Thief of Hearts
by
Kimberly Zant
© copyright by Kimberly Zant, 2003
cover art by Eliza Black
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Dear Diary:
I woke last night to discover I was not alone. It was the most erotic, and at the same time the scariest, experience of my life.
I don't know why I didn't wake the moment he touched me. I am not a heavy sleeper. Usually, I wake at the slightest movement, the faintest sound.
Perhaps, in my subconscious mind, I believed it was my boyfriend, and no threat, and that is why I remained passive and more asleep than awake until it was far too late to struggle. But my boyfriend was working out of town, had been gone for more than a week and was not scheduled to return for yet another week.
In the end, I roused enough to remember that, but, as I said, it was far too late then.
It was the tape that covered my mouth that woke me thoroughly. My heart thudded in my chest, but I could not scream. When I tried to sit up, I discovered that I had been tied and before I could see who had stolen into my dreams, my eyes were covered with what must have been a silken scarf. It was tied snugly around my head, blinding me, making it difficult to hear, as well.
A voice whispered near my ear. "Don't struggle. I won't hurt you."
I didn't believe him, of course. I was still sluggish from leaping from deep sleep to wakefulness. My mind was still grasping with the realization that it was not, as I'd thought, my boyfriend.
But I was certain I was in danger.
What did he want? To rob me? To rape me? To torture and kill?
I could believe anything but the last. I simply could not accept that as a possibility.
Unable to speak, unable to see at all, or hear more than a faint rustle of sound, I was forced to rely upon my other senses.
I felt the bed dip beneath his weight as he loomed over me.
My heart thundered in my ears, but I reminded myself that I needed to keep my wits about me.
A strange sense of calm settled over me, slowing my heart, freeing my mind from panic so that I could think.
I realized that he must be a very large man to cause the bed to dip so that I rolled toward him. In a moment, I smelled a man's cologne and knew at once that it was not, as I'd hoped, my boyfriend's cologne. I could not put a name with it, but it was a cologne that I'd smelled before, expensive and heady to my senses. I had tried to get my boyfriend to buy some, because the smell just drove me wild, but he preferred his own brand.
I could detect no odor beneath it that would indicate a cologne bath to cover unwashed body. It seemed doubtful to me that he was some street thug or a common burglar.
Perhaps it was some college freshman performing an initiation?
Maybe not. Try though I might, I couldn't detect anything that made me think there was anyone in the room besides the two of us, and surely, if it was that sort of game there would have been at least one witness?
After a moment, I realized that while I was trying to place the man in a mental picture, he had removed my nightgown. I had been dimly aware of something sliding along my skin, something cold, hard, thin, but I had been too distracted-too unwilling to accept what my senses told me it was.
When I felt the cool night air on my bare skin, like a whisper of breath, felt the tug of the fabric as he removed it, I began to struggle, trying to pull free, trying to strike at him with my bound hands.
"Bad girl. I told you I wouldn't hurt you. Now I'll have to punish you."
My heart leapt into my throat and I tried to scream, struggling harder as he rolled me onto my stomach. Nothing happened for several moments. I lay stiffly, frightened, but unable to help myself.
In a moment, something slapped against the soles of my bare feet. I jerked reflexively, although it did not hurt. The slapping became rhythmic until my feet began to tingle with sensation. I could feel the blood suffusing them, making them more sensitive as the slapping continued.
When the sensitivity reached the edge of pain, he moved upwards, along my calves, my thighs, and assaulted my bare buttocks. Although I jerked once more in reaction, my terror slowly subsided as I realized it didn't hurt. What, I wondered, was he doing? What was he using?
Try though I might, I simply could not identify his 'weapon', but he continued to strike it against the soles of my feet and against my buttocks alternately until they tingled with sensation, ultra sensitive because he had brought the blood surging to those areas.
I'm ashamed to admit it, even to myself, but I had almost begun to enjoy it when he stopped.
