Charlotte was, but it took every bit of will and effort she could manage. The ache in her stomach had spread throughout her body. But she was breathing again. She could hear the air hissing through her nose. Getting louder. The frantic hissing reminded her that all they had to do was pinch her nostrils for a minute or so and she'd be dead. That was all that stood between her and nothing. Now she was truly terrified.
She calmed her fears somewhat by telling herself there was at least some hope. Don had been afraid she might suffocate with the tape over her mouth, so they didn't intend to kill her.
Did they?
She tried to convince herself that the answer was no. Then what was going on? A kidnapping? Hardly. There wasn't anyone who'd pay even a small amount of money to have Charlotte returned. There was no place for her to be returned to, since she'd cut off all family ties a month ago when she moved to New York after the inevitable blowup. It wasn't acceptable to be a lesbian in a small town in Indiana. Her parents had said that they didn't want to see her again, that she was no longer their daughter. Charlotte had accepted their judgment and pronouncement, and after meeting Dixie she knew she could live with the situation.
Now this. Some kind of sexual thing? Dixie was plenty kinky. Maybe this was all to frighten Charlotte, give her the ultimate masochistic kick. But they'd never gone this far before. Not half this far. Charlotte managed to crane her neck and look up at Dixie. Dixie smiled at her. Charlotte knew that smile. This time it frightened her. Really frightened her.
Was that the idea? She prayed it was the idea. A kinky game. Nothing more. In an hour or two at most it would be over.
She saw that Don had something else in his hand. A thin strip of white plastic. It was one of those ties that once placed around something had to be cut to be removed. Sometimes the police used them instead of handcuffs.
The police. Charlotte wouldn't mind seeing them right now.
Dixie momentarily released Charlotte, then grasped her wrists and yanked her arms behind her back. Charlotte felt the plastic tie go on and tighten, cutting painfully into her flesh. She screamed silently into the duct tape.
Now she struggled to stand on her own. Dixie helped her, grabbing her beneath each arm and supporting her. The way Charlotte's wrists were strapped behind her, she still had to slump forward, but she was standing.
While Dixie held her, Don went to the box and returned with some kind of cutter with a razor blade in it. Charlotte kicked out her legs desperately and banged her heels against the hard floor. She remembered the clear plastic sheet spread over the floor, the kind painters used so they wouldn't make a mess. Don was going to cut her throat. A single, quick slash and her life would gush from her. She knew it!
But he didn't use the blade that way at all.
Instead he used it to cut along the seams of her blouse. He yanked the blouse away as if performing a magic trick and tossed it over by the box. He cut her bra straps and removed her bra. Tossed it over to land on her blouse. She kicked out futilely. One of her sandals flew off and landed near the pile of clothes, as if she'd tried to place it there. Don was staring at her intently now, but while his eyes were alive his features were set, almost wooden. He cupped one of her bare breasts in his hand for a moment, then unbuckled her belt, worked the button and zipper on her jeans, and tugged at the waist. When he'd inched the jeans down a bit, he lifted her feet and clutched the denim around her ankles and pulled the jeans off, along with her remaining sandal. Charlotte wriggled and tried to kick him. He sidestepped her bare foot and had her panties off before she knew what had happened.
Don went back to the box and drew from it a folded clear plastic drop cloth, like the one on the floor, only smaller. He unfolded it and draped it over the hood of the car.
He came back and stood in front of Charlotte, just out of kicking range, and looked at Dixie.
'Do we really want to do this?' he asked.
'Both of us do,' Charlotte heard Dixie say in a throaty voice. She could feel Dixie's warm breath in her ear.
Don went again to the box and this time drew out what looked like a broomstick, only it was shorter, and pointed.
At first Charlotte didn't realize what that meant. When she did, she was aware of a warm wetness flowing down her legs as terror took over every corner of her mind.
This isn't happening. This is a dream. Please, God! It has to be a dream!
Maybe God had heard her, because she became oddly detached from what was happening. It was as if there were no place, no time, only fear so deeply rooted she couldn't bear to accept its reality.
It was a mercy that she was in a trance as Don took her from Dixie and walked her as if she were a zombie to where the plastic sheet was draped over the hood. He shoved her onto the hood, lifting her slightly so her feet were off the floor.
She felt her legs being forced apart. She tried to put them together, but Don's body was between them now, easing them ever farther apart. Charlotte saw Dixie on the other side of the hood watching her. Both of Dixie's hands were on the hood and she didn't have the sharpened broomstick.
Don must have it.
Don must have it!
The trance was broken.
Through unbelievable pain, the terror and panic rushed in.
Charlotte began to scream, over and over. Each scream filtered through the tape as a muted, soft hum. Almost like coos of intense pleasure. Dixie leaned closer over the warm hood, still watching with glittering black eyes, her face like stone.
Charlotte loved Dixie. She really did.
Then there was only the pain.
32
It took Jill Clark almost half an hour to tell Quinn everything. When she was finished, she wasn't sure how she felt about what she'd done.
She still felt she'd had to do it, to talk to Quinn before her next date with Tony. But now she began to think again about what Madeline had told her and wondered if she really trusted Quinn. If she trusted anyone.
She hadn't been disappointed in Quinn. His strength and calm were obvious and reassured her, drew her out. He seemed to understand and to forgive her for any naivete or foolishness that had led her to this predicament. But was that the idea? Was it a trick? Was everything a trick?
The sense of being drained, of absolution, after telling her tale was fast disappearing. She'd opened herself to new problems. She was still suspicious of everyone.
You're being paranoid. Like Madeline.
Dead Madeline, who'd had real enemies.
But she didn't know for sure that Madeline was dead. Jill had only been sure enough to come here, to talk to Quinn.
Tony. Why didn't I talk to him? Why didn't I trust Tony?
It was as if her heart had known secretly what hadn't yet found its place in her mind. Her heart hadn't trusted Tony. Was her heart right?
It hadn't been right yet.
She was still afraid.
Appraisal time.
Quinn had been reviewing his notes when Jill arrived. He'd left his reading glasses on so he'd seem less intimidating. Anything to make her conversational and keep her talking. And she'd told him plenty, the words tumbling out sometimes so close together they got tangled up.
He leaned back in his desk chair and peered over the rims of his glasses at this young woman who'd just unburdened herself to him. She seemed entirely rational but obviously distraught. She was wearing lightweight blue slacks, a white blouse with a coffee stain on it, very little makeup. Her blond hair was carelessly combed and
