closest, and he pulled her toward it, snatching up a pair of work gloves on the way. Her muscles turned liquid with fear. Why did he need gloves?
The pressure on her throat eased. She coughed. 'Cal… Don't…'
He began to drag her toward the Chevy. A fresh rush of terror gave her new strength. She lashed out at him, summoning every bit of energy she had left. She fought with vicious determination, using fists and teeth and feet. He cursed and wrenched her around. Before she could protect herself, his arm shot back and he struck her again.
An angry black whirlpool sucked at her, drawing her inexorably toward its viscous center. Someone was pulling at her, moving her body about. No! She wouldn't be shut in the closet. The fox head was there. The balloon man. She tried to fight, but something was happening to her arms. She couldn't lift them, couldn't move them. There were furs all around, suffocating her. Garish balloons swam in front of her eyes in a slow drifting dance. She wanted to watch them, but someone was breathing harshly in her ear. Her arms. Why couldn't she move her arms?
Scarlet and the glitter of rhinestones swam before her eyes. Her head sagged forward and then back. Gradually she realized that she was behind the wheel of a car. The housekeeper's old Chevy. The scarlet and rhinestone pattern swimming in front of her came into focus. It was the long scarf from her evening gown. Cal was wearing the work gloves and tying her wrists to the steering wheel with the scarf from her dress.
'No…' she gasped. She tried to move, but her limbs wouldn't work and something was wrong with her legs. Her ankles were tied.
Cal's breath rasped in her ears. He was leaning in through the open car door to secure her wrists. She saw the gray lightning bolt that shot through his hair, and struggled to stay conscious. Her wrists were throbbing and the rhinestones on the scarf were cutting into her skin. He had tied the scarf much too tight. Why was he tying her wrists? He had said she was going to commit suicide.
'Don't do this…' she murmured, her words slurred.
He stepped back to survey his work. And then, in a gesture that seemed almost tender, he pushed her hair back into place and straightened her dress. When he was satisfied, he rolled down the car window and shut the door.
Her throat was dry, her tongue felt swollen. She was still dazed from the blow and she had difficulty speaking. 'Cal… don't do this.'
'It didn't have to happen,' he whispered. She heard remorse in his voice, but the wildness was still in his eyes. 'I never intended to let it go this far. But I can't have you ruin me.'
'I won't… tell. I promise.'
'I'm sorry. Truly.' He checked the scarf. Her hands had begun to cramp painfully, and they twitched when he touched them. 'I'll come back and untie you,' he murmured gently. 'Afterward.'
Afterward. After she was dead. Before anyone discovered her body. They would think she had killed herself. 'No,' she moaned.
He turned on the ignition and the Chevy's engine sprang to life. Helplessly she watched as he went over to Paige's Mercedes and turned it on, too. The powerful German engine roared. He stood by the car and straightened his tuxedo. For a moment the scene looked to her like a slick magazine ad. Expensive car. Expensive clothes. Expensive, evil man.
She screamed and began to struggle against the knots, trying to slide her wrists along the steering wheel so she could reach the gear shift. But the knots were too tight and her struggles were pushing the sharp prongs of the rhinestones deeper into her flesh. He walked toward the door that led into the house, returned the gloves to the shelf, and then removed his handkerchief from his pocket. Using it to turn the doorknob, he disappeared.
She refused to go silently to her death, and she cried out until her throat was raw. How long did it take to die of carbon monoxide poisoning? Maybe someone would come into this wing of the house. Maybe someone would hear her.
Her wrists wouldn't move. Sobbing, she began to throw herself against the steering wheel, trying to sound the horn. But it was recessed and she couldn't reach it with her body.
Her struggles were forcing her to consume the tainted oxygen at an alarming rate. She cried out as she saw blood beginning to seep through the scarf, and she realized that the rhinestones had cut into her flesh in a dozen places. She tried to hit the gear shift with her legs, but the rope around her ankles made it impossible for her to maneuver.
While she struggled, the automobile engines roared away in a death chorus. As she watched her blood seep in rusty patterns through the scarf, her life had never seemed more precious. She didn't want to die. When the police saw the blood on her wrists, they would know she hadn't committed suicide. And sooner or later someone would find the tape recorder. But bringing Cal to justice no longer seemed to matter.
Mitch's face swam in front of her eyes. As she faced death, she knew that she loved him. She had loved him for years, but since she was married, she had made herself believe it was merely friendship. He was good and kind and strong, everything a man should be. And the fact that he loved her sister didn't diminish her feelings for him at all.
The monster engines continued to spew out their poison. The blood trickled from the wounds in her wrists. How much time had passed? Was she starting to get sleepy? Please God, no. Don't let me get sleepy.
She wanted a baby. She wanted to tell her sister that she loved her. She wanted to bask in the light of Yank's gentle eyes. She wanted to see Mitch again. Even if she couldn't have him, she wanted to watch that wonderful face soften in a smile. Please, God, don't let me die.
And, gradually, a sense of peacefulness came over her. Her head wobbled and her forehead dropped against the top of the steering wheel. She needed to rest. Just for a little while. Just until she felt stronger.
And then she heard her father's voice.
She saw Joel standing before her, holding out his arms. His face was as young and as golden as a prince's. He was real. He wasn't dead. He didn't hate her.
Her eyelids fluttered.
His smile faded and he looked angry with her. Just like the day she had run away with Sam Gamble. So fierce and angry.
No. She didn't want to move them. She was too tired. But he kept calling out to her over and over again.
The scarves were too tight. Her wrists were bleeding and she was sleepy. But he looked so angry-she didn't want to make him angry-he looked so angry that she tried once more. Gathering the small amount of strength she had left, she struggled against her bonds. For the last time, she pulled at the knots.
And her wrists began to move in their slippery path of blood. Pain clawed at her as she tried to slide them down along the steering wheel. Everything was spinning. She had to rest. She had to make the pain stop. Just for a moment.
Her fingers bumped against the gear shift, but she could no longer remember why it had been so important to reach it.
She tried to focus, tried to remember what she had to do. With a rasping breath she tugged on the gear shift and awkwardly maneuvered the car into reverse.
But she had expended the last of her energy, and there was nothing left.
He expected too much of her. He had always expected too much. Her feet were heavy. Much too heavy to lift.
She pushed her clumsy feet against the accelerator.
The oxygen-eating engine roared. Her neck snapped as the car shot backward. It crashed through the garage door and catapulted out onto the driveway.
The slap of fresh, pure oxygen acted like a shot of adrenaline. She sucked the life-giving air into her lungs. Several minutes passed. Strength began to flow back into her body, and with the strength came agonizing shards of pain in her wrists.
