Authors: Perfect
Shaking her head in disgust, she concentrated on Dr.
Everhardt's next remarks:
"By now, Miss Mathison has reached the stage that I like to call the gratitude-dependent syndrome. She sees her captor as her protector, almost an ally, because he hasn't killed her yet. Er—we're assuming that
Benedict has no reason to do that to her. In any case, she is now furious with the legal authorities for not being able to rescue her. She is beginning to think of them as impotent, while her captor, who is clearly outwitting them, becomes an object of reluctant admiration. Added to that admiration is a profound
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feeling of gratitude that he hasn't harmed her.
Benedict is an intelligent man with some degree of questionable charm, I understand, which means that she is very much at his mercy, both physically and emotionally."
Julie gaped at the bearded face on the screen, caught between disbelief and hilarity at the pompous generalities being used in discussing her. Plunking her hands on her hips she advised Dr. Everhardt aloud,
"You're lucky you aren't on Larry King's show! He'd never let you get away with such sweeping assumptions!" The only thing Everhardt had gotten right so far was that Zack was intelligent and charming. She couldn't believe Everhardt hadn't stopped to consider that, since she hadn't been taken hostage by crazed terrorists in a foreign country, she probably wouldn't be going through that
"predictable sequence."
"She is going to need intensive psychological counseling in order to fully recover from this ordeal, and it
will take considerable time, but the prognosis is good if she will seek help."
Julie could not believe the nerve of the man—now he was telling the world she was going to be a mental
case! She ought to have Ted sue him!
"Of course,"the moderator interjected smoothly,
"this is all presupposing that Julie Mathison was
actually taken hostage rather than being Benedict's
accomplice, as some people believe she is."
Dr. Everhardt pondered that, stroking his beard.
"In
my opinion, based on what I've been able to
learn about the young woman, I do not subscribe to
that theory."
"Thank you," Julie told him aloud. "That remark just saved you from my megalawsuit."
She was so engrossed that she didn't register the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades until they were
hovering directly overhead. Even when she heard the sound, it was so out of place in this quiet, mountain wilderness that she looked out of the window with surprise, not fear, and then it hit her. "Zack!" she screamed, turning and running. "There's a helicopter out there! It's low—" she cried, nearly mowing him down as he ran from the bedroom. "It's hovering!"
She stopped cold at the sight of the gun in his hand.
"Get outside and stay in the woods!" he commanded, shoving her down the hall toward the back door, yanking a jacket out of the closet as he passed it and thrusting it at her. "Don't come near this house until I tell you to or until they take me out of here!" He racked a shell into the gun's chamber, moving down the
hall with her, holding the weapon high, muzzle up, with the deadly skill of someone who knew how to handle it and was prepared to use it. When she started to open the door, he shoved her out of the way,
stepped into the doorway alone, looked up, listening, then he pulled her forward. "Run!"
"For the love of God!" Julie cried stopping just outside the door. "You can't mean to shoot that thing down! There must be—"
"MOVE!" he thundered.
Julie obeyed, her heart hammering with terror as she raced around the side of the house, stumbling in the deep snow, stopping beneath the trees, then moving through them, working her way around the house until she could see Zack inside the front windows.
The helicopter had circled and banked to the left, then
it flew over again, and for one terror-filled moment, she thought he was raising his gun, intending to shoot
through the window. And then she saw he was holding binoculars, watching the helicopter fly overhead
and slowly disappear. Her knees gave out and she slid to the ground in relief, the vision of Zack holding
that gun as he shoved her down the hall indelibly imprinted on her mind. It was right out of a violent
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movie, except this was real. She felt her stomach heave and leaned back against the tree, swallowing, trying to keep her lunch—and her fear—down.
"It's all right," Zack said, walking toward her, but she noticed the butt of the gun sticking out from the waist of his pants. "They were skiers swigging wine and circling too low."
She looked up at him but couldn't seem to move.
"Here," he said quietly. "Give me your hand."
Julie shook her head, trying to shake off her paralyzed terror with the movement and reassure him.
"That's okay, I don't need any help. I'm fine."
"You're not fine!" he said savagely and leaned down, grabbing her by the arms and starting to pick her up. "You're one second from fainting."
The sickness and dizziness receded and she managed a shaky smile as she stopped him from swinging her into her arms. "My brother's a cop, remember?
I've seen guns before. I just wasn't … prepared."
By the time they got back into the house, she was so relieved that the helicopter had been harmless that she was almost giddy. "Ted used to practice stakeouts in our backyard when he was going through
police academy," she tried to joke, hanging up her jacket. "It was very funny to see. I mean, how can you
practice something like that?"
"Drink this," he said, walking out of the kitchen and shoving a glass of brandy into her hand. "All of it,"
he
instructed when she took a sip and tried to hand it back to him. She took another swallow and put the glass down on the counter. "I don't want any more."
"Fine," Zack said curtly. "Now get in there and take a long, hot bath."
"But—"
"Do it. Don't argue with me. The next time I—" He started to order her to do exactly as he said the next time something like this happened, but he knew there could never be a next time. This had been a false
alarm, but it had forced him to see the risk he was taking with her life and the terror he was subjecting her
to. God, the terror. He'd never seen anyone look like she had when he found her out there, huddled in the snow.
* * *
Zack was standing in front of the fire, staring into it, his jaw as rigid as granite.
Judging from his expression and his actions earlier, she correctly assumed that much of what was bothering him was probably guilt for what he'd just put her through, but the experience had affected her in
a much different way, now that it was over. She was furious that people were forcing him to live like this and determined to find out what he intended to do to put an end to it. Whatever he intended, she was adamantly resolved to convince him to let her help in any way she could.
