Don't Get in the Car (Kit Tolliver #9) (The Kit Tolliver Stories) (3 page)

If not, she’d stay the hell away from the whole state of Washington. Because she didn’t want anything bad to happen to Rita. Because, well, she seemed to care about Rita.

Maybe even loved her. Whatever the hell that was, and it wasn’t something to think about, not now. If ever.

First things first. Was there even a lesbian bar in this perfect shithole of a town?

There almost had to be, and it couldn’t be too hard to find. But it would be closed at this hour, and in any case she wasn’t in shape to go cruising. Not in this outfit, not with her hair such a mess, not when she sorely needed a shower. It wouldn’t be hard to pass as a lesbian, dressed and groomed as she was, but it might be tricky to find somebody who’d want to go home with her.

A different outfit, she thought. And her hair fixed in a more becoming fashion, and maybe just a touch of lipstick.

She had to get out of this town. But when?

“Little late to be out walking.”

She’d been aware of the car alongside her but hadn’t paid attention until the driver lowered the window and spoke. She turned her head, took in the dark late-model sedan, the driver’s face hard to make out. And just then the dome light came on, as if a look at him would be reassuring.

And it was, sort of. Forties, jacket and tie, eyeglasses, balding, hair still dark. A little jowly, a little pudgy. A businessman, maybe a corporate guy. A solid citizen, for sure.

“Neighborhood’s coming back,” he went on. “Still, I have to say it’s got a ways to go. Young woman like yourself shouldn’t be walking around at this hour.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

“Neither could I. Full moon, gets me every time.” He leaned across the seat, opened the door in invitation.

She had to get out of this town. There might be a lesbian bar here, but there’d be a lesbian bar in another city, and she could go there and get a fresh start. But it was so easy to give in to inertia, to wear the same schlumpy clothes to the same time-killer job, to bring home take-out food to her squalid little room, to put the world on hold while the days turned into weeks.

All she had to do was get in the car and that would change. The back pocket of her jeans held a folding knife, and its four-inch blade was long enough to reach his heart. By the time his body worked its way down to room temperature, she’d be on a bus out of here.

She’d leave because she’d have to leave. That made him her ticket out.

So what was she waiting for?

Not a good idea,
a little voice warned her.
Say something, or don’t say anything, but turn around and go back to the hotel. Whatever you do, don’t get in the car.

She got into the car.

“Seat belt,” he said.

He was looking straight ahead, hadn’t glanced at her since he pulled away from the curb. So he’d noticed earlier that she hadn’t fastened her seat belt, but waited until the car was rolling before saying anything.

Because she might have changed her mind and opened the door, but it had locked automatically when the gears engaged. She noted the set of his jaw, the sheen of perspiration on is forehead.

Whatever you do, don’t get in the car.

Yeah, well. I heard you loud and clear, little voice. I just didn’t pay attention.

He said it again, wrapping the words in a smile. “Seat belt. There’s a state law, I could get a ticket.”

“You’re not wearing yours.”

His face registered surprise. “Had to unhook it to open the door for you,” he said. And he fastened his own belt, and she could almost hear his thought:
Won’t take me any time to unhook it again. And you’re not going anywhere, little girl.

Any reason to stall? None she could think of. It would just put him on guard, and that was the last thing she wanted. He outweighed her by eighty or a hundred pounds, and there looked to be muscle under that corporate façade. Surprise was the only edge she had.

She fastened her seat belt.

He hadn’t asked where she lived, where she was headed, where she wanted to go. Hadn’t asked her name, hadn’t told her his.

Because she knew she’d stopped being a person in his eyes the minute she got in the car. Not that she’d been a person before that. She’d been a quarry, to be tracked and played, and he’d played her well enough because here she was, in his car, and now all he had to do was make use of her. And that was easier if she was depersonalized.

So she wasn’t a person anymore. Once her bottom was planted in the passenger seat, once her seat belt was fastened, she no longer existed as a human being. She was whatever he’d leave when he was done raping and torturing her. She was dead meat. She was body parts.

“Where are we going?”

She didn’t think he was going to answer. She was trying to decide whether to repeat the question, whether to let a touch of panic come into her voice, when he said, “There’s a place I think you’ll like.”