In a moment, something cold, and damp, slithered over my sensitive skin. I jumped at the sharp contrast against my now heated skin. Ice?
I wasn't sure at first, but as it cooled my heated flesh, I realized it was indeed ice.
I shivered, tried to squirm away from it, but found it was impossible to move more than an inch or so in any direction.
At last he stopped. "Shall I punish you again?" he whispered. "Or will you be a good little girl?"
My mind went blank. I refused to allow the relief that struggled to catch hold of me, but in the back of my mind, I thought-if this is his idea of punishment, surely he could not have any intention of causing me lasting harm?
"Nod if you understand."
I nodded.
"Will you be good?"
I hesitated.
He slapped my buttocks with his hand.
I nodded.
"Good girl. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Four Play
by
Kimberly Zant
© copyright by Kimberly Zant
cover art by Eliza Black
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
I was both excited and nervous when I worked my way into the Aphrodite. I'd heard it was the place for singles to meet and mingle, and after spending half my life as a staid wife I was definitely, irrevocably, single and feeling the need to express a little wildness. Despite that, I'm not sure, if I'd known what would happen that night, that I would've been able to gather the nerve to go. Fortunately, I had no clue that I was about to experience a complete transformation--the most exciting night of my life-and that it would change my whole outlook on the world and my place in it.
Inside, the music was the next thing to deafening. People crowded the place so tightly that it took me nearly twenty minutes to spot a stool to park myself. I pictured salmon fighting their way upstream to spawn, for it was a struggle to move more than a few inches at the time.
I was actually surprised when I spotted the little table near the back, completely deserted. There were five chairs around the table. A couple of empty glasses and some wadded up napkins cluttered the table, and I wondered if I would be ousted if I sat down. Maybe the people at the table were on the dance floor?
Finally, I decided to chance it. I sat down, pushed the debris to the other side of the table and looked around, trying to look open and friendly.
I realized as I looked around that I was as out-of-place as a preacher's dick at a virgin's wedding-a crudity my former spouse had been fond of using-but which, somehow, seemed appropriate to the occasion. Everyone looked so young!
My excitement took a nose dive. My nervousness intensified.
My story wasn't unique by any means. I'd married my high school sweetheart. He'd gone on to college and then medical school while I supported us as a waitress and produced children-four of them. By the time my husband had finished medical school, my youngest was ready to start kindergarten and it was my turn to go to college.
Somehow, though, my turn never quite came. My husband needed money to set up his practice. There were bills, bills, bills, from his education that still hadn't been paid off. I continued to work. He worked. Twenty years passed in the blink of an eye and one day I came home early and found my husband in our bed with one of his nurses.
He wanted a divorce. I wanted to kill him, but I had my children to think of.
During the divorce, I discovered my husband had been three jumps ahead of me all the way. Undoubtedly, he'd been planning the divorce for a while and so, despite the circumstances, he'd ended up with pretty much everything-which everyone told me he'd earned anyway-and I ended up with pretty much nothing-which everyone implied I deserved. I had slaved to put him through medical school, but he had become a wealthy doctor and I was now looked upon as a gold digger.
With nothing more than a high school education, it didn't look as if I was likely to have anything I'd earned myself either.
Husband shopping seemed the only option for me. I'd only been allowed to hang up my waitress uniform five years previously to become the housewife my husband had promised I would be, but that five years seemed like a yawning cavern, apparently, to potential employers. In desperation, I'd had to take a job at a little coffee shop. Tips and earnings together produced an income well below poverty level.
I wasn't hanging out to snare a rich man. I was just hoping to find someone who would help me pay the rent so I didn't have to face eviction every other month.
So, here I sat, putting myself on the auction block for the first time in twenty years and discovering that I'd passed my expiration date.
There didn't seem to be a single male in the place over the age of thirty. Most looked as if they'd only just reached drinking age. The 'girls' looked like movie stars and models--for that matter, so did the young men.
