamber, the barrel pointing away from her. It was empty, too.
She’d been abducted and held hostage with a gun that wasn’t loaded. There was no sense in giving Dylan the benefit of the doubt. It was highly likely that he hadn't known there were no bullets in it.
She took the gun upstairs, to the loft. The loft wasn’t the handiest place to get to. It had once had spring-loaded wooden steps attached to a door that you pulled down from the ceiling. When that contraption went on the blink, the owners replaced it with a ten-foot stepladder. Claire actually liked it. To her, it made the loft seem a little like a tree house.
