Lethal (Lee Coburn)

“You have one somewhere.”

“No I don’t.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I swear,” she said.

“Which side of the bed do you sleep on?”

“What? Why?”

He didn’t repeat the question, just continued to stare at her until she pointed. “The right.”

Backing away from her, he moved to the nightstand on the right side of the bed and checked the drawer. Inside were a flashlight and a paperback novel but no lethal weapon. Then to her shock, he shoved the mattress, linens and all, off the bed far enough for him to search beneath it, finding nothing except the box spring.

He motioned with his chin for her to lead him from the room. They returned to the living room and went from there into the kitchen, where his eyes darted from point to point, taking it all in. His gaze lit on the wall hook with her car keys hanging from it.

When she saw his notice, she said, “Take the car. Just go.”

Ignoring that, he asked, “What’s in there?”

“Laundry room.”

He went to that door and opened it. Washing machine and clothes dryer. Ironing board folded into a recession in the wall. A rack on which she dried her delicates, some of which were hanging there now. An array of lace in pastels. One black bra.

When he came back around, those Nordic eyes moved over her in a way that made her face turn hot even as her torso became cold and clammy with dread.

He took a step toward her; she took a corresponding step back, a normal response to mortal danger, which is what he posed to her. She didn’t delude herself into believing otherwise.

His entire aspect was menacing, starting with his chilling eyes and the pronounced bone structure of his face. He was tall and lean, but the skin on his arms was stretched over muscles that looked as taut as whipcord. The backs of his hands were bumpy with strong veins. His clothes and hair had snagged natural debris—twigs, sprigs of moss, small leaves. He seemed indifferent to all that, just as he did to the mud caked on his boots and the legs of his jeans. He smelled of the swamp, of sweat, of danger.

In the silence, she could hear his breathing. She could hear her own heartbeat. She was his sole focus, and that terrified her.

Overpowering him would be impossible, especially since one jerk of his index finger would fire a bullet straight into her. He stood between her and the drawer where butcher knives were stored. On the counter was the coffee pot, still half filled with this morning’s brew, still hot enough to scald him. But in order to reach either it or the knives, she would have to get past him, and that didn’t seem likely. She doubted she could outrun him, but even if she could make it beyond the door and escape, she wouldn’t leave Emily behind.

Reason or persuasion seemed the only options open to her.

“I’ve answered all your questions truthfully, haven’t I?” she said, her voice low and tremulous. “I’ve offered to give you my money and whatever valuables—”

“I don’t want your money.”

She motioned toward the bleeding scratches on his arms. “You’re hurt. Your head has been bleeding. I’ll… I’ll help you.”

“First aid?” He made a scoffing sound. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what… what do you want?”

“Your cooperation.”

“With what?”

“Put your hands behind your back.”

“Why?”

He took a couple of measured steps toward her.

She backed away. “Listen.” She licked her lips. “You don’t want to do this.”