Despite the hard life I'd led, I had always taken an interest in my appearance and had worked hard to stay in good shape, keep my weight down. I was more voluptuous than thin, but definitely not fat and hadn't realized the hour glass figure I was so proud of seemed to have gone the way of the dinosaurs. I'd thought, until I entered the dating zone, that I looked pretty damned good for a woman who had forty breathing down her neck.
Maybe I did, but I still looked thirty-ish, no matter what, and these girls looked twenty-ish-about the age of my ex-husband's new wife.
I was about to get up and slink out the door like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs when a waitress appeared. "What'll you have?"
I hesitated. Maybe one drink? I could nurse it and sit for a while and then, always supposing anyone at all had noticed my arrival, I wouldn't look quite so much like a whipped dog when I left.
"How much is a screwdriver?"
She told me. It sounded like an awful stiff price for one little drink, but I nodded. While she was gone, I dug into my purse and counted my money-twice. It was all still there, all ten dollars. Well, one drink wouldn't break me. It couldn't when I was already broke.
I noticed a young man struggling through the crowd in my direction after the waitress had left. My heart executed a little flip flop. I might be thirty something, but I could still admire a pretty face! He was gorgeous! Tall, nearly six feet I guessed or maybe a little over six, well built, and as handsome as a young movie star, his face all hard angles and planes that made me breathless just looking at it.
Why, I wondered, had men not looked like that when I was young? I couldn't recall even one that had looked this good. There had been plenty that were handsome, some that were pretty well built-the football players-but nothing in this kind of heart-stopping package.
I wondered where he was heading.
I looked around. I knew there were no tables behind me. I was near the wall, but maybe I'd settled near the entrance to the men's room? I didn't see a door though.
PUNISHED
By
Kimberly Zant
© copyright by Kimberly Zant, March 2005
Cover Art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright March 2005
ISBN 1-58608-302-3
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
I knew the moment I entered the conference room that I was in deep do do. There were six partners in the law firm I worked for--two were brothers, the others their buddies from college--and all six were waiting for me, their expressions eloquent of condemnation--accusation.
Guilt immediately assailed me. It was a strange quirk of my nature that I always felt guilty whenever anyone looked at me accusingly, even if I couldn't remember having done anything I should feel guilty about.
What the hell had I done? Or not done?
I looked at them wide eyed, trying to swallow the knot of abject terror that was slowly working its way up my throat. My life was flashing before my eyes, however, job hunting, and eviction--sleeping in my car--and to save my life I couldn't begin to guess what I'd done.
I'd been working at the firm for a grand total of three weeks. Thus far, I'd had a crush on three of the hunks that practiced law in between rounds of racquetball, tennis--and dating scary beautiful, painfully (for me) young women.
Not that any of them actually knew I existed as a woman. Fresh out of a ten year, going no where relationship, my self-confidence was at an all time low, partly because of my ex, and partly because I was a realist at heart--or maybe a pessimist? Some people argued that there was a difference between the two. To me, they were like conjoined twins--virtually the same in every way that counted.
In a world that idolized youth and anorexia, I was staring hard at that dreaded mid-thirty mark, and my size twelve/fourteen figure wasn't considered a 'classic' hourglass. It was bordering on elephantitis.
I still wasn't sure why they'd given me the job. I was fresh out of tech school. I didn't have experience, looks, or youth to recommend me. The only thing I could figure out was that it was because I came cheap--or maybe because they didn't want a distraction.
It was certainly a lowering thought, but probably close to the mark, pessimism not withstanding. The front desk girl was their 'type'--a size one, fresh faced because she hadn't even turned twenty yet, and from an upper scale family with upper scale money. She was working on her internship and was clearly going somewhere in life. She had looks, youth, money, and no compunction about using every weapon at her disposal to get where she was going. She generally treated me the same way the partners did, as if I was transparent. Occasionally, I would catch her giving me speculative looks, as if she was sizing me up--there wasn't a doubt in my mind that she was planning on having a wedding ring on her finger before she graduated and she didn't particularly care which of the partners it was--but there was far more contempt or plain old disgust in her expression than anything I could interpret as 'sizing up the competition'.
