Trapped by a Dangerous Man (3 page)

I slowed even more. Despite the cold, I was sweating, and fear twisted my stomach into a knot. The car felt funny, like I was driving in a dream and we were about to lift into the dark, snowy sky.

The skid started slowly, and so gently. I turned into it, remembering road safety education class in school, and was able to straighten, then came to a stop. After taking a moment to regroup, I gently pushed on the accelerator.
 

The wheels spun loudly, but the car moved back like a giant, invisible hand was pushing on it. Puzzled, I checked that I hadn’t popped into reverse, then tried again.

For a moment, I rocked forward. “Come on, damn you!” I floored the accelerator, desperate.

What goes forward, apparently, must go back. Except I kept going back, sliding, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to stop it except brace myself for the impact, which was mercifully soft.

The car shuddered and the engine shut off. Everything was frighteningly quiet.

“You know what? You can stay off,” I muttered, trying to ignore the dread settling around me in the silence. Judging from the angle of my car, my back end was in deep snow, the exhaust pipe blocked. My cell phone showed the time was 10:35. And I had no signal.
 

I turned off the headlights to spare the battery and tried to convince myself that someone would soon pass by.

~~~

It took a whole fifteen seconds for the cold to creep in. I’d
thought
I was cold before, but I had no idea. Even the crappy heating in my car was better than nothing. Soon my hands and feet were blocks of ice.

The snow had piled up on the windows and windshield, and it was dark. And it suddenly occurred to me that I was in an enclosed space… that it was my car didn’t change the fact that I was inside, and I couldn’t see anything. Like in a coffin.

A nervous, panicked fluttering kicked up in my stomach, and I ripped off my seatbelt and shoved it away when it didn’t retract automatically. After every snowstorm, there was an obligatory news story about someone who’d been caught unawares. Someone stupid enough to venture into Nature’s wrath without chains on the tires, without telling someone where she was going, without a decent cell phone. And without an emergency kit in the trunk—a week earlier I’d taken it out to make space in anticipation of a big-box store shopping trip.

It had been years since I’d had a claustrophobia-induced panic attack, but the tightening in my chest was exactly how I remembered it, except worse. I’d learned a technique to cope with this, and Mrs. Rico’s kind face appeared.
Breathe low in your stomach. Tell the panic who’s boss. Despite how it feels, you are safe.

The hyperventilation slowed to an ordinary, run-of-the-mill fast breathing, and I nodded. “Exactly like that, Audrey,” I said, channeling Mrs. Rico.

My hand stilled on the door handle. It was surely warmer in the car than outside, and at least I was dry…

But it might be twelve hours before someone got around to plowing this road. Or it could be a week, and they’d find me, suffocated—

“I am bigger than my fear,” I chanted. I wrung my white-knuckled hands around the cold steering wheel, forcing myself to take deep, even breaths. Making a decision to get out of the car because I was
scared
was about the dumbest thing I could do, but I couldn’t simultaneously weigh my options while keeping the dread at bay.

I’d driven about thirty-five minutes off the freeway. Of course, I didn’t know when I’d lost phone reception, but maybe I could walk within range of a tower. I didn’t want to be one of those people who died twenty feet from salvation.
 

“The road is right there,” I told myself, but all the while, the car continued to squeeze in, the darkness creeping closer.

“Action, Audrey,”
Mrs. Rico had said.
“Go about your life and the panic might realize it’s unwanted.”

Ok. And my action was going to be to get out of the car, but not in a screaming, frightened mess. I was going to do it like a survivor.
 

After wrapping my feet in some sales circulars that were piled up on the back seat, I tied my boots tighter, pulled down my hat, which I knew was woefully thin, zipped up my coat the last millimeter, checked that the phone was in my coat pocket, and tried to open the door. It didn’t budge.
 

I flipped the lock down, then up again. The door refused to yield.

Mrs. Rico’s voice disappeared. I needed to get the hell out—

Suddenly I couldn’t get enough air. I slammed my shoulder into the door, but my fingers slid off the handle at the last second. I tried again, my entire body shaking, cold sweat drenching me from head to newspaper-covered toe.

The door gave. Just a few inches, but enough for fresh air to rush in. I gulped it, barely waiting to exhale before sucking back another lungful. I knew I was going to hyperventilate and faint if I didn’t slow down; already my fingertips and lips were getting numb from the lack of oxygen, and pinpricks of imaginary light dotted my field of vision.

Through a haze, I realized that the overhead light had come on, that snow was piled up high outside the door. I pushed harder, knowing all that snow must be heavy. My rocking made the car slide back more, but miracle of miracles, I was able to shove the door open and stumble into the open, fresh world.
 

The car rested in a shallow culvert ditch. I had slid off of a short bridge that seemed designed to freeze over and send an innocent motorist to her embarrassingly pathetic death.
 

I struggled up the few feet to the road, or what I assumed was the road. The snow was so heavy that if there was a house nearby, it was invisible. I bent over, my arms stiff and propped on my thighs while I tried to slow my breathing. Once the little spots of light disappeared, I straightened and marched back the way I’d come, my hand over my mouth to stop the cruel wind from suffocating me, following the skinny tracks left by my car.
 

Tracks which were, to my dismay, quickly disappearing.

