Some Kind of Magic (3 page)

“The Jeep keys,” he mumbled, holding out his hand. “Give 'em to me.”

Claire fished them out of her pocket and dropped them into his outstretched palm.

Long fingers curled around them. “The other set. I want the other set, too.”

"'I don’t have another set.” She’d always been a terrible liar. Whenever she told a lie, she had an annoying tendency to smile; she didn’t know why.

Anton. There was a guy who could lie. Almost as well as he made love. Maybe better.

“Don’t bullshit me. Everybody has two sets of keys.”

“I lost them.” She felt a little tug at one corner of her mouth. "'I swear.”

"'Get me a phone. I need a phone.”

"'I don’t have one.”

With that, his eyes pinned her right where she stood.

She swallowed.

“You’re not old,” was what he finally said, seeming to have momentarily forgotten about the phone. “I thought you were old.”

Now he was looking at her in a strange way, in a speculative way.

She took a step back, her hand reaching blindly behind her. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice quivering.

He frowned, his thick, dark brows drawing together in a menacing way.

She put up a hand as if to hold him back, or deflect the bullet if he decided to use the gun. "'Please think about what you’re doing. You don’t want to add rape to your crimes, do you?”

“What?” His menacing expression changed. Now he was staring at her as if the idea of sex with her was totally ludicrous.

She looked down at herself.

She was wearing a bulky brown jacket. Sticking out from under the jacket was the tattered hem of a wool sweater that just may have been giving off the mothball scent he’d mentioned earlier. Under that was her heavy Polartec. Under that was not one, but two layers of long underwear. Then there was the pair of jeans Libby had begged Claire to let her replace, the ones with the slightly ripped crotch and the more severely ripped knee. The jeans were tucked into a pair of heavy Sorrel boots.

Victoria’s Secret, eat your heart out.

Topping off her ensemble was the stocking cap that one of the residents of Pineview Nursing Home had made for her. It was crocheted granny squares in about every lovely color not found in nature.

She reached up and pulled it off.

Her hair snapped with electricity. She felt it elevating about her head. She put the cap to her nose, but couldn’t smell anything mothbally.

No, sex was probably the farthest thing from the man’s mind.

“Sorry, honey.” There was humor in his dark eyes.

He was laughing at her!

“I don’t have it in me right now. Just get me a phone.”

“I don’t have one,” she repeated.

His gaze moved around the cabin, momentarily stopping on the woodstove, the woodpile, the kerosene lamp that had come in handy on more than one occasion when the power had gone out, then finally coming back to her. “I can’t believe I’ve gotten mixed up with some hippie, some back-to-nature freak with no phone.”

She didn’t care what he thought about her. She just wanted him and his gun out of there.

He smiled. “Somebody could come along and kidnap you, and you wouldn’t be able to call anybody for help.”

Her muscles began to unknot—now that she knew rape wasn’t on the agenda, but she refused to laugh at his pathetic joke.

“If you don’t have a phone, then get me some dry clothes. The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll be out of here.”

Thank God! Oh, thank God!

She hurried from the room and quickly dug through some of Anton’s abandoned clothes, ones she hadn’t yet burned. Her visitor was taller, heavier compared to Anton’s lithe frame. She ended up settling on a pair of jogging pants, plus a flannel shirt she’d given Anton last winter.

He’d hated it.

She also came up with a pair of striped boxer shorts, a white T-shirt, and a pair of heavy wool socks. When she stepped back into the living room, the man had stripped to the waist. The right side of his torso, above the rib cage, was one massive bruise.

“You need a doctor.” It was merely an observation. She didn’t care if he got medical attention. After all, he’d kidnapped her at gunpoint.

“Just gimme the clothes.”

She threw the bundle on the couch.

He unbuttoned his jeans, then reached for the zipper.

On his arm was a strange tattoo, below the tattoo, writing that she couldn’t make out. A gang symbol?

“If you don’t want to get an eyeful, I suggest you turn around.” Without waiting for her to comply, he began peeling off his pants.

She remained where she was, reluctant to turn her back on him.

“But then, maybe you do want to get an eyeful. That’s okay with me. I’m not modest.”

She slowly turned away, and had taken three steps when he stopped her.

“Stay here. Where I see you.”

She waited, her ears fine-tuned. She heard the sound of boots hitting the floor, heard the sound of fabric moving over skin.

She imagined him slipping into the shorts, the pants, the shirt. Until she became aware of the silence behind her.

She waited.

And waited.

Then slowly turned in time to see him collapse on the couch.