Rather than broaching the subject immediately, she decided to wait until after they'd eaten dinner. Given Zack's amazing ability to shove his worries into the background, she assumed an hour or two would be
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plenty of time for him to get over what appeared to be an extremely black mood. Walking forward, she said lightly, "Are you going to cook the steaks tonight on that fancy stove-top grill, or do you intend for
me to do all the cooking?"
He turned and looked at her for several seconds, his face preoccupied and stony. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
"I was discussing the cooking chores around here."
Shoving her hands into the back waistband of her pants, she teased, "You are in violation of the hostage bill of rights."
"What are you talking about?" Zack said, trying fiercely to believe she'd be safe if she stayed here …
trying to forget the way she'd looked, crouched under that tree, shaking all over, clutching a jacket to her
chest … trying to convince himself it had been an isolated incident that wouldn't be repeated.
She gave him one of her breathtaking smiles. "I am talking about cooking chores, Mr. Benedict! Under the laws of the Geneva Convention, a prisoner is not to be subjected to cruel or unjust treatment, and making me do all the cooking for two consecutive days constitutes just that. Don't you agree?"
Zack managed an unconvincing imitation of a smile and nodded. All he wanted to do at that moment was take her to bed and lose himself in her, to forget for a blissful hour what had happened and what he now knew had to happen next, and much sooner than he'd planned.
Julie's hope that he'd bounce back from his somber mood proved to be a little too optimistic this time.
He was polite but preoccupied through most of their meal and now that she'd cleared the dishes away, she was resorting to the underhanded but hopefully effective trick of trying to loosen him up with wine.
She had questions to ask, and she felt she had a better chance to get forthright, complete answers if he
were relaxed and his guard was down.
Leaning forward, she picked up the bottle and carefully refilled his glass for the fourth time, then she
handed it to him, congratulating herself on her subtlety.
Zack looked from the wine glass to her face. "I hope you aren't trying to get me drunk," he stated drily,
"because if you are, wine isn't the way to go about it."
"Shall I get the Scotch instead?" Julie said, stifling a nervous laugh.
Zack stopped with the glass halfway to his lips, belatedly realizing that she
had
been deliberately trying
to pour wine down him as fast as he could drink it as well as watching him with a strange look throughout most of the meal. "Am I going to need it?"
"I don't know."
With a feeling of vague foreboding, he watched her shift positions so that her back was against the arm of the sofa and she was facing him. Her opening question seemed like a joking and innocuous one:
"Zack,
wouldn't you say I've been a model hostage?"
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"Exemplary," he agreed, smiling a little at her contagious humor and trying to match her mood.
"Wouldn't you also say I've been obedient, cooperative pleasant, orderly and—and that I've even done
more than my share of the cooking?"
"Yes to all but the 'obedient' pan."
She smiled at that. "And as an exemplary prisoner, don't you agree that I'm entitled to certain … well …
extra privileges."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Answers to some questions."
Julie watched his expression turn guarded. "Possibly.
It depends on the questions."
A little unnerved by his unencouraging response, she nevertheless forged ahead: "You do intend to try to find out who really killed your wife, don't you?"
"Ask another question," he said flatly.
"Okay. Do you have any ideas about who the murderer really is?"
"Try a different topic."
His unnecessary curtness grated on her, not only because loving him made her extremely sensitive to his
attitudes, but because Julie honestly felt she was
entitled
to answers. Keeping her voice sincere and level, she said, "Please don't brush me off like this."
"Then please pick another topic."
"Will you stop being flippant and listen to me? Try to understand—I was away on a foreign-exchange college program when your trial took place. I don't even know exactly what happened, and I want to very much."
"You'll find it all in your local library in old newspapers. Look it up when you get home."
Sarcasm was always guaranteed to rile Julie. "I don't want to read the media's version, damn it! I want to hear yours. I need to know what happened—from you."
"You're out of luck." He stood up, put his glass down, and held out his hand to her.
Julie stood up, too, so that he didn't dwarf her and automatically started to put her hand in his, thinking it
was a conciliating gesture.
"Let's go to bed."
She snatched her hand back, hurt and insulted by the injustice of his attitude. "I will not. What I'm asking of you is very little compared to what you've demanded of me since we met and you know it!"
"I am not going to go through a blow-by-blow description of that day again for you or for anybody else,"
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he snapped. "I did it a hundred times before the trial for cops and lawyers. It's over. Closed."
"But I want to help. It's been five years. Your viewpoint and memories may be different. I thought we
could start by making out a list of everyone who was there the day it happened, and you could tell me about each of them. I'm completely unbiased, so I'll have a fresh perspective. Maybe I can help you think of something you overlooked—"
His scornful laugh cut her to the quick. "How could you possibly help me?"
"I could try!"
"You're being ridiculous. I spent over $2 million on lawyers and investigators and nobody could turn up a logical suspect other than me."
"But—"
"Drop it, Julie!"
"I won't drop it! I have a right to an explanation!"
"You have no rights to anything," Zack snapped.
"And I don't need or want your help."
Julie stiffened as if he'd hit her, but she managed to keep her fury and humiliation out of her voice. "I see." And she did—she saw now that he had no use for her at all except her body. She wasn't supposed to think; she wasn't supposed to feel; she was just supposed to amuse him while he was bored and spread her legs for him whenever he was in the mood.
Reaching out, he put his hands on her arms to draw her forward, "Let's go to bed."
"Take your hands off of me!" Julie hissed, jerking away out of his reach. Shaking with fury and anguish at
her own gullibility, she wrapped her arms around her stomach, backing around the sofa and coffee table until she had a free path to her own bedroom.