Now she realized that she must be looking distinctly washed out. Like a pale, uninteresting nonentity, in fact. Which maybe she was—and in any case she would certainly
be glad if her abductor thought so! Perhaps she would not then have to fear rape … Or maybe he would attack her regardless of whether or not he found her physically attractive. Her self-defense instructor had said that rape was not a crime of passion at all, but aggression and hostility against women. And he certainly was hostile, she thought, feeling her palms start to sweat again as she cast that jutting chin and thin, black-mustachioed mouth—the rest of his face was once again hidden by the sombrero—an assessing look. He had no aversion to hurting women … Yes, she decided, shivering anew, he was definitely capable of rape. What on earth was she going to do?
“What are you doing?” The protest sprang involuntarily from her lips as she watched him extract a sheaf of mingled pesos and dollars and her traveler’s checks—several hundred dollars’ worth—from the inner compartment of her billfold.
“What does it look like?” He was stuffing the money into the front pocket of his jeans, clearly unconcerned that she had seen him do so. He was robbing her, she thought indignantly, but in almost the same instant realized that there was nothing she could do about it. He was likely to do far worse than rob her if she could not think of a way to prevent him.
She said nothing more, just stared out at the road and continued to drive. Tepid air blew in spurts from the air conditioning vents. Her body was beginning to stick to the vinyl seat even through her dress. Rolling down a window would be worse than useless with the enervating heat outside— if he would even permit her to do so. She risked another quick sideways look. He was sweating, too. …
Once they were within the city limits, which would only be another few minutes, she would make her move, she decided. If necessary, she would run the car into the side of a building.
But she would escape, or die in the attempt. Better to go down fighting than to wait for him to do his worst. …
“Pull over.”
The command was so unexpected that Lora gaped at him.
“I said pull over.” The menace was definitely back in his voice. Lora looked around in alarm. They were still some distance outside Chichén Itzá, and had just come around a bend in the road. There was not a car, a person, or even so much as a dog in sight. The tropical rain forest, with its profusion of trees and other vegetation, grew close to the road. On the left there was a little layby which, she supposed, was designed to allow cars to turn around. The setup was altogether too desolate for Lora’s peace of mind. With inescapable dread she imagined his intent: he meant to kill her, and whatever else he intended to do with her, here, before she had a chance to reach another town and perhaps try to escape. Out here, all alone with him, she would be at his mercy. …
If she was going to act, it had to be now.
She slammed on the brakes as hard as she could, sending the car skidding sideways with a protesting squeal. Her captor was thrown violently forward—so was she, but she had expected the car’s motion and so avoided striking her head on the windshield as he did, with considerable force, too, from the sound of the crack and his resultant cursing. Her left hand found the door latch and released it. While the motion of the car sent the door careening open, her right hand pushed against the wheel and she was suddenly flying through space to land with considerable force on the roadway. Her knees and hands, which bore the brunt of the impact, hurt horribly. But there was no time to reflect on that. With a single scared glance over her shoulder at the car—which was now traveling fractionally more slowly toward the dense line of trees at
the opposite side of the road—Lora scrambled to her feet and started to run as if her life depended on it. Which, she realized as she heard the crash as the car made contact with the trees, it probably did.