What's in a Name? by Terry Odell Page A

the oxygen?”
    She remembered her first week at four
thousand feet. “Oh, it’s there. You just have to work harder to get
enough of it into your blood cells.”
    He laughed and the crinkles around his
eyes deepened. “I like that. You a scientist? Peterson said
something about environmental studies for a camp or something.”
    She explained Camp Getaway, and he
seemed genuinely interested in the project, unlike Doug Peterson
who barely tolerated it. Kids encroaching on what he protected as
his land worried him.
    She glanced at her watch. How much
longer before Windsor started making noise? Decker seemed willing
to chat forever. “I’m sure this storm must be keeping you busy,”
she said. “Lots of people to check on?”
    “ Oh, not many. As a
matter of fact, just one, if you get my drift.”
    Before she processed his words, a loud
crack and a crash resounded from outside. Kelli started, bumping
into Decker’s chest when he stepped toward her.
    “ Sorry,” she said
automatically.
    He took her hands to steady her. “No
problem. As a matter of fact, this works fine for me.”
    Decker’s eyes squinted and his grin
turned to a leer. A ball of ice formed in her gut. Visions of
Robert exploded in her head. Decker tightened his grip, laughing
scornfully at her attempts to kick him. “Fighting isn’t going to
help, bitch. You might as well relax and enjoy yourself.” He shoved
her into the bedroom, onto the bed.
    Terror flooded her. She scrunched her
eyes closed and squeezed into the tiniest ball possible. No. This
couldn’t be happening. Not again. She told herself to fight. Heard
herself whimpering instead.
    His boots clumped across the floor
above the pounding in her ears. He snorted. “Scared, bitch?” He
stomped on the floor. She cringed each time the floor vibrated. She
didn’t care. Didn’t feel. He crouched beside her. She smelled his
minty breath. His hands pulled her arms away, stroked her
cheek.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Blake groaned at the pounding in his
head. Who let the drum corps into his room? He opened his eyes.
Things blurred and spun, moved back and forth. He tried to rub his
eyes and panicked that his arms were gone. Adrenaline rushed
through his system and his head cleared a little. He remembered the
gun. But the pain in his head told him he was alive.
    Slowly, he assessed his body. He could
wiggle his feet but couldn’t move his legs. His stomach hurt where
his belt buckle pressed into it. Okay, he was on his belly. Had to
sit up. His brain sent messages down the line, but they seemed to
get waylaid before they reached his limbs. Christ, she’d put
something in the coffee. It beat being shot, he guessed. He took a
deep breath, coughing as he inhaled sawdust from the cabin floor.
The coughing banged his chin on the floor. That didn’t help his
head.
    With supreme effort, he rolled over.
Great. Now he was lying on his hands. A wave of nausea washed over
him. Everything whirled again, got bright, then dark.
    The next time he opened his eyes, the
room had stopped spinning. The snare drums had left the corps, but
the basses still pulsed. His shoulders ached and his hands were
numb. He managed to squirm onto his side before another dizzy spell
hit.
    Please, don’t let me be sick. The
thought of lying in a pool of his own vomit gave him the strength
to work himself into a sitting position. Bands of duct tape secured
his ankles. From the feel of it, he assumed his wrists were bound
the same way. Another MacGyver fan? He inched himself across the
room until, bathed in sweat, he leaned against the cabin wall.
Panting from the effort, he waited until his breathing evened and
his head cleared some more.
    Where had Kelli gone? He recalled her
face, her eyes empty, robotic. He knew the look. Hopeless
despair.
    Shit, why was he wasting sympathy on
her? She had problems. So did everyone. He struggled against the
tape, trying to stretch it enough to work his hands free, but Kelli
had wrapped too many