I imagined that she was thinking she wasn't going to be a loser like me and find herself alone, staring at middle age, fat, and barely making minimum wage.
I shifted uneasily when none of the partners said a word, merely studying me, their handsome faces hard, uncompromising--sort of like they must look when they were standing in a courtroom.
"You wanted me, Mr. Justice?" I squeaked in a voice I hardly recognized, unable to bear the continued silence.
At thirty five, Lyle Justice was the 'senior' partner. His brother, Colin, was the youngest at twenty nine. I'd gone into rapture mode the moment I set eyes on Lyle for the first time but it hadn't taken me more than two days to figure out I was way out of my depth with that one. Not that I thought that there was any danger of getting too familiar with him, but he was way too sharp even to consider it. Besides, he scared me almost as much as he turned me on.
Lyle's eyes narrowed. "Someone has compromised a very important case we're working on, Marlee," he responded coolly. "We stand to lose a substantial amount of money if we lose the case."
I blinked--several times--rapidly. Case? I knew next to nothing about the law and I didn't know diddly squat about their cases. Except for catching a word here and there that Perry Mason couldn't have put together, I didn't even have a clue of what they were doing for whom. My duties included filing, typing, watering the plants and keeping the reception area tidy. "Someone?" I asked in a strangled voice. I was no rocket scientist, but it didn't take one to figure out the 'someone' they suspected was me.
It hit me right between the eyes then that this wasn't actually an inquisition. The truth was, I'd already been tried and convicted and was facing the penalty faze.
"We tracked your activities on the net," Stuart Kendall said coldly.
I turned to stare at the gorgeous blond that I'd imagined looked like a young Redford. My mind was so busy scurrying around in circles I couldn't imagine what kind of net he was talking about at first. "Net? You mean the internet?"
His lips tightened. "The chat rooms."
Again I blinked in surprise. This time, though, I could feel blood surging back into my cheeks and it didn't stop at relieving me of the dead, lifeless look I'd probably had when all the color left my face. It brought pulsing heat with it. "I … uh … I … uh. You mean the singles thing?" I asked a little weakly, trying to figure out how me trying to get a frigging date added up to cutting my bosses' throats in court.
The partners all exchanged a look.
"I know I shouldn't have--but I only did it on my breaks. I didn't know I wasn't allowed. Vic … Victoria showed me," I ended, feeling like a five year old who'd been caught stealing cookies out of the cookie jar and who was desperate for someone to blame--or to at least share the blame.
I couldn't quite interpret the look that announcement provoked. There were a lot of raised brows. "Victoria?" Lyle repeated. He began tapping a pen rhythmically on the conference table. "You and she are buddies, then?"
My mouth worked, but no sound emerged. I imagined I must look like a guppy out of water. The mental image didn't help my feelings at all. "Uh … no."
"But she showed you how to get to the chat room?"
I shrugged. Again, I had the sense of being a five year old called to account. 'What did you do it for?' Shrug. 'I don't know.'
"We were just talking one day and she was telling me she met a lot of really nice guy--people on the net. And she showed me how to get to the chat rooms she visits." I looked at them a little hopefully, but they didn't seem to be mellowing a great deal. "I should've asked. It's just … it never occurred to me that it wasn't OK … since she showed me. And she didn't say I had to ask permission."
He studied me for several hard moments and finally turned to the others. "What do you think?"
They discussed it at length, as if I wasn't present. I could only follow part of the discussion, however, because they kept using a lot of words, computer jargon I assumed, that I wasn't familiar with.
I hadn't wanted anyone to know that I was virtually computer illiterate. I'd never owned one, never had much use for one, for that matter, but I knew that was not the sort of thing one announced when one was trying to get a job in this day and age. Now I was really, really sorry that I hadn't admitted that I didn't know much of anything about a computer, certainly not in the sense that I could surf the net with the ease everyone else seemed to. I could type--or keyboard--because I'd been taught that much in school and I figured I had a good understanding of word-processing software. Otherwise, I didn't know much more than how to turn one on.