Sitting, he lunged for the nearest receptacle, which happened to be the kindling bucket, his gun clattering to the floor. With one hand to his stomach, the other gripping the bucket, he threw up.

When he was finished, he retrieved the gun and fell back against the couch, eyes tightly closed, breathing shallow, his skin the color of paste. The plaid shirt was yet to be buttoned, the tails lying across his thighs.

“Do something with that,” he whispered.

If he hadn’t given her such a direct order, Claire would have had no trouble complying. As it was, Claire had a problem with people trying to tell her what to do. “No.”

“I’ve got a gun.”

“I won’t clean up after you.”

“Shit.” He got to his feet, grabbed the bucket, shuffled to the front door, put the bucket outside, and let the dog in.

He made it back to the couch, Hallie following, tail wagging, her body language seeming to ask,
Am I supposed to be doing this? Even if I’m not, I like it.

With his eyes closed, the man jammed the gun into the waistband of the gray jogging pants.

Claire stared. And stared some more.

At his pallor. At his face that needed to be shaved. At the gun jammed into his pants. Why did men put guns there? It didn’t seem like a good idea.

For a guy, it was like putting a gun to his head.

A hysterical giggle rose in her throat. She put a hand to her mouth, trying to stop it.

Too late.

Dark, hooded eyes flew open. They were gray. She could see that now. “What’s so funny?”

“Isn’t that kind of cold?” She pointed to the weapon in question.

It took him a moment to figure out what she was talking about. When he did, irritation flashed across his features—his reaction to such an inane question. He had bigger problems than cold metal against his belly.

“No," he said slowly. “Haven't you heard? Happiness is a warm gun.”

“What else do you need? Food? Money?” Claire wanted him out of there as quickly as possible.

“I changed my mind. I’m not leaving.”

“What?”

“Not leaving."

“You said you’d leave if I got you some clothes.”

“I lied.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Get me some rope.”

“Rope?” She shook her head. “Oh, I’m sure I don’t have anything like that around. I wouldn’t have any use for rope. Never use rope.”

He cast a quick glance around the room, his gaze falling to the floor where an extension cord trailed to a nearby table lamp. He took three steps, bent, and unplugged the cord at both ends, then began moving in her direction.

She shook her head, her eyes locked with his. “Don’t tie me up. Please don’t tie me up."

“Come on. Hands behind your back.”

“Hallie! Attack!” Claire pointed at the dog’s supposed prey.

Sleepy from the unaccustomed heat, Hallie just thumped her tail against the floor.

“Get him! Get him, girl!”

Hallie got to her feet and stood there smiling, her tail wagging, but Claire could tell she wanted nothing more than to lie back down. How could she not understand the urgency of the situation? Weren’t dogs supposed to have a sixth sense?

Claire gave up and tried another tactic. “I— uh ... I have to go to the bathroom.”

He was looking at her in a disgusted manner. As if he’d heard that line a million times.

“I do.”

She shifted from one foot to the other, to prove her point. The problem was, now that she thought about it, she did have to go. She recalled the beer she’d drunk at The Brewery. Looking back, it seemed like days ago, but her bladder had a different spin on it.

Bored and thankful to be out of the limelight, Hallie returned to her spot near the door, circled a few times, then lay back down.

“If you remember correctly,” she said, “I was at a tavern. I had a couple of beers. You know how beer goes through you.”

Finally something he seemed able to relate to. “Okay.” He pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants and motioned her away. "But I’m coming along. And no shutting the door.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. No way was she going to the bathroom with him watching her.

“If you’re afraid I’m going to get turned on by some mothball-smelling woman taking a pee, you’re nuts. Go on.” He motioned with the gun again.

She really had to go. Bad.

“Okay, but keep your back to me. Don’t look.”

“Believe me. You don’t have anything I want to see.”

He kept guard at the bathroom door, his body slightly turned to the side, his back not completely toward her. But it would have to do. At least he’d returned the gun to his waistband.

“You’re not from around here,” she said, trying to dredge up some form of conversation while she gingerly pulled down her pants, all the while keeping an eye on his back while concentrating on quickly getting the job done. “I’m not from around here either.” Finished, she quickly pulled up her long underwear and jeans.

“Don’t try to suck up to me.”

“I’m not— Don’t turn around!”

Claire took a quick inventory of the sink. A can of deodorant and some hairspray she hadn't used in a month. She took a silent step to the left. Then another. She paused, then grabbed the deodorant, finger to the nozzle. Before she could chicken out, she jumped at him, holding down the button, the can aimed at his face, at his eyes. She let out a scream as she scored a direct hit. She continued to press the button, screaming in terror at his possible—probable—retaliation as the fog of spray hit him.

