Mean Streak

“Why?” she wheezed.

“So it couldn’t emit a signal.”

She’d been entertaining a sliver of hope that she’d let her imagination get the best of her, that she’d seen too many TV shows, read too many books, fiction as well as true accounts, about women who were captured, tortured, abused, murdered. She’d held on to the diminishing hope that he wasn’t actually keeping her in this isolated place against her will and with evil intent.

But he’d just dashed that slender hope all to hell. He’d disabled her phone. On purpose. Her location couldn’t be tracked using GPS, which is one of the first things the authorities would try to do when Jeff reported her missing.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Haven’t we already established that?”

“We haven’t established a damn thing except that you’re a kidnapper and a—” She broke off, not wanting to plant ideas in his head.

He seemed to read her mind, however, because he arched one dark brow inquisitively. “And a what?”

She’d had a slim-to-none chance of incapacitating him, either by gouging his eyes out or plunging the knife into him. Since both attempts had failed, the only weapon left to her was reason.

“Listen, I don’t care what you’ve done in the past. You haven’t hurt me yet. In fact, you’ve been exceptionally kind. Which I appreciate. Things could have gone a lot worse for me if you hadn’t been there to…to find me and bring me here.”

He waited several beats. “But?”

“But I need to leave now and go home. You must let me go.”

He raised his shoulders slightly and motioned toward the door. “It’s unlocked. But I warn you, I don’t believe you’ll get very far. I walked a couple of miles down the road, thinking that the fog might not be so thick at a lower elevation. I never walked out of it.”

“You walked.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you drive?”

“For the same reason I wouldn’t drive you last night. There are dozens of switchbacks. I could miss a curve and go over a three-hundred-foot drop.”

“But you took the keys to your truck.”

“Because I didn’t want you driving it.”

“It occurred to me.”

“I figured. I didn’t want you wrecking it and possibly killing yourself in the process. Which is why I took the keys.”

He stuffed his gloves, bloodstain and all, into the pocket of his coat and hung it on a wall peg. He unwound the scarf from around his neck. Static raised his hair when he pulled off his watch cap. It and the scarf were added to the peg.

He went to the fireplace, hunkered down in front of it, stirred the embers with a poker, and then added several logs. Coming to his feet and dusting his hands on his seat, he asked if she’d eaten anything.

“No.”

He went over to the refrigerator and opened it. She marched up to it and pushed the door shut with enough force to rock the appliance and rattle bottles inside. He turned, looking like he might kill her then and there, but she didn’t let his murderous glower intimidate her.

“My husband will be frantic to know where I am and what’s happened to me. He’ll have the police out searching.”

“Well they won’t find you today. Not the way things are socked in.”

“I can e-mail him. But I need the password for your laptop.”

He glanced at the laptop, then turned back to the fridge, bumped her hip with his to move her out of the way, and reopened the door. “I don’t do e-mail.”

“That’s okay. I can contact him through Facebook. Even if Jeff doesn’t see my post, a friend—”