"Did Victoria use the computer in the back room?"
I went back to blinking. "I don't know … I mean except for the time she showed me how to 'connect'."
"She's trying to say she inadvertently gave them a backdoor to hack in?" Charles Blake demanded. "Do you buy that? I don't buy that!"
Backdoor? Somebody hacked in? I felt the blood rush from my face guiltily again. "We got hacked?"
They all turned to stare at me.
"I mean, you got hacked?"
Lyle's lips flattened with annoyance. "What do you think we've been discussing for the past twenty minutes?" he demanded irritably.
Anger surged through me. "I haven't a clue!" I snapped. "I don't even know what I'm being accused of."
"Giving information to the other side concerning the case," Colin said angrily.
"What case?" I gasped.
"We'd be well within our rights to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law," Billy Worth drawled.
"Prosecute?" I echoed, feeling a little faint as the full implications of that settled into the pit of my stomach like an ice cube the size of an infant.
"Jail time. You can bet on it. Unless you start talking...."
I turned to look at Michael Bennett as he spoke for the first time. "Jail time? Me?" I echoed, stunned enough to find my tongue. "Because someone hacked in?"
"Because you're an accessory in a computer crime at the very least … if we take your word for it that you didn't willingly and knowingly commit the crime yourself. And don't think for one minute we couldn't make the charges stick."
I thought for several horrible moments that I was going to faint, be sick, or burst into tears. I would've been willing to try all three if I'd thought for one moment it might gain me a little pity. I didn't believe that, though, and I had no desire to humiliate myself if it wasn't for a good cause. I sucked my lower lip to keep it from trembling while I waited to see what the verdict was.
Colin and Michael leaned close and exchanged words. Michael passed it down. I watched, waiting until it reached Lyle. He studied me for several moments in silence. "We're going to keep digging. Don't even think about going anywhere in the meantime. If you run, we'll have no choice but to consider you guilty and swear out a warrant."
This was way worse than getting fired. I found it hard to accept that I could be facing criminal charges when I hadn't a clue of what I'd done to deserve it. I couldn't believe I might actually end up in jail--me--but then a goodly portion of criminals were in jail for the same thing I'd been accused of--stupidity and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It took me several moments to realize I'd been dismissed. Finally, I nodded numbly and left the conference room. The remainder of the day was a fog. I watched uneasily as Stuart and Billy shouldered up to the computer I'd allegedly used to open them up for the hacker and stared at the monitor screen for hours on end, punching keys, loading programs.
I had no idea what they were doing, but just watching them was enough to make my sphincter clench because I had an awful feeling that some of that so called 'net talk' that Victoria had taught me was the real culprit. I couldn't believe I was still so gullible I was such an easy mark to a girl that was almost young enough to be my daughter.
It had to have been her. I knew it. I just couldn't figure out how, or even why. It wasn't as if I was any sort of threat to her. It occurred to me later, toward quitting time that, maybe, she'd just needed a patsy. Apparently, all those times I'd caught her sizing me up, I'd been right, just wrong about the motivation. Whatever it was she was doing, she was doing it for money, but she obviously figured she'd need a scapegoat if they got on to her and her luck had been fabulous. The only person handy enough to pin it on just happened to be a gullible idiot.
Unfortunately, as little as I knew about law, I realized that one) it would be next to impossible to prove I just didn't realize what she was getting me to do. And, two) it didn't really matter whether I'd known or not. Under the law, ignorance and/or stupidity weren't an excuse. The only thing convincing them of 'one' might possibly do would be to lighten my sentence and I didn't want to have to face any sentence at all.
Maybe I could get off with just probation?
It took every ounce of nerve I could muster to save my life to tap on Lyle Justice's door that afternoon as I was leaving. When he summoned me, I crept into his office with my tail almost literally between my legs, ready to beg, ready to promise anything if he'd just not put me in jail, not bring charges.
