Blind Pursuit

by Michael Prescott

  Would he ever stop? Never He doesn’t want to. He feels alive while killing, feels powerful and whole. This is not a tormented person. This is a man who’s quite comfortable with what he does ... and what he is.

  Gund closed his eyes briefly.

  Jackass.

  Less than a mile north of Interstate 10, he turned onto a narrow side road. The yellow sign warned NO OUTLET.

  The road was a mere strip of rutted dirt, a foot wider than the van on either side. Palo verde trees, blooming yellow, lined the road, casting windblown blossoms on Gund’s windshield. Abruptly the trees on the left side vanished, replaced by a barbed-wire fence, rows of knotty strings gleaming white in the starlight.

  Beyond the fence, ramshackle buildings slouched in crooked silhouette against the mountainous horizon. No lights burned in the windows.

  Centered in Gund’s high beams was a gate, hinged on posts that straddled the road. A padlocked chain kept it shut—an unnecessary precaution, since nobody ever came here.

  Nobody but him.

  7

  The vehicle slowed.

  Erin perceived the gradual abatement of engine noise, felt the transmission shudder through a change of gears. The ride, which had been rough for several minutes, became rougher still.

  Dirt road? Felt like one.

  The brakes sighed.

  Dead stop. Motor idling.

  Creak of a door swinging open. Pause. Clunk—the door slammed shut.

  Moving again, but only at a crawl. The chassis lurched and jounced, shock absorbers squeaking like mattress springs. Had he driven off the road altogether?

  Whatever was happening, one thing was clear. He had reached his destination.

  Her heart ran like a rabbit in her chest. She could be dead soon. Her private universe, extinguished.

  Her parents, both strict Irish Catholics, had given her the beginnings of a religious upbringing, which Lydia Connor had carried on; but college had bled a lot of that out of her. She wasn’t sure if she could believe in a life beyond this one. It was a problem she hadn’t expected to face with any urgency for years. For decades.

  Never got married. Never had a kid. Never took that trip to Ireland to look for the original Reillys and Morgans. Never, never, never; and now, maybe, she never would.

  Stop that. Stay focused.

  Again the vehicle was slowing. It rumbled to a stop.

  For the second time a door groaned open.

  Footsteps on dirt or gravel. Closer. Closer.

  He was coming for her.

  Fear soared toward blind panic; she fought to ground her emotions before they carried her away.

  To struggle would be pointless as long as her hands were bound. For the moment her best hope was to feign unconsciousness. If he thought she was still out cold, he might get careless, give her an opportunity to strike.

  She made herself go limp, drawing long, rhythmic breaths.

  Turn of a key, rattle of a sliding door. Double thump as he climbed up into the rear of the vehicle where she lay.

  He planted his feet directly before her. She smelled shoe leather.

  “Still asleep?” he murmured, sounding puzzled.

  She inhaled, exhaled, the slow cadence of her breath playing in counterpoint to the jackhammer pounding of her heart.

  Creak of a knee as he crouched down. When he spoke again, his voice was very close.

  “Well, not for much longer.”

  What did that mean? Nothing, forget it, concentrate on breathing in, out, in, out, no break in the pattern, nothing to give herself away.

  Hands.

  Large hands, rough-textured. Stroking her hair, her face.

  Was he going to rape her? Mustn’t think about that, mustn’t think about anything.

  His touch was clumsy yet tender, almost loving, but the word that issued from his mouth was uttered like an obscenity: “Filth.”

  Abruptly she was lifted. Surprise nearly jostled a gasp out of her. She felt her body tensing reflexively. With an effort of will she relaxed.

  He draped her over his right shoulder, supporting her with one hand, and rose to his feet. She heard no grunt of strain. A big man, powerful. She remembered that he had looked tall and heavyset in the lobby.

  How could she ever hope to fight him even if she got free? He must outweigh her by a hundred pounds.

  She replayed the few words he’d spoken, tried to remember if she’d heard his voice anywhere before. It was distinctive enough—gravelly and breathy at the same time, deep but not resonant.

