Authors: Alicia Scott
"They'll make it a few days."
"A few days!"
"Maggie, it's an important trip.
Besides—" he smiled at her grimly"—once my brother, Abraham, learns
I've escaped, he'll probably come looking for me on his own. Maybe he'll save
us both time and meet us in the middle."
Her face went ashen. She gripped the door
handle, needing something solid. This had gone too far. She had to do
something. He was a murderer, and even if he had a good voice, she could not
help a murderer! She had to do something.
Just once in your life, Maggie, do something.
She glanced at the handcuff, she glanced at the
door handle. Even if she popped open the door, she couldn't go anyplace
handcuffed to his wrist. She had to get rid of the handcuff.
"I have to go to the bathroom," she
said abruptly.
"What?"
"You heard me. It's a basic biological
function and when I'm scared out of my mind—like now—it's a fairly demanding
one." She raised her chin and forced herself to meet his gaze.
He shook his head. "Hold it."
"Hold it?
Hold it?
Do you know that
women who try to do such things have a much higher incidence of incontinence
later on in life?"
"First we have to get through the next
twenty-four hours. Then we'll worry about later in life."
"I can't hold it all the way to
Idaho."
He frowned at her. Then he scowled. Obviously
he hadn't thought about that. It made her smile smugly. She wasn't so bad at
this after all.
"I hadn't considered all the logistical
details," he muttered.
Her gaze brightened. "There's no good way
to do it. You'll just have to let me go. I'm too big of a liability."
His frown deepened. She had the sense he was
struggling with something inside of himself. "I can't do that," he
said abruptly.
"Yes, you can," she hastily assured
him.
"Maggie, without a hostage how can I
get
to Idaho?"
"You just won't be able to kill your
brother," she agreed. "Sorry."
He shook his head and looked tired. "It's
not that simple and even if I explained it to you, there's no reason for you to
believe me. You're just going to have to trust me on this, Maggie. We're going
to Idaho. Come hell or high water, we're getting there. The more you cooperate,
the faster the trip."
"But you're a murderer! I don't want to
help a murderer!"
Cain didn't reply. Instead, his eyes had gone
to the rearview mirror. A cop had turned in from a side street not too far
back. "Maggie," he said calmly, "Maggie, look at the map again.
Find us a safe route to Salem. I want back roads, I want small, side routes. Do
that, find us safe passage, and no one will get hurt."
But he was already too late.
The cop turned on his sirens.
And it began.
Chapter 3
"
T
urn yourself in, it's your only
chance!"
"Like hell!" His foot slammed the
pedal to the floor and the truck leaped forward like a jungle cat freed from
its cage.
"You can't outrun them!" she cried.
He didn't answer, his face remote and grim as his hand hit the horn and stayed
there. A car slowed for a red light. He whipped around it so fast, Maggie fell
against the door like a rag doll and whapped her head against the window.
"Hang on!" he said curtly. "This
is going to get rough."
He floored it through the four-way
intersection, red light and all. Cars screamed and squealed. More horns added
to the cacophony and a crash of metal sounded the crescendo. Police sirens and
shouting pedestrians. Screeching tires and the hoarse cry of her own protest.
Maggie had arrived in hell and it was even louder than she'd expected.
"No, no, no!"
"Shut up!"
A road appeared to the right, narrow and
snaking straight up into the hillside. Maggie grabbed the dash, already knowing
what he would do. His left hand tightened on the wheel. He spared her one
glance, and the stark despair in his eyes sliced through her bleakly.
His gaze returned to the road. At the last
possible moment, when she was so sure he'd pass it by, he slammed on the
brakes, cranked the wheel with one hand and mouthed a silent prayer. The
half-ton truck slid, bucking to escape. His arm bulged, fighting for control.
The moment suspended and man fought machine with no clear stakes for the
winner.
Veins popped up on Cain's forearm, a muscle
jumped in his jaw. With a herculean effort he brutally forced the
two-hundred-horsepower engine to his bidding. Wheels caught. The truck fired up
the residential hillside of private, luxurious homes.
And behind them Maggie heard the sharp squeal
of the police car following suit.
"Get over here," he bit out tersely.
"I need both hands on the wheel."
Her hands shook so hard she could barely get
them around the metal clasp of her seat belt. She'd just pressed down on the
release button when the first blind corner of the narrow road appeared. He
didn't slow, he didn't pause. He hit it hard, and Maggie screamed as she
tumbled across the seat onto his lap.
The truck fishtailed on the way back out of the
turn, almost on two wheels but still too heavy to give up so much ground. It bobbled
then straightened once more.
Maggie planted her hands on Cain's rock-hard
thighs and pushed herself back as fast as she could. Her hair was tangled
across her face and she brushed it away, disoriented and terrified as her eyes
found the road.
Another sharp corner loomed.
"Stop, stop, you're going to kill us
both!"
"Hang on." His right hand landed on
the steering wheel and around they went. This time she grabbed the wheel as
well, needing support as she was buffeted across the cab. She could feel the
tension of the vehicle, the battle of man against torque. And as they came
around the corner she saw a black-trimmed white sign announcing, Caution:
Children at Play.
"Oh, God," she moaned. "Oh,
God."
Cain's eyes glanced to the rearview mirror. The
police car was still behind them, its powerful engine keeping pace. Blind
drives and children-at-play signs. He hadn't meant to pick a residential area.
He did not want a residential area. Damn, damn, damn.
