Middle Of Nowhere

   He laughed again, enjoyed a pull on the cigarette and made a spitting noise with his lips as he exhaled. He said, "Let me guess: you're a model."

   Her turn to laugh. She threw her head back and chortled to the faded ceiling fabric. "I'm flattered! Thank you."

   "I've seen you someplace," he said, his inquiring expression making her uncomfortable. She felt him undress her with his eyes. Men did this all the time with her, but this one actually penetrated beyond the clothing to where her skin burned hot, and she felt repulsed by him. She imagined him with Samway: abusive, sexually dominant, taking what he wanted when he wanted it. The woman in her wished the car could drive faster, that Poulsbo would arrive sooner. She could see him dragging her by the hair into the woods, tying her up to some tree and having his pleasure with her. Leaving her there, half naked, gagged, to starve to death or be consumed by the elements. Such things happened more frequently than the civilian population knew— women of all ages disappeared at an alarming rate. The Bryce Abbott Fleks were responsible—the professional in her knew this as well.

   "I'm a psychologist," she said, hoping it would put him off as it did so many people.

   "A shrink?"

   "Not exactly. A counselor is more like it. People come to me with their problems." She debated going for the heart, or sitting back to see where he took this, but the desire to dominate won out. She didn't want him controlling; she wanted him back on his heels. "Relationship problems, grieving the death of a loved one, control issues. You'd be surprised how many people can't control themselves."

   "The TV?" he asked. "You on a show or somethin'? Is that where I seen you? Sally Jessy? Somethin' like that?"

   "I've been interviewed by local news a few times, but nothing recently."

   "Maybe that's it," he said.

   She couldn't tell if he was teasing or not. It felt a little to her like the cat batting the mouse in the face with the claws retracted, playing soft because there was plenty of time and both the mouse and the cat knew who was running the show. It was this control issue that she seized upon. She needed him off balance, or she needed to just shut up and get through the ride, but the psychologist in her wanted to get inside him in a much different way than he wanted to get inside her.

   "You still look like a model to me," he said, working on the cigarette. "You should have waited for the taxi," he suggested.

   A stabbing pain at the V of her rib cage. "How's that?" she asked, doing a decent job of concealing her sense of terror that resulted from the comment.

   "You took a chance thumbing for a ride like that. There are a lot of creeps out here, you know? These islands? A woman as fine as you. . . . You understand what I'm saying."

   "Well then, I'm glad it was you who picked me up," she said. She waited a moment and told him, "At least you don't strike me as a creep."

   They both laughed. Flek first, from the gut and hon estly. Daphne followed with the best she could manage—laughter was not an easy concept for her.

   The gun was in her purse at her feet. So was the cell phone.

   He said, "You can put it up on the seat if you want." He'd caught her staring. "I won't steal nothing from it."

   She covered quickly, "Just trying to remember if I left something back at the office or not."

   "So take a look," he suggested.

   "It's only lipstick," she vamped. "A different color."

   "I like the one you got on."

   "Thank you."

   "Not that you care." He sounded suddenly bitter.

   "Sure I do."

   "That's bullshit, and we both know it. Pardon the French."

   "I care what I look like," she told him. "That's all I meant."

   "Priorities," he said in a dreamy voice. "So you being a psychologist and all. My brother got smoked last week. Dead. What do you think of that?"

   "I'm sorry for your loss. But what do you think of that?" she asked. "That's the more important question."

   He glanced over at her. "I miss him." A whisper that ran chills down her spine.

   "That's only natural. Grief is expected at such times. As painful as it is, grief is a healing force. A cleansing force. It's good to just let it happen. Men, more so than women, can have a problem with that. They bottle up their grief. It comes out as anger or violence or both." She hesitated. "Are you experiencing any of that?"

   "I didn't ask for a free session or nothing."

   "Pardon me. Professional liability, I guess. I was only trying to help."

   "You can't help. Nothing's going to bring him back. Nothing helps."

   "I didn't mean any offense," she said.

   Flek reached down, hooked the strap of her purse and yanked it up to the seat alongside of her. He had the reaction time of a lizard. She had barely seen his arm move.

   "Jeez," he said, landing it next to her. "Thing weighs a ton! You oughta have wheels for that thing!"

   The gun and two spare magazines made it very heavy. She panicked, her brain locking as she stared at her purse. She froze a moment too long and they both knew it.