“I’m exhausted, too,” Fran says. “I’ll see you all in the morning.” Pausing, she adds, “If you hear anything about Cynthia or Jason before then, please call me.”
Plowing finger marks through his hair, “I’m whipped too,” Mick says. “Good night, I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
When he steps outside, Mick sees that the storm has given way to a clear night sky strewn with stars glistening like ice. His heart aches. He would like to have seen Emma, but he understands her exhaustion. He feels it too.
As he slips into bed, he thinks, How is it that an auburn-haired, green-eyed woman has burst onto the scene and stolen my heart? I’ve fallen, he tells himself. I’ve fallen in love with her
Knowing that he’ll see her in the morning, he smiles and falls into a deep, bone-weary sleep.
Jason looks at Emma. As he watches her, he backs toward the front door and throws the deadbolt. “Now we’re going on a little journey.”
“Where are we going?” Emma asks, trying to keep fear out of her voice.
“You’ll just have to wait and see. Let me remind you,” he says, a grim smile of promise on his face. “If you say one word, or try to call attention in any way, I’ll kill you.”
Pulling the knife from his pocket, he presses his thumb under the thumb-stud, pushing out the blade so she can see its razor-sharp edge.
“Yours wouldn’t be the first throat I’ve slit,” he says baldly. “Do you understand me?”
Emma nods.
“I can’t hear you,” he taunts.
Looking straight into the twin eyes of evil, she says, “Yes, I understand.”
Closing the blade with his thigh, he turns out the light, opens the sliding glass door, pushes her chair out onto the smooth-tiled patio, and then closes the slider behind them.
He can feel the blood pumping in his veins, and a thrill of excitement as darkness envelops them. He’d nearly forgotten the adrenaline rush. These days it usually only comes with the kill.
“Our destination isn’t that far. If you work with me, we’ll be there soon. If you work against me, you could—” He pauses, pretending to think of a suitable word. “Tumble, wheelchair and all—and break your pretty little neck. If you enjoy breathing, I suggest you work with me.”
Surrounded by trees, Jason pushes Emma in her wheelchair through the stormy night.
Think Emma. Think.
“I’m scared,” she whispers just loud enough for Jason to hear.
“Well good, then my plan’s working,” he replies.
Pretending to cry, she feigns sniffing. “Do you have a tissue—”
“Use the back of your hand.”
Emma swallows and nods.
Covering her face with her hands, she tips her head forward, pretending to cry. The drape of her hair curtains the removal of a pearl earring she conceals in her hand.
Jason steps around the chair, juts his face into hers, and threatens, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you something to cry about.” And he slaps her across the face again.
Biting the inside of her lip to stifle a scathing remark, Emma tastes blood. Seething with anger, she pretends remorse. “I’m sorry,” she sniffs.
When he steps behind her chair to continue pushing, she pretends to wipe her nose with the back of her hand. There, I’ve got the other earring.
She hides a self-satisfied smile and surreptitiously drops the first pearl on the ground.
A few dozen yards later, the terrain becomes even rougher, and though it’s dark, she can feel the grade steepen sharply.
“It’s going to get much rougher from this point on,” Jason rasps, nearly out of breath from trying to keep the chair in his one-handed grip.
Unused to this point, Emma reaches for the handbrakes to help slow their decent, inconspicuously letting go of the second earring.
Tripping on a rock, Jason stumbles. “Fuck!” he shouts, releasing the wheelchair.
Emma, now on a wild ride, uses every ounce of her upper-body strength to pull the handbrakes. And though her wheelchair slows, it doesn’t stop until one of the wheels strikes a boulder and she’s thrown from her seat, landing face-down on the rock-strewn ground.
Dizzy and nauseous, she closes her eyes, trying to focus on the colorless void behind her lids.
Moving with stealth, Jason reaches Emma’s crumpled heap. Her legs are twisted. She’s laying perfectly still.
Toeing her body over with his shoe, moonlight reveals her mud-spattered face.
Leaning closer, he knows she’s not dead because of the slight moan that escapes her lips. Straightening, he hisses a barked whisper. “Get up.”
Emma opens her eyes slowly. Sharper than his razor-edged knife, Jason knows that if looks could kill, he’d be dead.
Speaking through clenched teeth. “Why do you think I use a wheelchair?”
“Oh, that’s right, you’re a gimp,” he sneers, “but it’s only your legs.”
Panther-like he circles her.
“If I’m not mistaken, you were pulling on handbrakes during that unexpected little joy ride. Why didn’t you say there were brakes when I was trying to keep us from barreling down the slope?”
“If you’ll remember,” she says evenly, “you told me to keep my mouth shut.”
Jaw jutting forward, nostrils flared, Jason bends down and backhands her across the face yet again. “Don’t get smart with me. The only reason I haven’t slit your throat is that you’re the perfect bait for what I’m catching.
“You happened to have landed almost on our doorstep. I’m taking your wheelchair in with me. If you want to use it again, you’ll have to earn it back. Since you’re only a gimp from the waist down, you can use your arms and crawl on your belly. Yes, I’d like that. And don’t try anything clever, I’ll be watching you from inside.”
Using his left arm, he picks up the damaged wheelchair and disappears through an opening in the mountainside, leaving Emma, mouth agape, staring after him.
If
