no woods in the immediate vicinity. Would he drive her into the forested mountains, or simply burn her in the desert under the open sky?
Shut up, she told herself angrily, though she hadn’t spoken aloud.
She flung the folder to the floor. Stood and paced the room.
Now she understood why her abductor had been intrigued by her journal articles. All of them had focused on the pathology of fire-starting. It was a subject that had haunted her since childhood.
Even so, she wasn’t certain her specialized expertise actually did apply to this man. He was by no means a typical pyromaniac.
No doubt some of the same compulsions motivated him, however. Nearly all violently antisocial behavior had roots in unresolved conflicts and unconscious hostilities. At least initially, she would have to concentrate on those aspects of the case, the ones she could treat.
Slowly she shook her head. The case. Already she was thinking of him as a patient.
Well, she had better think of him that way—if she wanted to live.
And if she failed to connect with him, failed to help him in time ...
Scorching heat. Bitter smoke.
She would die hearing the crackle of her own skin as it peeled away from her bones. Die writhing like a snake with a broken back.
With a shudder she forced these thoughts away. Couldn’t contemplate her own future tonight. It was too much to absorb, and her mind was sore with use, and she was tired, suddenly more tired than she had ever been.
Wearily she stretched out on the foam pad in the corner, draping herself in the cheap cotton blanket. The pad was eight inches too short for her; she shifted into a fetal position, tucking her right arm under her head.
Rest was all she intended, not sleep. Sleep was out of the question. Though fatigue had numbed her body and blanked her mind, agitation and residual fear would keep her awake all night.
No, she could never hope to sleep. Not here, in this brick-and-concrete dungeon. Not if she remained a captive for ten years.
But at least she could close her eyes, shut out the sight of those bare walls lit by the bare bulb. Close her eyes and breathe easy, easy.
Never sleep. Not tonight. Maybe not for the rest of her life.
Never sleep. Obviously.
Never ...
Erin slept.
13
In a haze of light Gund treads a familiar path through a dry wash. Steep embankments rise on both sides, crawling with twisted palo verde trees rooted in the powdery soil.
Javelinas have been here recently; he smells their skunklike odor. The strong scent, the crunch of loose pebbles under his sneakers, the filigree traceries of sunlight on a fallen saguaro’s exposed ribs—all of it is vivid and distinct, more real than reality.
The experience is by no means new to him. He knows every detail intimately, anticipates what he will see even before he reaches the narrow end of the arroyo, before he takes hold of a palo verde’s green trunk and climbs the crumbling rise, before he reaches the top and lifts his head above the rim.
Beyond a waving stand of bitterweed in yellow bloom, under the blue expansive sky, she lounges in a recliner. Posed like a model—head thrown back, arms relaxed at her sides, long, tanned legs glistening with lotion. She breathes, and the hills of her breasts rise and fall, their movement fascinating.
She wears denim shorts and a cotton shirt, partially unbuttoned, showing inches of smooth flesh.
The tingle in his groin tells him he is getting hard and stiff down there. Though he hates the feeling, he cannot turn away.
Abruptly she sits up, turns her head from side to side, eyes masked behind sunglasses. Always he worries that she’s sensed his presence somehow; she never has. She is merely confirming that she’s alone.
Her hand moves to her shirt and undoes the remaining buttons one at a time.
The shirt opens. He has lived this moment a thousand times, yet the sight of her bare chest still robs him of
Shut up, she told herself angrily, though she hadn’t spoken aloud.
She flung the folder to the floor. Stood and paced the room.
Now she understood why her abductor had been intrigued by her journal articles. All of them had focused on the pathology of fire-starting. It was a subject that had haunted her since childhood.
Even so, she wasn’t certain her specialized expertise actually did apply to this man. He was by no means a typical pyromaniac.
No doubt some of the same compulsions motivated him, however. Nearly all violently antisocial behavior had roots in unresolved conflicts and unconscious hostilities. At least initially, she would have to concentrate on those aspects of the case, the ones she could treat.
Slowly she shook her head. The case. Already she was thinking of him as a patient.
Well, she had better think of him that way—if she wanted to live.
And if she failed to connect with him, failed to help him in time ...
Scorching heat. Bitter smoke.
She would die hearing the crackle of her own skin as it peeled away from her bones. Die writhing like a snake with a broken back.
With a shudder she forced these thoughts away. Couldn’t contemplate her own future tonight. It was too much to absorb, and her mind was sore with use, and she was tired, suddenly more tired than she had ever been.
Wearily she stretched out on the foam pad in the corner, draping herself in the cheap cotton blanket. The pad was eight inches too short for her; she shifted into a fetal position, tucking her right arm under her head.
Rest was all she intended, not sleep. Sleep was out of the question. Though fatigue had numbed her body and blanked her mind, agitation and residual fear would keep her awake all night.
No, she could never hope to sleep. Not here, in this brick-and-concrete dungeon. Not if she remained a captive for ten years.
But at least she could close her eyes, shut out the sight of those bare walls lit by the bare bulb. Close her eyes and breathe easy, easy.
Never sleep. Not tonight. Maybe not for the rest of her life.
Never sleep. Obviously.
Never ...
Erin slept.
13
In a haze of light Gund treads a familiar path through a dry wash. Steep embankments rise on both sides, crawling with twisted palo verde trees rooted in the powdery soil.
Javelinas have been here recently; he smells their skunklike odor. The strong scent, the crunch of loose pebbles under his sneakers, the filigree traceries of sunlight on a fallen saguaro’s exposed ribs—all of it is vivid and distinct, more real than reality.
The experience is by no means new to him. He knows every detail intimately, anticipates what he will see even before he reaches the narrow end of the arroyo, before he takes hold of a palo verde’s green trunk and climbs the crumbling rise, before he reaches the top and lifts his head above the rim.
Beyond a waving stand of bitterweed in yellow bloom, under the blue expansive sky, she lounges in a recliner. Posed like a model—head thrown back, arms relaxed at her sides, long, tanned legs glistening with lotion. She breathes, and the hills of her breasts rise and fall, their movement fascinating.
She wears denim shorts and a cotton shirt, partially unbuttoned, showing inches of smooth flesh.
The tingle in his groin tells him he is getting hard and stiff down there. Though he hates the feeling, he cannot turn away.
Abruptly she sits up, turns her head from side to side, eyes masked behind sunglasses. Always he worries that she’s sensed his presence somehow; she never has. She is merely confirming that she’s alone.
Her hand moves to her shirt and undoes the remaining buttons one at a time.
The shirt opens. He has lived this moment a thousand times, yet the sight of her bare chest still robs him of
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