A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  After ten minutes, Hammond swung the car off the highway at another exit. Her mind registered the change enough to wonder at it; there didn't seem to be anything to justify stopping there. He turned onto a paved, two-lane road running through a heavily wooded, sparsely populated area. Two or three miles from the highway, he stopped, pulling the car off the road onto a narrow, sandy shoulder by the edge of a dense wood.

  He got out, came around to the passenger door, unlocked it, opened it, and ordered her to get out. He held the little gun—the same one he'd used to threaten Danny—pointed at her. Sunlight gleamed on it, scattering sparks of light. Cathy moved stiffly, like a robot, her body responding to his commands without the intervention of her brain.

  She couldn't see any reasonable destination. There were no buildings, no driveway, not even a sign. Hammond dug the gun into her side as she straightened, then pointed into the woods. "Move," he ordered.

  Near the edge of the road, considerable underbrush impeded their progress. Her legs were scraped and torn as they pushed their way through. Further into the trees, though, the underbrush thinned and all but disappeared, shaded out by the dense stands of tall oaks, hickories, and birches. The trees formed a pleasant canopy to screen the heat of the sun. The only sound was the buzzing of insects, chirping of the birds and, occasionally, a small scurrying animal. Dry leaves crunched underfoot, and a rabbit stopped to watch them pass before hopping away.

  Moving through the silent wood, Cathy had a sudden, terrifying sense of absolute aloneness. The shafts of trees formed a wall around her, almost voiding the outside world entirely. No traffic noises intruded, no voices spoke; she felt as though she were alone on the Earth with the last man she could ever want for a companion. It might as well be true. No help could or would reach her here. Whatever happened, she was entirely on her own.

  She felt as scared as she'd ever been in her life. Even two nights ago when Hammond had threatened her and Danny, she'd had Danny's company and the comforting knowledge that Peter and Tom Dunning were around and waiting for their opportunity to rescue them.

  That wouldn't happen this time. Peter had no idea where she was, might not even know she'd been kidnapped. But, even if he did, there was no way he could find her here. How could he guess where she might be? If Hammond were to kill her, her body might never be found. No. She squashed that thought, it wasn't just unbearable… Hammond wouldn't—couldn't—kill her yet, he didn't have the information he wanted. She tripped over a branch and narrowly avoided falling flat on her face.

  Peter. In her terror, he was the one comforting thought she could latch onto. She tried to build a mental picture of him and hold it. The image she created was fuzzy and somehow refused to come into focus. The outlines she could get clearly: his tall, lean, well-muscled form; blond hair, thick and straight, with a tendency to fall across his forehead—it was often ruffled in other places, too, because he ran his hands through it when disturbed—green eyes, almost the color of the leaves on the hickories, dominating his thin face. She could picture his features individually. But why wouldn't they come together and form a clear picture she could hold? She was missing a piece of the man. Something that pulled all the rest together, something that stamped all the pieces with his singularity, something she couldn't bring into focus because he never let her get close enough to get a clear view of it.

  God, how she needed something to cling to. The fear twisted her insides and mashed them into jelly. She moved leadenly, climbing over the occasional fallen tree, trying to avoid thorn bushes. Her foot went down on a hole hidden by the leafy ground cover, and she fell painfully, twisting her ankle. Hammond grabbed her wrist and dragged her back to her feet. She limped on.

  She reached for the mental image of Peter and clung to it as though it were the man himself. Incomplete and insubstantial, there was still a strength from which she could draw comfort. His integrity, his loyalty, his sense of responsibility, those could be with her and give her courage and hope even though he wasn't present in the flesh.

  "Stop!"

  Cathy's body halted automatically and she looked around. They stood in a small open area, still shaded, but, just ahead, a clearing stretched treeless, flat, and free of bushes and fallen branches. The quiet was so deep she felt it like a blanket laid over the whole scene. They were miles from anything resembling civilization.

