Sting

“Come in.” His voice was disembodied. She couldn’t see him.

“I can’t see where I’m going.”

After a lengthy silence when all she could hear were her own heartbeats against her eardrums, he opened the car door and the dome light came on. It did more to emphasize the surrounding darkness than to relieve it.

He was standing on the opposite side of the car, only his head and shoulders visible above the roof of it. “Did you get wet?”

Until he asked, Jordie hadn’t even noticed that her hair and clothing had indeed absorbed the mist while she’d been outside contemplating the only hope she had of surviving.

The mere thought of what she must do sickened her. But more sickening was the thought of dying like Mickey Bolden.

The bandana with which she’d tied her ponytail felt soggy and heavy against the back of her neck as she nodded in reply to his question. “Yes, a little.”

“Maybe there’s something in the trunk you can use to dry off.”

Her heart thumped hard. He’d just given her an excuse to go back to the spot where she’d taken her sponge bath. But she didn’t want to appear too eager to get there. “What have you got?”

“Take a look.” He bent down out of sight only long enough to reach beneath the dashboard and pop open the trunk again.

She hesitated, then started toward the car. “I might have to use the last of your bandanas.”

“Short as that supply is, I’d hate to give up more.”

“I’ll buy you another dozen.”

It suddenly stuck her what an inane conversation this was to be having at this moment. But what did one say to someone at a time such as this? What would be appropriate? Nothing she could think of.

However, it seemed vital that she continue talking to him. The sound of her own voice somehow bolstered her resolve. It was proof that he hadn’t shot her outright when she reentered the building and that she was still alive. For as long as she was drawing breath, hope remained. In dwindling quantities, perhaps. But for now there was still a glimmer of it.

She got as far as the rear bumper on the passenger side. He was still standing in the open wedge of the driver’s door, his left forearm propped on the roof, looking deceptively casual. His eyes were the giveaway to exactly how alert he was. They reflected the faint light like razor-sharp blades, scarily motionless as they watched her.

Attempting to appear unafraid, she moved around to the open trunk and took a swift inventory. What she saw were the remaining canned goods, a half-dozen unopened bottles of water, their empties, the blue tarp. She didn’t spot her phone. Nor the tire iron. Was it beneath the tarp? If not, where was it? What had he done with it? “Find them?” he asked.

“Yes.” She reached into the trunk for the package of bandanas. She pulled one from it then dropped the package back into the trunk.

Trying to look unhurried, she turned and started walking toward the back of the building. “If you’ll keep the light on for a few minutes longer, I’ll just go back here and use—”

“Jordie.”

“What?”

“What’s your rush?”

“I’m wet.”

“Stop.”

“What?”

“I said stop!”

She turned around quickly. “Why?”

He was walking toward her, his right hand held down at his side close to his thigh. “Is this what you’re going after?” He raised his right arm. Her heart stopped in expectation of seeing the pistol in his hand.

Not the arrow.

She gasped.