~~~

My father always complained that I was too stubborn. When he was pleased with me, it was my greatest quality, and he spoke of it like other parents might boast about their precocious violin prodigies. “My Audrey stayed up all night in front of the fireplace, waiting for Santa to come so that she could lecture him about giving her a pink bike when she wanted a black one.” When he was angry with me, which was fairly often, he would say that my stubbornness was going to lead to my downfall.

He and my mother never agreed on much, which was probably why they divorced when Rob and I were young, but on the subject of my blind, thoughtless stubbornness, they were 100% in accord.

At the moment, I was inclined to admit they were right.

My aching toes, dragged through the snow, were uncomfortable even before I started walking, so I couldn’t pinpoint when I lost all feeling. One moment I was stepping through blocks of burning ice, and a few seconds later it felt like my lower legs ended in stumps.
 

Loss of feeling in extremities… not good. I told myself I would just sit down a moment, pull my knees into my chest and get my blood flowing again. Maybe rub my feet until the feeling returned. Then I would get up and find a way out of this mess.
 

Deep down, I knew that wasn’t likely to happen, that not stopping was the better option.
 

But I was starting to panic again; the air around me, the snow weighing on my limbs, was not much better than the vise of the car’s interior. It was like the darkness took on weight, pushing on my coat and wet jeans, forcing me down, and only when I went still did it relent.

I tried to scrunch and flex my toes and was rewarded with a bit of stifled movement. The boots were… no, not coffins.

“Get a grip,” I yelled, the heavy snowflakes muffling the sound. For once, the hysteria obeyed.
 

But not the fear. I couldn’t banish the knowledge that I would die there. Icy tears slid down my cheeks, mingled with the mucous running down my nose, and froze on my lips and chin. I’d never been the type to feel sorry for myself, but damn… what a crappy way to die.

Except I was feeling, strangely, a little better. Not warm, but warmed… cozy despite the cold, which took a back seat to the strange euphoria that was creeping along my chilled flesh. It was so quiet and peaceful there, but I knew I needed to stay awake. So I thought of all the cows, cozy and quiet in their barns, and I wanted nothing more than to be with them, appreciating the puffs of their steamy breath in the air. I could spend the rest of my life with them, would happily dedicate myself to shoveling cow dung if some fairy godmother should flit in and offer me the choice… I would have agreed to anything… there was no existence too degrading. “Shovel cow dung. Shovel cow dung,” I chanted, the cold making my jaw vibrate, shaking the words as they stuttered between my ice cube lips.

Tears had frozen my eyelashes together, and I was no longer sure if I was upright or lying down, though I supposed I was on my back, yet I didn’t remember falling over.
 

Bright lights seared through my eyelids. A vehicle stopped and waited with a low rumbling. A door opened. Footsteps. A man cursing. Even as far gone as I was, I knew he was really pissed, and some tiny, human part of me wished I could smack him and say that in this situation,
he
wasn’t the one with the real problem, but I also wanted to promise him that I would take excellent care of his cows.