“Oh?”

“Near the lake.”

Was there a lake nearby? She hadn’t paid any attention to the local geography, but she supposed there was always a lake in the area, unless you were out in the middle of the desert.

“I hope it’s not too far.”

“Why? You got a train to catch?”

“I was just thinking that I’d like to suck your dick. You know, while you’re driving? But I can’t as long as I’m wearing my seat belt.”

Well, he hadn’t expected that. She was watching his face, and saw his expression change. She couldn’t read it, not looking at him in profile, but something registered.

“Whore.”

It was remarkable how much contempt he could get into a single syllable. He hated her, just plain hated her. But she responded as if oblivious to all that.

“I know,” she said. “I’m just terrible. I’m a bad little girl and I just can’t help myself.”

He was breathing a little faster. And was it her imagination or had his grip tightened on the steering wheel?

“It’s probably the full moon,” she went on. “I get restless and all I can think about is sucking cock.”

“You’re a fucking whore.”

“I know,” she said. “Look, let me suck it now, while you’re driving. Okay? And then when we get to where we’re going, you can punish me for being bad.” She uncoupled her seat belt. “Would you do that? Would you give me a spanking for being so bad? And maybe you could think of other things to do, so I’ll really learn my lesson.”

She swung around, brought her face to his crotch. Unbuttoned his pants, lowered his zipper. No underwear. A suit and a necktie, but no underwear, and no great commitment to personal hygiene, either. His uncircumcised penis, soft and small, did not smell like anything you’d want to put in your mouth, or even be in the same room with.

But if there’d been any question in her mind, this answered it. He’d been out hunting, and he meant to kill her.

She took hold of him with her left hand, reached around with her right hand for the knife in her hip pocket. Her mouth took him in even as her fingers fumbled with the knife, finally got it out of the pocket. She palmed it, held it out of sight, and he didn’t seem to have noticed.

Now if she could only get it open. There were knives you could open readily with one hand, switchblades and gravity knives, but this was your basic Dollar Store jackknife, with fake mother-of-pearl grips and a single four-inch blade. She tried to open it with one hand, couldn’t.

Maybe the blowjob would be distraction enough. But he didn’t seem to be responding. He was breathing more rapidly, but he wasn’t getting hard. Well, that almost figured; he was a sadist, a killer, and he’d only get an erection if he was in control and she was in pain.

Just as she had that thought, she felt his hand on her throat.

His right hand, because he was still driving the car, still had his left hand on the steering wheel. His fingers settled on the back of her neck, his thumb at the base of her throat.

His grip tightened.

Don’t panic, she told herself. You can’t strangle a person with one hand. It’s hard enough with both hands.

But was that necessarily true? He was strong, he had big hands, and he was exerting a lot of pressure. Jesus, what a way to die, with a truly disgusting dick in your mouth and one huge hand throttling the life out of you.

And he was saying something. Hard to make out at first because he was muttering, but he was saying the same thing over and over and eventually she got it. “
You filthy cunt you’re gonna die you filthy cunt you’re gonna die you filthy cunt . . .
”

She used both hands, fought to get a grip on the knife blade, fought for breath. He was cutting off her air and it made her head swim and turned her hands clumsy. Then she got the knife open.

She bit down on his cock as hard as she could. His grip softened. She gasped for air and sank the knife blade into his balls.

The car was all over the road. He’d let go of the wheel and made fists of both hands, raining blows on the back of her head. She kept stabbing with the knife—his balls, his belly—and when the pain was enough to stop his fists, she reached out blindly and found the key in the ignition, turned it, shut off the engine.

The car was veering off the road, and he grabbed the wheel to right it, but with the engine off the steering was locked. The car powered through a wire farm fence, bounced crazily over uneven ground, and by the time it stopped moving she had managed to get the knife in his chest.

She had to get out. Had to catch her breath, had to unlock the doors, had to get out of the car and find her way back to her hotel.

But she’d been holding the darkness at bay ever since his hand fastened around her throat, and it had taken all her strength. Now she sighed and let go, and a tide of black rolled in and swept her under.