I had a bad feeling my background couldn't withstand the scrutiny. I knew I didn't want to put it to the test.
I'd been running for nearly two years. My ex wasn't the sort of man that took rejection well. I'd thought, or at least hoped, that his obsession would blow over fairly quickly once the divorce was finalized. Instead, the nasty tricks had gotten progressively more hazardous to my health. When it had finally occurred to me that, yes, I too could become one of those statistics--one of the thousands of women whose boyfriend or husband made them permanently disappear because they just didn't believe they could actually be a victim--I'd started running. He found me within a month the first two times. The third time, I invented a completely new identity, played cloak and dagger, and put three states between us.
If it hadn't been for the fact that I hadn't seen a sign of the bastard in a solid year, I'd have been tempted to blame this latest threat to my pursuit of happiness on him. After all, he had tried to have me jailed for trafficking drugs before, paid a cop to plant them. It was just sheer dumb luck that I'd found the drugs first and flushed them down the toilet before the cops arrived.
"You have something to say?" he asked, his entire demeanor uncompromising.
My mouth felt as if I'd been sucking on salt cubes. I swallowed with an effort. "I just wanted to say that whatever was done, it was just plain stupidity on my part, not maliciousness. I know that isn't an excuse and I'm still liable for my actions. I will gladly offer restitution."
"Restitution?"
I'd managed to get that far without stammering too much, but I hadn't really thought the scenario through from that point onward. I shrugged, waiting for inspiration to come to me. "Weekends, holidays, extra hours. I don't have any money. I don't even have anything I could sell. But I'd be glad to furnish labor toward payment for my … uh … error and I'd be willing to do whatever you wanted. I could clean your apartments, wash the cars--do the lawn."
His eyes narrowed speculatively. He looked me over thoroughly from head to foot, almost as if actually seeing me for the first time. I wondered what was going through his mind at that point. When he told me, I felt very, very ill.
"If we lose this case because of the breach in security, we stand to lose our percentage--1 to 3 million. How many weekends of mowing the lawn and cleaning do you think it would take to pay that back?"
I couldn't think of an answer. I'd never been any good with math, but I figured the answer to that question was somewhere in the neighborhood of a couple of my lifetimes. I had to remind myself that this was a cold blooded lawyer. Crawling around on the floor and blubbering like a baby wasn't going to help me one iota, not when he had that much money riding on the scope of my screw up. Finally, I managed to nod.
I don't even remember getting to my car, or getting from the office to my tiny apartment. It scared the hell out of me when I realized I was sitting in front of my apartment building, though, and I got out and checked the car carefully for any sign that I'd been involved in an accident. Relieved when I didn't find any new scratches, dents--or worse--blood and hair, I went into my apartment and collapsed, yielding to the hysteria I'd been fighting off all day.
Two days of abject terror followed, although they felt like weeks, months. About half way through the second day, Victoria was called into Lyle's office. I could hear his quiet, cool voice every time I passed his door. I couldn't get out of range of hearing Victoria's shrill, half hysterical denials, her weeping, her threats. Mid afternoon, she left the office, as pale as I'd no doubt been.
She arrived at her usual time the following day, however, and the tentative hope that had been trying to gain a foothold vanished. She was still there. She hadn't been arrested … which meant I wasn't off the hook.
Three days after I was first accused, I was called into the conference room again. I knew what was coming. This time I was going to hear the verdict and receive my sentence.
Two reflections guided my feet in that direction. One) I was tired of running and, two) the idea of being hounded both by the law firm and my ex was something I just couldn't face. I was going to take my 'medicine' for being incredibly stupid and gullible and then I was going to get on with my life.
Goldilocks
by
Kimberly Zant
© copyright February 2004, Kimberly Zant
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright February 2004
New Concepts Publishing
5202 Humphreys Road
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
The car, hissing like a furious rattler, coughed, spluttered and died. Goldie gaped in disbelief at the hood, where a cloud of steam was rising like a demon genie escaping it's lamp. The stench of boiling engine assailed her nostrils.
