Authors: Perfect
Just before midnight, as he'd hoped, they reran the Brokaw story along with a brief video that Zack had already seen earlier in the day. The video showed Dom, with his hands behind his head, being frisked, handcuffed, and shoved into the back of an Amarillo sheriff's car an hour after Zack's escape, but it was the newscaster's words that made Zack frown:
"The
second escaped convict, Dominic Sandini, aged
thirty, was recaptured and taken into custody after a
brief skirmish with authorities. He has been
transferred for questioning to Amarillo State
Penitentiary where he had shared a cell with
Benedict, who is still at large. Warden Wayne Hadley
described Sandini as extremely dangerous."
Leaning forward, Zack stared hard at the television and was relieved to see that Dom didn't look as if he'd been roughed up by the Amarillo cops. And yet, the things that were being said about him didn't make sense. The media and Hadley should have been treating Dom as a hero—a reformed convict trustee who'd sounded the alarm on a fellow inmate who'd made a break for it. Yesterday, when the newscasters kept describing Dom as "the second escaped convict," Zack had assumed they simply hadn't had time to interview Hadley yet and get the facts straight. Now they'd had plenty of time, and they'd obviously interviewed the warden. Hadley, however, was describing Sandini as dangerous. Why the hell would he do that, Zack wondered, when he should be taking public bows for the fact that at least
one
of his trustees was such an honest, upstanding citizen.
The answer that came immediately to Zack's mind was unthinkable, unbearable: Hadley hadn't bought Dom's story. No, that couldn't be true, Zack decided, because he'd made certain Dom's alibi was airtight. Which left only one other possibility: Hadley
had
bought Dom's alibi, but he was too infuriated by
Zack's escape to hold Dom blameless. Zack hadn't counted on that; he'd assumed Hadley's gigantic ego would prompt him to praise Dom, particularly with so much media attention focused on the incident.
He'd
never imagined Hadley's viciousness might override either his ego or his common sense, but if it had, then
the methods Hadley might use to avenge himself on Dom were chillingly brutal. The prison was rampant
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with lurid stories of the beatings, some of them fatal, that had taken place in Hadley's infamous conference room, with the assistance of several of Hadley's favorite prison guards. Hadley's routine excuse for the battered bodies that later arrived in the prison infirmary or the prison morgue was always
"injuries resulting from convict being subdued during attempted escape." Zack's alarm escalated to panic
at the end of the newscast when the local Colorado newscaster added,
"We have a late-breaking
development in the Benedict-Sandini prison break.
According to a statement issued by the
Warden's Office at Amarillo State Prison an hour
ago, Dominic Sandini attempted a second prison
break while being questioned about his duplicity in
Benedict's escape. Three guards were
assaulted before Sandini was finally recaptured and
subdued. He has been taken to the prison
infirmary, where he is listed in critical condition. No
additional details as to the nature and extent
of his injuries are available as yet."
Zack's whole body turned cold with shock and rage, his stomach heaved, and he leaned his head back, fighting down the urge to vomit. He stared at the ceiling high above, swallowing convulsively as memories
of Dominic's grinning, optimistic face and foolish jokes paraded across his mind.
The newscaster's words continued, but they scarcely registered:
"Rumors of a convict uprising at the Amarillo State Penitentiary have been confirmed, and Texas Governor Ann Richards is reportedly considering sending in National Guard troops if necessary.
Prisoners at Amarillo, apparently taking advantage of the media coverage of the Zachary
Benedict-Dominic Sandini escape, are protesting what they call unjustified cruelty on the part of certain
prison officials and employees, overcrowded living conditions, and bad food."
Long after the television station had gone off the air, Zack remained where he was, so filled with torment and despair that he couldn't summon the energy to get up. The determination to escape and survive that had kept him sane for the last five years was slowly draining away. It seemed as if death had been at his side or stalking him from behind forever, and he was suddenly tired of running from it. First his parents had died, then his brother, his grandfather, and then his wife. If Sandini died, there was no way to blame anyone except himself for it. Sitting there, Zack actually felt as if there were some sort of macabre curse
attached to him that sent anyone he cared about to an early death. Even through his despair, Zack realized thoughts like that were dangerous, unbalanced, insane. But then he felt as if his hold on sanity
was becoming very, very fragile.