He let out a surprised yelp of his own. Or rather a cry of agony. Bent at the waist, he pressed the heels of both hands to his eyes.

She dropped the deodorant and bolted past him, knocking into him as she went. Two steps later, she was being tackled to the ground, the air rushing from her lungs as she made contact with the wooden floor, stomach first.

“Son of a bitch,” he moaned, his body pinning hers to the floor.

He was mad. He was furious.

He writhed and bellowed on top of her.

She reached behind her and managed to grab a tuft of his cropped hair. She yanked.

He bellowed again, but didn’t release his hold.

He jerked her fingers from his hair, quite a few strands coming with it, then proceeded to drag her across the floor to the dropped extension cord. The next thing she knew, his knee was in her spine, her arms pinned behind her back as wrapped the cord around her wrists. Al the while, Hallie watched, her mouth open in what looked like a happy smile.

“Normally,” he said as he worked, his voice breathless, “I don't like to manhandle women. But I can say I'm actually enjoying this." He gave the cord another tug, then moved to the side. “Bend your knees and bring your feet up in the air."

She should have been afraid of him, terrified of him, but the only emotion she felt was anger at being treated so callously. Instead of bringing up her feet, she rolled to the side and kicked at him with her heavy boots, making satisfactory contact with his knee. He let out a grunt of surprise, shoved her hard to her stomach again, pulled her feet up and wound the rest of the cord around her until she lay there like a roped rodeo calf. Then he got to his feet and headed straight for the bathroom.

She heard water splashing in the sink. He must have been washing out his eyes.

“I hope they catch you and put you in a maximum-security prison for the rest of your life!" she shouted. “I never used to believe in the death sentence!" She continued to shout so that he could hear her. “But your gentle manner has pretty much persuaded me to cast my vote in a new direction!”

She watched as he stepped out of the bathroom. Without a glance in her direction, he cut through the living room to disappear into the bedroom.

Ears straining for the slightest sound, she heard the creaking of the bed, heard him shifting his weight, getting more comfortable. Then silence.

What?

She listened.

The silence gave way to gentle, rhythmic snoring.

She made a sound of frustration while trying to kick her feet, only managing to pull her bindings tighter.

~0~

“Hey, man. You alive?”

Was he dreaming? It seemed so real, like something that was actually happening.

“Hey, man. You alive?” the voice repeated.

No.

“Hey, man.”

Dylan blinked, trying to focus. He couldn’t. There was something in his eyes.

Blood. He had blood in his eyes.

“I’m gonna go for help. Okay? You hear me?”

Darkness sucked him down, sucked him in, swallowed him.

Dark. So dark...

Later, he came to.

Cold.

He tried to get to his feet.

He couldn’t.

Something held him down.

A seat belt.

With frozen fingers, he struggled with the catch, finally feeling the belt slip away. On weak legs, he stood. With a heavy thud, something fell to the floor near his feet.

A gun.

He put out a hand to steady himself, grabbing the back of the pilot’s seat, his fingers coming in contact with fabric.

Jesus. The pilot. He was still in the plane. Slumped over the controls.

Dead?

Keeping his head bent beneath the low ceiling, he picked up the man’s wrist to feel for a pulse.

He let go.

The body was already stiff.

How much time had passed?

He turned away, feeling sick to his stomach. He picked up the gun, then shuffled to the doorway. He jumped, his legs giving out when he hit the ground, the snow swallowing him.

~0~

Claire rolled around on the cold, hard floor, too pissed to care that she was bruising herself. All she'd accomplished in the last several hours was to cut off the circulation in her arms.

Okay.

Calm down.

You can do this.

She rested. The relaxation of her muscles created slack in the bonds. It was an extension cord—an old, thin one at that. How tough was an old, thin extension cord?

She wormed her way across the floor until she was next to the woodstove. Maneuvering into position, she rubbed the stretched cord against the cast-iron edge of the stove. After a minute, the cord snapped. In familiar territory now—she and the neighbor kids had played this game all the time—Claire brought her legs through the circle made by her arms so that her hands were in front of her. Then, using her teeth, she went to work on the bindings around her wrists.

~0~

The bed was so soft. So damn soft ... Like snow. Deep, deep snow ...

Dylan was lying in the snow, contemplating life, when he thought he heard the sound of voices. He raised his arm, hoping to get their attention. Something smacked into the tree, just inches above his head. Bark flew.

That’s weird.

He heard another pop. More bark flew. That’s when he realized the someone was shooting at him. He staggered to his feet—and tumbled headfirst over the edge of an embankment.