  Not one of her current patients; she was sure of that. Nobody she’d ever treated, as best she could recall.

  A stranger, almost certainly. Yet he seemed to have strong personal feelings toward her, both positive and negative, an unsettling blend of desire and hostility.

  Scary. Scarier by the minute.

  He was climbing down out of the vehicle now. A brief pause as he bent and hefted something, apparently in his left hand. It swung in time with the rhythm of his stride, rubbing against his pants leg; she heard the whisper of friction.

  He carried her through yards of musty enclosed space, then out into the open. Night breeze on her face, chillier than it would be in town. The wind blew unobstructed here, in the desert’s open spaces.

  His shoes crackled on dirt and dry brush, then on what sounded like gravel.

  He stopped. Metallic tinkle. Keys.

  He was unlocking a door. The hinges mewled as he pushed it open.

  Inside.

  Smell of dust and neglect. Drumbeat of his footfalls on a hardwood floor.

  She heard him panting now. So he was human, at least. He was showing fatigue. Perhaps if he slipped up, she’d have some kind of chance against him.

  The sound of his footsteps altered. Not the hollow crack of contact with wood, but a more solid thud, suggestive of concrete. It took her a moment to realize that he was going down a flight of stairs.

  Cellar? Must be.

  The implications of a cellar weren’t good. A hidden place, a place for buried secrets and suppressed desires. Bodies had a way of turning up in cellars.

  She tried hard not pursue those thoughts.

  At the bottom now. His breath puffed in short bursts. Lugging her all this distance had worn him out. If she sensed any opportunity, she would take it.

  Keys again. Another door, easing open.

  This new space felt smaller. The air was stale, spiced with unclean smells.

  Soft thump as he set down whatever item he’d been carrying in his left hand. Then he shrugged her off his shoulder, deposited her carefully in a chair. It creaked and wobbled. Wooden chair, not new.

  The rope around her ankles came loose.

  He was releasing her. She had only to continue her rag-doll charade a minute longer. Then with her hands free—attack.

  He fumbled at the rope securing her wrists to her thigh. If he had a knife, he would simply slice through the knot. No knife, then. And the high-voltage weapon he’d used—one of those stun guns, obviously, the kind she’d seen in TV news clips—was probably tucked away in his pocket, not instantly accessible.

  She would not wait for him to raise the blindfold. She could do that herself, as soon as he had freed her hands.

  As part of her tae kwon do training, she’d learned to do push-ups on her fists, a habit she had maintained even after discontinuing the class. Her wrists were strong, her knuckles toughened.

  In a karate-style punch, executed with the first two knuckles projecting from the fist, she could damage her abductor’s larynx or dislocate his jaw. After that, a knee to the groin or an elbow to the ribs, and he would be immobilized.

  Except in harmless classroom sparring, she’d never used violence against another person. But she was certain she could do it. In defense of her life, she could do whatever was necessary.

  Hesitation, squeamishness—these were weaknesses she couldn’t afford. Once she sprang, she would be in a fight for survival, as savage and u
nforgiving as any struggle of animals in the wild.

  She was ready. Ready to kill or die.

  Her hands were fully untied now, no longer lashed together or pinned to her leg. But he had not let them go.

  He held them in her lap, stroking her fingers, palms, wrists....

  His grip tightened. His thumbs squeezed her wrists hard.

  “So,” he hissed.

  She stayed limp, breathing deeply, deeply, her eyes open wide behind the blindfold.

  “It’s no good, Dr. Reilly. I know you’re awake.”

  No, he couldn’t know that. It was a bluff. Had to be.

  “You gave a good performance. Extremely convincing. But I’m afraid your pulse rate has given you away.”

  His thumbs dug deeper into the veins of her wrists.

  “It’s at least one-twenty. Much too fast for a person who’s genuinely unconscious.”

  Still she gave no response, tried to brazen it out.