Carrying the small bundle of clothes she'd just taken out of the dryer, Julie padded barefoot and wet-haired through the silent living room and into the room where she'd spent a nearly sleepless night.
It
was eleven o'clock in the morning, and judging from the sound of rushing water, she assumed Zack had also slept late and was now in the shower.
Squinting against a dull, throbbing headache, she went listlessly through the ritual of blowing her hair dry,
then she brushed it and pulled on the jeans and sweater she'd worn three days ago when she drove to Amarillo. That morning seemed like weeks ago, because it was the last time everything had been normal.
Now nothing was normal anymore, least of all her feelings about herself. She'd been taken hostage by an
escaped convict—an event that would have made an ordinary, decent, upstanding woman hate her captor and despise everything he represented. Any other moral, respectable twenty-six-year-old woman would have fought Zachary Benedict at every turn while simultaneously trying to foil his plans, escape
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from his clutches, and get him recaptured and sent to prison, where he belonged! That's what a good, decent, God-fearing young woman would do.
But that wasn't what Julie Mathison had done, Julie thought with bitter self-revulsion. No indeed.
Instead, she'd allowed her captor to kiss and touch her; worse, she'd reveled in it. Last night, she'd pretended to herself she only meant to comfort an unfortunate man, that she was merely being kind as she'd been taught to be, but in the harsh light of day, she knew that was a complete lie. If Zachary Benedict had been some ugly old man, she wouldn't have flung herself into his arms and tried to
kiss
away his unhappiness. Nor would she have been so damned eager to believe he was innocent! The truth was that she'd believed Zachary Benedict's ridiculous assertions of innocence because she
wanted
to
believe him, and then she'd "comforted" him because she was disgustingly attracted to him. Instead of escaping and getting him recaptured at that rest stop yesterday morning, she'd lain in the snow and kissed him, ignoring the very viable possibility that the truck driver named Pete wouldn't have been hurt if a struggle ensued.
In Keaton, she'd scrupulously evaded the sexual advances of good, decent men while hypocritically congratulating herself on the high moral standards she'd acquired from her adoptive father and mother.
Now, however, the truth was glaringly and painfully obvious: She'd never been sexually attracted to any one of those fine, upstanding men, and now she understood why: It was because she could only be attracted to her own kind—social outcasts like Zack Benedict. Decency and respectability didn't turn her on; violence and danger and illicit passion obviously did.
The nauseating reality was that on the outside Julie Mathison might appear to be a righteous, dignified, upstanding citizen, but in her heart, she was still Julie Smith, the street urchin of unknown parentage.
The
ethics of society hadn't meant anything to her then; obviously, they didn't now. Mrs. Borowski, the head of LaSalle Foster Care Facility, had been right all along. Julie gave the brush a vicious tug while in her mind she heard the woman's acid voice and saw her face, twisted with contempt and knowledge: "A leopard can't change its spots, and neither can you, Julie Smith. You might be able to fool that hoity-toity
psychiatrist, but you can't fool me. You're a bad seed just like that movie we saw on television… You'll come to no good, you mark my words… You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and that's what you are—a sow's ear: Birds of a feather flock together, that's why you hang around with trashy street
kids. They're just like you—no good …
NO
GOOD."
Julie squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the painful memories and to concentrate on the gentle man who'd adopted her. "You're a good girl, Julie,"
he whispered in her mind, just as he'd whispered to her often after she'd come to live with his family. "A fine, good, loving little girl. You're going to grow up to be a fine young woman, too. You'll choose a good, church-going man someday and you'll be a
wonderful wife and mother, just as you are a wonderful daughter now."