Coughing, Goldie bailed out of the car and moved away from it.
For some moments, all she could do was stare at the car blankly. Slowly, her anger began to boil like the overheated water in the radiator.
The car had been working fine until she'd stopped to gas up and ask for directions. Reaching into the car, she popped the hood latch and moved around to the front, lifting the hood. A cloud of steam rose as she lifted it, misting her with the stinking mixture of rusty radiator and coolant. She screwed her face up and fitted the brace into the slot before she moved away again, waving her hand in front of her face.
When the steam had dissipated somewhat, she approached the car again, leaning her head inside to study the engine-fat lot of good that did her! If it had been missing, she would've definitely noticed. Otherwise, it just looked like a twisted pile of metal, hoses and wires.
Stepping back again, she shoved her hair out of her face and looked around.
It looked like a scene from DELIVERANCE.
There wasn't a car-or house-in sight.
Why in the world, she wondered, had she decided to take the 'short cut' the man had explained to her? Was there a man alive who actually knew what a damned short cut was?
The house she had been driving out to look at was supposed to be on a paved road, a minor highway, to be sure, but paved. According to the helpful gas station attendant, she should've found the paved road by now.
She glanced at her watch. She was going to miss the showing.
Frustrated, she moved to the front of the car again and looked the engine over. Somewhere near the bottom, she saw a dripping hose.
"Lovely!"
After standing on the side of the road for several minutes, looking in first one direction and then the other, she decided to try the car again. Her heart leap when it started. Jumping out of the car, she ran around to slam the hood shut, but even as she closed it, the engine died again. Her shoulders slumped.
She drummed her fingers on the hood, thinking. She hadn't seen a car, or passed a house since she'd turned onto this godforsaken road. It was getting late. She was tempted to just sit in the car and hope for the best, but what if nobody passed? She didn't want to spend the night in the car.
On the other hand, what if she started walking and still didn't see a soul? It would be worse to be caught outside when it got dark.
Finally, she decided she couldn't afford to waste time debating. She had to find help.
There was no point in going back in the other direction. She knew it must be twenty miles to the gas station, maybe even further. It had seemed to her that she'd been driving for an hour or more. Resolutely, she grabbed her purse from the car, set the flashers and locked the doors. It had begun to seem very unlikely that the car could possibly be a hazard to travelers, but she didn't want anybody plowing into her and then filing a lawsuit.
She walked quickly at first, nervous, full of hope, but as she walked on and on without seeing any sign of a house, she began to get slower and slower. Finally, she stopped, looking back in the direction of her car. To her dismay, she couldn't even see it.
She bit her lip, wondering if she should go back, but as she looked around at the darkening woods, she saw a little twinkle of light in the distance. Hope lurched in her breast. A house! Maybe even a phone!
She began walking again, hurrying, glancing at the darkening woods a little nervously, jumping every time she heard a twig break, or the sigh of the wind through the trees. Finally, she became so unnerved, she began to run, faster and faster until she was so out of breath she had to stop. When she'd caught her breath, she saw that the light was much brighter now.
She must be close!
Holding the stitch in her side, she began walking again. Finally, she came to a split rail fence. Almost there! She thought and put a little more effort into her step, peering at the fence in the darkness until she came at last to a gate. There was a sign hanging from the gate. She moved toward it, peering at it through the gloom.
Bayer Farm.
Feeling around, she found the latch and pushed the gate open cautiously, listening for dogs … not that the split rail fence would've kept one in, but she knew some people kept dogs near their homes in the woods, to warn them of intruders. When she heard nothing, she began to make her way toward the house she could just glimpse through the trees. "Hello!" she called loudly while she was still a good distance from the house. She stopped, listening to see if anyone would come to the door.
When nothing happened, she continued until she reached the porch. "Hello! Is anyone there?"
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