  “You’ve been playing possum for a reason, I imagine. You were planning to try something. Well, let’s get one thing straight between us right from the start.”

  Abruptly he clamped her wrists together, clutching them in one hand, while with the other he jerked the tape free of her mouth.

  Pain seared her lips as the adhesive pulled away. Involuntarily she let out a sharp cry.

  “You don’t toy with me, Doc. Not ever. No tricks, no scams. Understood?”

  Though it was pointless to try fooling him now, she couldn’t bring herself to answer. Her throat seemed paralyzed.

  He shook her by the shoulder. The rickety chair legs squeaked.

  “Understood?”

  Had to respond or he might turn more violent. No predicting what he would do.

  Weakly she nodded. “I understand.”

  The hoarse rasp of her own voice startled her.

  “Good,” he breathed, still holding her wrists. “I’m gratified to see that you take me seriously. But I’m not entirely certain you’ve learned your lesson.” Rustle of clothing. “Maybe this will make you a better student.”

  Inches from her face, a faint electric crackle.

  “No,” she croaked. “Please don’t. Not again.”

  She hated to beg, because she knew begging—helpless submission—was what he wanted. But she couldn’t face the prospect of more pain, and worse, another blackout, when she would be utterly defenseless and he could do whatever he liked.

  “Don’t,” she said once more, her body rigid in expectation of a new jolt of agony.

  The stun gun sizzled angrily for a moment longer, then fell silent without touching her.

  “I’ll cut you a break this time,” he said.

  An involuntary shudder of relief trembled through her.

  “But,” he added coldly, “any more nonsense, and you’ll learn what pain really is.” He released her wrists. “Now sit still. Don’t move a muscle till I tell you to.”

  Footsteps, receding. The door clicked shut.

  “All right, Doc.” His voice, muffled, came from outside the room. “Remove the blindfold. And take a look at your new home.”

  8

  The blindfold was snugged tight over her face, and she had to undo the knot before she could remove it. The task was made more difficult by the nervous trembling of her hands.

  Finally the cloth slipped free. She blinked against the sudden glare.

  An unshaded lightbulb hung from the ceiling by a chain, providing the room’s only illumination. Not more than a hundred watts, but dazzling after her long interval of darkness.

  She let her vision adjust to the light as she rose from the chair and slowly surveyed her surroundings.

  Not a torture chamber, not a crypt. Merely a dusty cellar room, ten feet square, with walls of unpainted brick, lightly mildewed, and a floor and ceiling of concrete.

  A sillcock sprouted from one wall at knee level. When she turned the handle, water drooled out in a thin, warm stream, puddling on the floor.

  The only furnishings were the chair he’d put her in, a similar chair facing it, and a five-foot foam pad partly covered by a cotton blanket.

  Her bed, apparently. For how many nights? Better not think about it.

  The room had no ornament or decoration of any kind. No windows, and only one door, of wood. Not a hollow door, she was certain; it had to be solid mahogany. It looked disturbingly impregnable, though a small peephole fitted with a fish-eye lens had been cut in it at a height of six feet.

  He must be staring through that lens right now, studying her as she explored her surroundings. She felt like a gerbil in a cage.

  Near her chair was a medium-size suitcase. One of her own. Resting on top of it, her purse. Those items must be what he’d been carrying in his left hand.

  Apparently he had raided her apartment after zapping her. She wondered why.

  The cash was gone from her wallet, but otherwise the contents of her purse were untouched. She spent a long moment looking at the bottle of pills.

  Unzipping the suitcase, she found some of her clothes and toiletries haphazardly stuffed inside. She made a show of sorting out the items while considering what she knew or guessed about her abductor.

  It was clear that he had carefully planned both her kidnapping and her confinement. Detailed preparation was inconsistent with schizophrenia or other acute psychosis. The person whose thoughts were a tissue of illogical associative leaps was largely incapable of orderly, methodical reasoning.

  From their brief dialogue she gathered that he was relatively calm, not manic, not desperate, in control of the situation and of himself. That was good. He was less likely to do something impulsive if he was somewhat relaxed.