Ravaged by the memory of his misplaced faith in her, Julie braced her hands on the dresser and bent her
head. "You were wrong…" she whispered brokenly.
She realized the ugly truth now: She wasn't
attracted
to good, churchgoing men, not even handsome ones like Greg Howley. Instead, she was attracted to men like Zack Benedict, who'd fascinated her from the moment she saw him in the restaurant
parking lot. The revolting truth was that she'd wanted to go to bed with him last night, and he'd known it
then. Like birds of a feather, he'd recognized her as his own kind. That, Julie knew, was the real reason why he'd been angry and disgusted with her when she called a halt to the lovemaking—he'd been contemptuous of her cowardice. She'd wanted to go to bed with him as soon as he began kissing and touching.
A leopard can't change its spots. Mrs. Borowski had been right.
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But Reverend Mathison had specifically disagreed with that, Julie suddenly remembered. When she'd repeated that proverb to him, he'd given her a little shake and said, "Animals can't change, but people can, Julie! That's why the Lord gave us minds and wills. If you want to be a good girl, all you have to do
is
be
one. Just make up your mind and do it!"
Make up your mind, Julie…
Slowly, Julie lifted her face and gazed at her reflection in the mirror while a new strength, a new force,
built inside of her. She hadn't yet done anything that was completely inexcusable. Not yet.
And before she did do something to inexorably betray herself and her upbringing, she was going to get
the hell out of Zachary Benedict's clutches! No, she corrected herself grimly, she was going to get the
heck
out of his clutches. Today. She had to get away today, before her weak will and fragile moral fiber crumbled in the face of his dangerous appeal. If she stayed, she would become his accomplice in fact, and when she did, she would sink beyond social and moral redemption. With an almost hysterical fervor, Julie vowed to get away from him today.
Walking over to the bedroom window, she pulled back the draperies and peered out at the gray, ominous-looking morning. Overhead, heavy snow clouds were piled high and the wind was howling through the pines, rattling the window panes. As she stood there, mentally retracing the route they'd taken up here, the first snowflakes blew past and she grimaced. In the past two days, she'd seen enough snow
to last her a lifetime! Twenty yards away, beyond the wooden deck that surrounded the house, someone had nailed a big round outdoor thermometer onto a tree at the perimeter of the woods; it showed the temperature at twenty-eight degrees, but that didn't take into account the wind-chill factor, which Julie assumed would surely reduce the temperature to near zero.
She lifted her head, startled by the sudden sound of a radio. The man who had caused her all this misery was obviously dressed now and in the living room, probably waiting for the news to be broadcast.
For a minute she considered trying to barricade herself in this nice warm room until he finally left for
wherever he was going, but that was implausible and impractical. She'd still have to eat, and even if she barricaded the door, she couldn't do anything about the window. Moreover, the longer she stayed with him, the less chance she had of convincing the authorities and the citizens of Keaton that she hadn't been
a willing accomplice nor the bedmate of a convicted murderer.
With a nervous sigh, Julie faced the fact that the only route to "freedom"—and respectability—was outdoors, across an unfamiliar snow-covered mountain, in the Blazer, if she could figure out how to
hot-wire it, or else on foot. If it was going to be on foot, which seemed likely, the first requirement was warmth.
Turning away from the window, Julie headed for the large walk-in closet, hoping to "borrow" some warmer clothes. A few moments later she uttered a little cry of glee: Near the back of it were what seemed to be one-piece snowsuits for adults. They were both navy blue with red and white trim, but one was much smaller, and when she held it up to herself, she knew she could get into it. Tossing it over her
arm, she returned to the bedroom and began searching through the contents of the drawers in the chest.
A moment later, she suppressed another shout of delight as she withdrew a long-sleeved, long-legged set
of insulated underwear.
It was a struggle to zip her jeans over the bulky underwear she'd put on, and once she did get the zipper
up, the jeans were so tight she couldn't bend her knees, but Julie scarcely noticed the inconvenience.