Arms wrapped around behind my shoulders and slipped under my bent knees, and I knew that it was ok to let go.

~~~

I opened my eyes into complete darkness and realized that I was on a soft bed. Warm. I blinked slowly, exaggeratedly, and slowly raised my arm in front of my face. And saw nothing.

I didn’t panic, not yet, but struggled to remember what had happened. Unfortunately, I remembered too much… losing control of the car in the most pathetic, least out-of-control way possible… walking for what seemed like forever but probably hadn’t been, panicking and thinking I was being smothered by the night.

With a deep breath, I squeezed my eyes closed and pressed my fingertips to my face. My hands were encased in a bulky, scratchy fabric. I wasn’t quite sure if I could feel my fingers or if they were just tightly wrapped.

Impotent sobs rose in my throat, and I turned on my side, unfamiliar sheets brushing against my bare skin. I thrust my mittened hands under the covers and realized I was naked. My body jerked into fetal position, and as my feet pulled up, I realized that they were wrapped as well, but the rest of me was naked under the covers. I was ashamed that someone had needed to tend to me like I was an infant, but the darkness was eating at the frayed edges of my nerves. “Hello?” I called out, my voice weak. I tried again. “Please turn on the light! Can you hear me?”

Footsteps hurried up a flight of stairs. A door opened, and light came on. I suspected it was dim, but it burned after the total darkness, and I covered my eyes with the crook of my arm.

“Sorry.” The man’s voice was barely a grunt. “How do you feel?”

I latched onto his voice like a drowning woman. “Where am I?” My lips hurt, and when I licked them, they were chapped and jagged.

“You’re safe. In my home.” He said this last bit with a measure of reluctance. “Do you know what happened to you?” When I didn’t answer, he continued, “You had an accident. I found you collapsed in the road.”

“I remember,” I whispered, turning away from the voice, my eyes still closed as if opening them would mean committing to this new reality of almost having died because of my stupidity. I knew I should face my mysterious savior, thank him for saving my life, but instead I found myself sobbing. I was ashamed that I’d needed rescue, relieved that someone had come along, and I was supremely disappointed in myself for having risked so much… ultimately for nothing.

“Gonna bring you some soup,” he said, and even in those five words I could hear his discomfort. His footsteps receded, and I cried even harder, all the while furious that I couldn’t get a grip already. Because I was alive, and what was the point of that if I was just going to cry like a baby?

Eventually, after a few false finishes and some shuddering gulps, the tears subsided for good. I rubbed my face dry on the pillow, and slowly opened my eyes, adjusting to the light.
 

I found myself in a rather nice bedroom: large bed, beautiful, solid furniture, original landscape paintings hanging on the walls. Everything had a slightly rustic flare. This was someone’s home, but I doubted my mystery benefactor was a farmer. Judging from the quality of the sheets against my skin, I guessed that I’d been rescued by one of the entrepreneurs who maintained vacation homes in the mountains. He probably decided to head up early to ski, get ahead of the powder chasers, and instead of spending his evening listening to jazz and drinking overpriced wine while anticipating a full day on the slopes, he’d gotten stuck playing rescuer.
 

A wave of guilt crashed through me, but I fought it back firmly as I heard his footfalls on the stairs. The least I could do was not embarrass him with another round of tears.

I dragged myself up to sitting and arranged the sheets to protect my modesty, then plastered what I hoped was a pleasantly grateful expression on my face.

My hero backed into the room, shoving the door open, and carrying food. I stared at him in shock. This wasn’t some middle-aged, paunchy optometrist on vacation. As he turned, his head was tilted down and his eyes were lowered as he focused his attention on the tray bearing a bowl of soup that spilled with every step, two thick slices of bread, and a mug of tea. I noticed his hands, large and strong. Capable hands that had saved my life. Inappropriately and unexpectedly, I wanted to feel them on me, chasing my worries away with slow and certain caresses.

He wore a tan flannel shirt—lumberjack style—but the shiny white snap buttons suggested that the shirt had been purchased in an expensive store. Dark-wash blue jeans molded to his solid legs. Boots, rugged but clean, like he only wore them inside. I was sure they’d also come out of an expensive store.