  His speaking voice, in fact, was reassuringly normal in most respects. She had detected no hint of the pure sociopath’s affectless monotone or the would-be suicide’s listlessness and despair.

  She didn’t want him to be suicidal. The line between suicide and murder was easily crossed.

  He seemed intelligent, articulate, fairly knowledgeable; not only had he noticed that her pulse was fast, he’d estimated the rate. And the kidnapping had been skillfully executed, by no means the work of an incompetent.

  She wondered just how smart he was. Smart enough to outthink her? To counter any strategy she could devise?

  Hope not, she thought grimly. If so, I’m in major trouble.

  As if she wasn’t, anyway.

  She finished examining the things he’d brought from her home. The oddest items were a bundle of envelopes and a sheaf of writing paper, both from her desk drawer. She had no idea what he would want with those.

  The only other object in the room was a large, lidless cardboard box. She inventoried its contents also.

  Canned goods, bananas and apples, dried fruit, loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter.

  Picnic plates, paper cups, plastic utensils. Paper napkins and towels. Manual can opener. Pail, sponge, washcloth.

  Roll of toilet paper, sealed in plastic shrink-wrap. Empty milk jugs and coffee cans—for bathroom purposes, she realized.

  Two last things. A ballpoint pen and a manila folder stuffed with what appeared to be yellowed newspaper clippings.

  Frowning, she reached for the folder.

  “Not yet, Doc.”

  His voice again, from the other side of the door. She caught her breath, startled.

  “You can look at that stuff later,” he added. “You’ll have plenty of opportunity. You’ll be spending a good deal of time in this room. All your time from now on, in fact.”

  She turned toward the lens in the door. It glinted at her like a single, unblinking eye.

  “How long can I expect my stay to last?” she asked, trying to keep the question safely neutral.

  “As long as required.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.” Keep it light, not challenging, not defiant.

  “Everything will be explained shortly. First, you’ve got a job to do. You see the pen I’ve provided, t
he writing paper and envelopes in your suitcase?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re going to write a letter—a very brief letter—to your sister.”

  Annie. She must be okay, then. He wouldn’t want a message sent to her if she’d been kidnapped, too.

  “All right,” Erin said casually. “What should the letter say?”

  In the momentary silence that preceded his reply, she considered the most probable scenarios.

  Ransom demand. That would almost be a relief, an indication of a comprehensible motive.

  General complaint against the psychological profession. Perhaps he’d been hospitalized against his will sometime earlier in his life and had developed a hatred of all mental-health practitioners.

  Personal complaint against her. It was possible she’d treated him briefly at some early point in her internship, perhaps for only one or two sessions, and he held some kind of grudge.

  The last would be the most dangerous development, and perhaps the most likely. It was not uncommon for a disgruntled patient to set out to destroy his therapist’s reputation and career. Many frivolous malpractice suits were prompted by nothing more than personal animus.

  Of course, shocking your shrink into unconsciousness and carting her off to a secret hideaway showed considerably more determination than filing a lawsuit.

  She waited.

  “The letter,” he said finally, “will state your decision to go away for a while, on your own. You need some time to yourself. Your sister shouldn’t worry—everything is fine—but she may not hear from you for an indefinite period. Got it?”

  Bad. Very bad.

  He didn’t want money for her, and he wasn’t interested in making a statement, general or personal.

  He simply wanted her to disappear. Indefinitely.

  “Got it?” he said again.

  She managed a weak smile. “No problem.”

  “A word of warning, Doc. I’ll peruse that letter extremely carefully. Any deviation from the content I outlined—any clues, any hints—will not pass unnoticed. Or unpunished.”

  Peruse, he’d said. Hell, his vocabulary was better than her own.

  “I won’t drop any hints.” She hoped her shrug looked sincere. “I know when it pays to be cooperative, and this is one of those times. Anyway, it’s fairly obvious you’ve been one step ahead of me all along.”