  "Sit down, back against that tree," Hammond ordered, and Cathy hadn't the will or the courage to do anything but obey. Rough bark scraped her back, crisp leaves poked her legs through the thin skirt. He put the gun away, pulled a thin length of cord from his pocket and pulled her arms around the tree, tying them together in back. The position put an uncomfortable strain on her shoulders.

  He came back and sat cross-legged beside her. For several long minutes, he stared at her, watching her face for a bit, then sweeping his gaze along the rest of her body and slowly bringing it back to her face again.

  "You're not beautiful," he said, after a long, aching silence. "Not beautiful," he repeated thoughtfully, "but you've got something else." He reached out and ran a finger down her cheek. Cathy flinched from the touch. "Spirit, for sure. You're not beautiful, but, by God, I want you anyway." She shivered with a wholly new, totally unexpected fear.

  His aquamarine eyes withdrew suddenly, brooding at the ground, almost sad. He came out of it with a jerk. "Enough of that," he told himself, and took the advice. His eyes were attentive and focused when he turned to her again.

  He pulled something from another pocket, but it wasn't a gun this time. The knife he held was stainless steel, about six inches long with a slightly curved blade; she didn't need to feel the edge to know it was sharp enough to split hairs. He didn't say anything, but held the knife, balancing it across one finger, shuffling it from hand to hand, turning it this way and that so it caught an occasional ray of light, running a loving finger along the blade. She watched with hypnotized fascination, just as he intended. He met her eyes a moment and the glint of humor returned to his.

  "We're a long way from anywhere," he said. "Nothing for miles. Nobody's going to rescue you this time, sweetheart." He laughed. "You and I could have a real good time. Or we could have a real bad time—from your point of view, of course. I'll enjoy it either way, so I'm going to leave the decision to you. Here's the deal: you have information I want; you're going to give it to me. You can give it to me now and avoid a lot of unpleasantness, or you can give it to me later. But you're going to tell me what I want to know, whether we do it the hard way or the easy way." He made it sound so horribly reasonable, as though he were explaining the facts of a business deal to a slightly dense child.

  She stared at him wordlessly. Maybe she was that slightly dense child after all; her brain refused to accept the facts as presented.

  Hammond leaned closer and held the knife in front of her face. "It's very sharp, you know. But then, you saw what it did to the boy. The stupid kid thought he could hold out, but he was wrong. You're smarter than him, you won't make the same mistake. I hope not. Your face is very attractive, it would be a shame if something were to happen to it. But it won't, will it? You're going to tell me, aren't you? And no tricks this time."

  She couldn't speak. Cathy stared at him stupidly and tried to make her brain function, do something, anything to stop the nightmare.

  He moved the knife closer and placed the blade against her cheek. The metal felt icy cold on her skin. "You're going to tell me, aren't you?" She tried to take a breath, but it came out as a sob; she nodded to indicate her acquiescence. Hammond's face lit with steely pleasure. "Good," he said, "You'll take me to it?"

  She nodded again.

  "No tricks this time, sweetheart, or you'll wish you'd never been born."

  "No tricks," she finally found voice enough to say.

  Hammond put the knife back in his pocket, went back around the tree, and undid the cords holding her hands. She pulled them back into her lap and rubbed her wrists. He stood looking at her, then re
ached down and pulled her to her feet. He put his arms around her and pulled her against his body. Cathy stopped breathing for a long minute, suffocated with a wordless terror.

  "Good," he said. "Now we've got that taken care of we can get to the fun part." He tried to kiss her and she pulled back away.

  "What's the matter, sweetheart? I'm not repulsive. Most women think I'm pretty good-looking, in fact. And you're no icicle. Not a woman who looks like you. You didn't mind when I kissed you before."

  "I... No…" Her voice stuck in her throat, but she shook her head.

