Her body jerked.
Her legs gave way.
She flew forward, twisting to land hard on the rough street. Her hands scraped, her skull hit the asphalt with a loud crack, the skin ripping off her cheek. Burning pain screamed through her face and everything on the darkened street seemed to turn upside down. Overhead the light was still shining, but there was darkness beyond, the thrum of traffic on the freeway somewhere in the far distance. She heard her own breathing and her heart pumping as she tried to fight the blackness overcoming her and climb to her feet.
Her legs wouldn’t move.
Deep inside she was cold, so very cold, yet she felt a warmth oozing from her. In a distant part of her brain she realized it was blood and wondered vaguely if anyone would come to help her, if she would survive. Then she remembered Lucinda Rinaldi lying on this same street.
Help me, she thought desperately, and tried to yell, to scream over the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching.
The assassin!
No, oh, no!
With all her strength, she managed to get her feet beneath her and push, scooting backward on the asphalt, hoping to find some kind of cover or that, please God, someone would come to her rescue.
Bam!
Her shoulder rammed into a parking meter, jarring her. But she didn’t give up. Wrapping her fingers around the cold metal pole she attempted to pull herself to her feet, over the curb and out of the gutter where water was gurgling in a rush.
She was wobbly, her hands slick and unable to do what her brain commanded.
“Oh, God,” she gasped, tasting salty blood on her lips.
And then the would-be killer was there. Standing in front of her. The woman who had leaped from the shadows to attack her.
Allie Kramer with her weird face. No. Now that her stalker was close she realized the disfigured face with the black eyeholes wasn’t Allie Kramer at all, but the twisted face of Jenna Hughes.
What the hell?
Brandi’s eyes rolled back in her head and as she passed out, she felt her head being lifted, something slick and cool being placed over her face and then there was nothing but blessed, silent darkness.
ACT IV
She pocketed the gun and ran, afraid that someone had seen her. Adrenaline fueled her, spurred her on. She spied a woman looking out the window and turned quickly down an alley. Without the mask she could be recognized, identified. No way could she let that happen!
Not here. Not now.
The air was thick, rain pummeling down from the starless sky. Her legs ached and her lungs felt as if they were on fire, but she needed distance, more distance, so she pressed on.
Keep moving!
Just one more block.
Then another.
Breathing was damn near impossible.
She rounded a corner and finally, gratefully slowed. Taking in huge gulps of air, she felt sweat slide down her back and prickle in her hair, but she was far enough away from the killing ground to avoid suspicion.
She hoped. Prayed.
Still, a little more distance wouldn’t hurt. As fast as her painful legs allowed, she walked, down two blocks, around another corner, getting ever closer to downtown Portland, where the city sprawled along the shores of the Willamette. There were more people out, the segment of the population who preferred night to day. She kept her head turned away and in the ghostly glow of streetlights in the rain, no one seemed to recognize her.
She was heading to her car when she spied the Vintner’s House, a cozy little bar Allie Kramer had been known to haunt. Discreet lighting. Private booths. Even a gas fireplace. No televisions, just soft, eclectic music.
A slow smile twisted over her lips.