Middle Of Nowhere

   They wrestled, though she didn't put up much resistance. She wasn't about to control him physically and didn't want to start down that road. If he turned to physical violence, she had only the weapon to stop him.

   He tripped the glove box and grabbed for the bottle.

   She said, "Talk to me, Abby. Tell me what you're feeling."

   Force of habit: Bring the subject closer by establishing rapport. Seek permission to use the subject's first name. Befriend, don't belittle. But she had slipped— there had been no introduction, no reason for her to know his name. She had trapped herself in an amateurish mistake, and she reeled with self-loathing.

   On hearing his nickname, his head turned mechanically toward her, the road and the traffic there a distant thought. Daphne kept one eye trained out the windshield, her attention divided between her purse at her feet and the murderous rage in the driver's eyes.

   He looked her over through dazed eyes, a mind stunned by what he heard. She thought that perhaps there were gears spinning in there, perhaps only the violently loud rush of blood pulsing past his ears. He looked numb. Bewildered.

   It all happened at once. His words disconnected as his mind sought to fill in the blanks. "Who . . . the fuck . . . are you?" His right hand dropped the bottle, his left took the wheel, and with one lunge, his fingers were locked around her throat and pressing her head against the door's window. He was halfway across the seat, fingers twisting painfully in her hair and turning her head toward the dash, the car losing its track, the rear wheels yipping.

   She saw her salvation lying in the bottom of the glove box. But she could not reach it, could not speak.

   His strength consumed her. She reached forward, fingers wavering for purchase, but he'd stuffed her into the seat against the door and she couldn't make it. Suddenly his knee was bracing the wheel, his left hand gone from it, and her window came down electronically, and her head thrust through the opening until fully out in the stinging dark rain. He let go her hair, grabbed hold of her left breast, squeezed and twisted until she screamed, turning with the pain. Just as he wanted.

   The window moved up electronically, now choking her throat.

   "Who the fuck are you?" he screamed. The window nudged up another fraction of an inch. Her windpipe would be crushed. She couldn't manage more than a grunt. Her fingers danced closer to the glove box.

   He must have been halfway across the seat and steering with his left hand, but he'd lost the accelerator in order to hold her there. The car slowed noticeably, and he headed for the side of the road.

   Finally, she felt the soft plastic between her fingers. She hoisted the cool cup that she'd seen inside the glove box. It was blue. It was used to keep single cans of beer cold. She turned it, because she didn't know if she had the lettering facing him.

   She spun it, and shook it, and tried to grab his attention.

   The window came down and he pulled her inside. She sucked for air, grabbed for her neck and massaged her throat.

   On the cup was printed in white a single word:  ABBY

* * *

The car was pulled off the road, engine running. It smelled of exhaust and human sweat and tequila. Flek panted, glancing over at her and wondering what came next. Daphne's face and hair were soaking wet, her neck a scarlet bruise. The windshield fogged as they sat there. Flek reached out and gently picked up the cool cup.

   He said dreamily, as if nothing had happened between them. "He bought it for me at a truck stop. This trip we took once. David. My brother—"

   She said nothing, knowing it best to allow him to calm. Her breast burned. Her weapon beckoned, but she dared not move. She glanced down quickly only to see her purse had fallen on its side, the knurled handle of the handgun showing. She extended her knee and placed her foot over the weapon, covering it. She knew now what he would do to her if he found out who she was. All she wanted was out of that car—but she also knew he could not feel threatened by her departure, could not feel she would go running to police, or he would never let her go. One slip of the tongue had brought her here to this moment; she guarded her words carefully. She had a role to play.

   Her voice rasped dryly as she spoke, requiring deep breaths to get any sound out at all. "You could have killed me," she said.

   Flek had left. The adrenaline had kicked the drugs in ahead of schedule. He ground his teeth so hard she could hear them—like a rock scratching slate. "Out there in eastern Colorado. Might as well be Kansas, it's so damn flat. There was a 'T' on the cup when Davie bought it—TABBY—but he scratched it off with his penknife and handed it to me, saying it was my birthday present."