  "Yes. You owe me for that runaround you gave me. Do you know how embarrassing that was?" His mouth sought hers again. She twisted away from his embrace and tried to run. He caught her before she'd gone more than twenty yards, grabbing her from behind, spinning her around, and slapping her hard across the face. All traces of humor had disappeared. His expression was vicious.

  "Don't try that again," he ordered, and reinforced it by hitting her again and then again. She was knocked off her feet by the last blow. She fell into a tree, winded, head reeling. He grabbed her blouse, pulled her upright, and kissed her again. She tolerated him for a minute, then turned her head and tried to push him away. Her rejection infuriated him further, and he hit her several more times until she fell backwards into the leaves. She lay still, dizzy, disoriented, and nauseated. He stood over her and yanked her to her feet. The motion set off a chorus of jackhammers in her head and sent her spinning into a merciful darkness where there was no pain or terror.

  She woke with the sensation of something cool and wet on her face. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. She was back in the car, sprawled on the front seat and Hammond was wiping her face with a damp rag. He looked hot and sweaty himself. He must have carried her back. From the relief on his face when he saw her eyes open, she thought he might have been worried.

  Looking at him now, Cathy found she was no longer terrified. Hatred, anger, outrage she had, but low-key; for the moment, she was wrapped in a comfortable emotional numbness. Her head throbbed with a percussive pounding against her skull. Hammond got into the car, started it, and drove back to the highway.

  "You tell me where to go and tell me right," he said.

  "Keep going into town," Cathy answered calmly. "I'll tell you where to get off."

  Despite the pain, her brain was working again, and the first decision she made was that, come whatever, she was going to defeat Hammond. She didn't know how, but she was going to do it. That resolve made her feel better.

  What could she do now? Or, what would Peter expect her to do? That was one advantage they had. It didn't seem to have occurred to Hammond that she'd no longer be the only one who knew where the evidence was. If Peter figured out that she'd been kidnapped by Hammond again—and he would, what else could have happened to her?—then he'd also know she'd have no choice but to take him to the junkyard. She didn't dare try to fool him again, and Hammond would take her along to assure she didn't attempt it.

  If Peter figured that much out, and she thought he would, then his obvious move would be to beat them to the junkyard, to get there and lay in wait—it was the only place he could be absolutely sure their paths would cross. But he'd have to move quickly. He could expect that Hammond would waste no time. Which meant the only help he'd have would be Danny. At least the boy was in better physical condition now than a few days ago.

  One thing she could do for them, though—delay Hammond as much as possible. Hammond himself had already provided some delay, and a fine irony that might prove to be, but she'd do what little she could to cost him more time.

  It wasn't much, but she took him to the junkyard by the most roundabout route she thought she could get away with. They went five miles farther down the highway than necessary and retraced the distance on a heavily-trafficked road with a stoplight every quarter mile.

  There were no other cars in the parking lot and no evidence anyone else was there. Her stomach twisted into a knot of apprehension. If they were here, Peter wouldn't let their presence be visible. But what if she were wrong, and they weren't here at all?

  Hammond parked in front, and got out of the car holding the gun. She went ahead of him into the little room, silencing about half the birds inside. Ike came out from behind his curtain and she thought she detected signs of strain in his smile, but she could have imagined it. Cathy told him they wanted to look at some stuff in the yard, and he told her to go right ahead.

  She led Hammond into the yard and to the sagging silver bullet-shaped trailer in the corner. He looked at it and made the connection. "Airstream, eh? So that's what he meant. Clever, lady. Inside?"

  "I assume so," she said.

  "Go."

  She walked up the creaky steps and grabbed the door. It squeaked loudly as it swung open.

  -35-

  Thursday

  The service station was busy on a Thursday afternoon in early summer. Cars zipped in and out, some owners getting gas, others stopping for a drink from the small food store or to use the restrooms. Peter wiped a trickle of perspiration off his face as he replaced the nozzle on the pump and went inside to pay. A gray car screeched out of the parking lot on the far side of the station.