Another sharp turn appeared. Beside him, his
dainty captive moaned with sheer, unadulterated terror. And all he could do was
tighten his grip on the wheel.
The truck squealed. He no longer noticed the
sound. His arms hurt with the strain of the past five minutes. He absently
noted the pain. Mostly, his mind, his keen logical mind, raced frantically for
a new plan, some way out. Tactics, tactics. He needed better tactics, for God's
sake.
"Look out!" Maggie screamed.
He returned his attention to the road in time
to see two women appear, dressed in silk jogging suits and pushing baby
carriages down the narrow, shoulderless road. Their mouths opened in shock. He
could almost hear their screams.
He yanked on the wheel as he'd never yanked
before. He would not kill children! He would not kill children!
The truck slid helplessly across the pavement,
tires having lost traction, and now headed straight for the ditch.
"Grab the wheel!" he yelled at
Maggie.
"The police car!" she screamed,
releasing the wheel in horror.
He glanced at the rearview mirror at the last
minute, seeing the police car appear like a rocket, spot the two women, who'd
come to a frozen halt, and then swerve faster than a drunken hound dog.
"Maggie, help me!"
Belatedly she refastened her hands upon the
wheel. He clenched his teeth. The sweat rolled down his cheeks and he fought
with everything he had.
"Crank it the other way, crank it
into
the fishtail!"
Her teeth sank into her lower lip, and she did
her best to comply. He grunted and with a mighty groan finally wrenched the
wheel around. The truck swiveled in the other direction immediately, losing
momentum from the steep grade of the hillside and helping him regain control.
Behind them came a mighty crunch, and they glanced in the rearview mirror
simultaneously to see the police car plunge into the shallow ditch, right-side
wheels still spinning, lights whirling with a dull whimper.
He got the truck in line and they shot ahead.
Maggie let go of the wheel as if she'd been
scorched. When she looked at him at last, her blue eyes were saucer-wide in her
face. "You crashed a police car!"
"I'm surely going to hell," he
agreed.
With the immediate threat gone, his foot
relented on the gas. But his mind refused to stop. The truck was blown.
Everyone knew about the truck. The police car had most certainly called for
backup. How long did he have? One minute? Two minutes? Thirty seconds?
Cain, what are you going to do now?
He reached the top of the hill, the ground
suddenly opening up to reveal broad, gently undulating fields. He could see long
private drives winding to towering houses that boasted three stories of windows
with fantastic views of snowcapped Mount Hood. He saw smaller homes clutched
together like refugees, not as grand as the mansions but stealing the same
impressive view.
Houses, houses, everywhere, but not a single
side road.
"Where are we?" He glanced at her
fiercely.
"How the hell would I know?" his
terrified captive shot back. Then threw in mutinously, "You could've
killed everyone!"
"But I didn't."
"It wasn't for lack of trying!"
He took his gaze off the road long enough to
give her his most impressive frown. She glared right back at him, her face
flushed furiously, her eyes sparkling like blue daggers. So much for the meek
and humble act. This woman looked ready to chew him up and spit him back out as
a dollop of Silly Putty.
The color was good for her cheeks, the fire
good for her eyes. She was tougher than she looked, he respected that. But he
didn't have time for it given the circumstances.
"Find where we are," he ordered
curtly. "And get us the hell out of here before I'm forced to repeat that
pleasure ride."
"You—you—you reprobate!"
"Get the map, Maggie."
She snatched it up with such force it crackled
in the silence, then snapped it open for the finishing touch. He returned his
attention to the road, fingers tapping out an impatient, restless beat.
"I don't know where we are," she
muttered a minute later. "I think we're lost."
"Look harder."
"I did," she insisted, still in a
fine display of temper. "This is a small road and the map doesn't show
minor roads. So there! Next time you decide to run from the cops, at least pick
a road that's on the map!"
"I'll be sure to remember that." He
arched a single brow.
She glared back pugnaciously. "You are not
a nice person!" she announced.
That fired up his second brow. "Surely you
can do better than that for a comeback. Come on, try."
Her cheeks flushed. "Unlike
some
people," she said stiffly, "I do not go around regularly insulting
others. I don't believe violence or yelling is the answer to anything. People
yell too much. It's very destructive and doesn't solve anything."
"Of course."
"I'm serious. Exchanging insults is
childish and immature. True conflict resolution requires two people
communicating as intelligent, rational adults, sensitively in tune with the
feelings of the other party—"
"What are you talking about?"
"Let's try it," she said abruptly,
turning sideways in the cab and pinning him with eyes that were more than
slightly desperate. "I'll tell you how I feel and then you tell me how you
feel, and once we understand each other you will feel secure enough to let me
go." She smiled at him brightly, but it strained the corners of her mouth.
"Have you been watching too many TV talk
shows?"
That smile grew real strained. "No, I'm
trying to tell you that I'm intimidated by you. I'm scared out of my mind but I
understand your desperation. I'm sensitive enough to your fear of being caught
that if you let me go, I won't tell anyone."
"Because you don't want to hurt my
feelings?"
"Exactly!" She beamed at him with
wholehearted approval.
"Maggie, what do you
do
for a
living?"
The smile faded. She appeared puzzled and
perturbed. "I'm a marriage counselor—"
"What?
I thought you were a court clerk."
"A court clerk? Why would I be a court
clerk? I'm a marriage counselor."
He groaned, his dismay palpable. He shook his
head, and his disgust was sketched all over his face. "Of all the people
in that courthouse, I kidnapped a
shrink."