Blind Pursuit

35

Hot.

The sun blazed like a klieg light, painfully bright, branding a blurred red circle on her vision even through her closed eyelids.

Waves of heat radiated from the ground under her. She thought of a griddle, of sizzling meat.

Through the gag still clogging her mouth, Erin let out a choked, plaintive noise, too indistinct to be a moan.

She turned her head first to one side, then the other, trying to avert her face from the sun. The sand planted searing kisses on her cheeks.

Somewhere in the world there was shade. A cool breeze, a rustle of green leaves… She remembered Muir Woods near San Francisco. She remembered Sierra Springs.

No shade here, not anymore. The walls of the arroyo had cupped her in shadow for only a precious hour after daybreak. As the sun climbed higher, the shadow had rolled back slowly like a receding tide, exposing first her legs, then her upper body, and finally her face.

Her eyes fluttered open briefly. From the sun’s position in the eastern sky, she estimated the time at ten o’clock. She would not again be sheltered from the burning rays until evening, countless hours away.

By then it might not matter. By then, if her abductor had not returned, she might be dead.

She had been sure he meant to burn her last night. As he climbed the embankment, she struggled fiercely with the ropes, knowing that it was futile, that soon he would splash gasoline over her body and then

… and then…

At a restaurant years ago she’d watched the chef prepare a flambeed dish at the next table. The flare of the match, the breath-stopping burst of flame That was how it would be. An eruption of agony, a final surge of terror, and then, mercifully, nothing more, ever.

He had disappeared into the night. After that, a long interval of waiting. She’d lain paralyzed, watching the rim of the arroyo, listening for his return.

The sound of hammering, distant and inexplicable, had reached her. Sometime later, the cough of an engine.

His van, pulling away. The motor fading, fading… Gone.

He’d left her. She would not burn tonight.

For a few giddy minutes the intensity of her relief had blinded her to the full implications of his departure.

Then gradually she’d begun to ponder his motive. Clearly he had been furious with her. He’d called her a bad girl, told her that he regretted what he was doing, but that it had become necessary.

He must have been planning to burn her, then had changed his mind. Yes, that was it. Somehow, at the last moment, he’d made contact with the better part of himself, the embryonic conscience that had taught him about remorse.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps she had misinterpreted his purpose all along. Perhaps his intention had never been to kill her, only to inflict punishment. To leave her here, staked supine at the bottom of the wash, exposed to the night chill and, later, to the heat of a desert day…

Flat on her back, gazing at the cold spray of stars, she had felt relief fade, supplanted by a new dread.

He might not ever come back. Might leave her to suffer a lingering death.

Anger had made her strong, as it had in the cellar.

Her wrists twisted. The rope binding them was knotted tightly, too tight to be worked free.

Straining, she’d reached out to run her fingertips over the metal stake above her head. The edge was sharp.

Shrugging her shoulders, extending her arms a few extra inches, she had pressed the loop of rope hard against the stake. Slowly she’d begun to rub in a monotonous sawing motion. Up, down. Up, down.

Within minutes, pain had radiated from her shoulder blades and neck. It had started as an ache, then sharpened rapidly to a series of electric twinges, each one contracting her facial muscles into an agonized wince.

She’d kept working. The constellations had wheeled toward dawn, and the night chill had settled deeper into her bones.

From time to time she had rested, hoping to revive muscles strained by fatigue. The worst torture was not pain or weariness, but uncertainty. She couldn’t see the binding on her wrists, couldn’t know if her efforts were showing results or merely wasting irreplaceable reserves of energy.

Pink dawn had congealed into a red sunrise. Astonishing how quickly the day had warmed up.

Now, at roughly ten in the morning, the temperature must be ninety degrees. By the calendar it was April, but this was August heat. Heat that killed.

Already she was severely dehydrated. Her mouth was dry; her throat ached. Cramps tightened the muscles of her abdomen and thighs. Since daybreak, sweat had been streaming off her skin; she wondered how much more moisture she had left to lose.

When perspiration ceased, her body’s natural cooling mechanism would be disabled. Her temperature would rise. She would pass from heat exhaustion to heatstroke.

Untreated, heatstroke would be fatal.

And still, after hours of excruciating labor, the goddamned rope had not split. It had started to fray-when she craned her neck, she glimpsed wisps of fiber curling from the loop like uncombed hairs-but her hands remained tightly bound.

Though she kept working, she rested often now. The agony in her shoulders was unendurable for long periods, and the weakness of her arms made any movement difficult.

Perhaps she ought to give it up, conserve her strength. But she was haunted by the thought that one more try might unravel the remaining strands and set her free.

One more try. The words were a magic formula, summoning new strength. Again she lifted her shoulders to attack the rope.

A sudden wave of dizziness rippled up her spine. The world began to slide away, down a long, greased tunnel, leaving her behind. Wind chimes sang in her ears. Such pretty music…

With a teeth-grinding effort she retained her hold on consciousness.

When her head was clear, she locked her jaws, biting down hard on the gag as if it were a bullet, and continued rubbing the stake.

As she worked, the bad thoughts came again, the thoughts that had been her tormentors for hours, eating at her like the vultures sent to prey on Prometheus when he, like her, had been bound to a barren expanse of sand and rock.

If only…

If only she had made it onto the interstate. If only the service station had been open. If only she hadn’t set off the van’s alarm.

Broiling in the sun, eyes shut and lips sealed, she pictured herself escaping from the cellar into an empty house. Swiftly she finds her way to the front door. Outside, she explores the grounds, first examining the gate and perimeter fence, then entering the barn, where she discovers her car, alone in the musty dark. The barn doors swing wide, the Ford’s engine catches, and she backs out into the night, pursued by no one; and as she roars toward freedom and safety, she takes a last look at the ranch, memorizing its layout and appearance for the report she will file with the police.

Her mind lingered on that image-the ranch receding, stark in the moonlight.

Padlocked gate. Barbed-wire fencing. Horse barn and paddock. Wood-frame house with a gravel court.

Familiar.

Yes. She realized it now, for the first time.

Something about the ranch was familiar to her. Strikingly familiar, in fact.

She was almost certain she had seen the place before.

But that was crazy. How could she? And where? And what would it mean if she had?

The rush of questions brought on another slow comber of light-headedness.

Couldn’t think now. The sun was too strong, the ache in her muscles too sharp.

She rested her arms and shoulders once more. Rotating her wrists, she detected perhaps slightly more give in the rope. Or maybe not. She couldn’t be sure. She was tired. So tired and so very hot.

The sun beat down. The sand reflected back its heat in shimmering waves.

Water. Oh, Christ, she wanted water. Water and shade.

Her tormentor had not set her on fire. Yet in a different way, a slower and perhaps crueler way, he was burning her.

Burning her to death.

Though she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, she could not erase the sight of the sun’s red disk, climbing relentlessly toward noon.