  Danny was at the counter, buying a bottle of Coke and two packages of crackers. He waited while Peter paid for the gas, and they walked back to the car together. "Where's Cathy?" he asked.

  "She went to the ladies' room," Peter answered and looked at his watch. "Taking her time about it, too."

  They stood by the side of the car, waiting and talking for a minute. Then Peter looked at his watch again, and scanned the station lot uneasily.

  "Something's wrong," he said. He started back toward the building. Danny put the half-full soft drink and the crackers in the car, then followed him. The ladies' restroom was on the far side of the building and Peter knocked on the locked door.

  "Just a minute," a voice yelled from within. It wasn't Cathy's.

  They waited with barely controlled impatience for a long few minutes until a woman emerged. She had streaked blonde hair with dark roots and a weather-worn face.

  "We're looking for a woman who came in here a few minutes ago," Peter said. "Tall, thin, reddish-brown hair. Is she in there?"

  "Nope," the woman answered. "Just me; haven't seen anyone looked like that."

  She walked away and Peter and Danny glanced at each other, fear stirring in both.

  "Maybe she went back inside," Danny suggested. Peter nodded grimly and they returned to the front and re-entered the food store. Cathy was nowhere in sight, and the proprietor hadn't seen her since she'd left with the coffees. They walked out again, made a circuit around the building, but saw no sign of her.

  Peter went back to the ladies' room. The door was unlocked, so he pushed it open and walked in. The cubicle held the usual furnishings. It was unoccupied and bore no messages. He shut the door and stood looking around the station when it dawned on him Cathy was no longer there.

  Danny was frowning at the ground nearby. He went down on one knee, dipped his finger in a small puddle, and smelled it. "There was a car parked here not long ago," he said. "Radiator's got a slow leak."

  "Are you sure?" Peter asked.

  "Rusty water, and it'd be gone quick in this heat," Danny explained.

  Peter looked around again, saw an odd-looking paper on the ground, and picked it up.

  "What is it?" Danny asked.

  "Your release from the hospital."

  "What?"

  "Cathy had it in her pocketbook." Peter saw puzzled fear in the younger man's eyes. He put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's get back to the car. Cathy's not here."

  "Hammond?"

  "Most likely." Peter stopped and pulled the car keys out of his pocket. "Are you in condition to drive?"

  "Yeah, if you want me to," Danny answered.

  "Good." Peter tossed him the keys. "I've got some thinking to do."

  Peter slid into the passenger side. Cath
y had left the coffees there, and he opened one and took a careful sip while Danny started the car and drove back onto the highway. The hot liquid singed his tongue. "Don't get stopped for speeding, but don't waste any time either."

  "You wanna try and catch Hammond?"

  "No point in it," Peter answered. "He's not driving the Bronco, and we don't know the car. He's got a good ten-minute head start, besides. We'll have to do this some other way." He sat quietly for a few minutes. "Hammond must be getting desperate," he mused aloud. "His confederates are in jail, and he must know we'll go straight to get the book and take it to the police. So he's got to get to it first. He's got Cathy, and he'll make her take him there right away."

  "Think she'll try to fool him again?"

  Peter thought about it, finally shook his head. "She'd know she couldn't get away with it a second time. Hammond would... I don't want to think about it." He turned away, looking out the window to hide his face until he had control again. He drank the rest of the coffee, and the heat hit him with a bracing shock. "She'll have to take Hammond to it." He stopped and put down the empty coffee cup. "How are you feeling now?"

  Danny turned to look at him. "Pretty good," he said. "Why?"

  "Because we don't dare risk the police and we don't have time to get help anywhere else. It looks like you and me. I assume you'll help? It means facing Hammond again."

  Danny's eyes narrowed. "I'd like to face that –——— ——— again with a knife in one hand and a blowtorch in the other." Peter winced at the young man's tone and choice of words. "But no matter who it was, I'd go after Cathy anyway. You couldn't stop me; I hope you wouldn't try."