with these clouds.”
“You must know the house real well if you work here.” Burly muscles, heavy work boots. “One of the construction crew, huh?”
“Right again.”
“Well, listen, I’m running late for an appointment and someone’s waiting for me. He tends to get upset when I’m not on time. I’ll come back in the daylight when I can see better.” She made a move away from the hearth-well, but it only brought her closer to him. As she took another step, her foot caught on something, pitching her forward.
The worker’s arm shot out in front of her, his large hand capturing hers as she regained her balance. He couldn’t stop the impulse to catch me . She stood toe-to-toe with him now, and could smell alcohol on his breath as he exhaled. Probably a bourbon drinker, she noted, unable to stop cataloguing details.
His hand opened suddenly. She slipped hers free and stepped back. Has his brief moment of gallantry put him enough off balance that I can appeal to him? Don’t I always reach people with my authenticity and with my words? She looked up into the weathered face, trying to make eye contact, but could see nothing more than a glint. “Thanks so much for taking care of me.”
He paused, then smiled. “Oh, I haven’t taken care of you yet.”
Damn! “But you’re about to, am I right?”
A chuckle rumbled in his barrel chest. “Too right.”
Good! Maybe I did reach him this time . . . I made him laugh. How many times have I talked my way out of a tight spot? How many times have I played out this kind of scenario in my head?
Time seemed to slow, and her perspective shifted until she watched the stand-off between herself and burly-guy from a slight distance, as though she were discussing the angle with her television camera crew. It’s an over-the-shoulder two-shot, like one of my interviews. Then we cut to a close-up that shows the mole, the craggy face—trying to give the audience a chance to read his expression.
Now her view altered and the setting was a Western: a black-hatted hulk blocked the path of a red-dressed spit-fire. Whose story is this? When did it happen? Why are we in the Old West? She almost seemed to recognize the scene . . . from a story by her favorite writer, Louis L’Amour. Never let the opponent gain the advantage, his narration advised. Don’t wait. Make the first move.
The scene shifted again, and now she saw herself as Emma Peel in The Avengers . Skilled in martial arts, undaunted by her precarious predicament, the heroine faces her adversary. Emma kicks out with those long legs, takes her man by surprise .
Suddenly, Chris found herself standing in her own shoes, opposite her own bad guy. He might be bigger, stronger, more massive, but maneuverability was on her side. It’s now or never!
She clicked off her flashlight and hurled it at his head. She’d already chosen exactly what direction she would run—past him, not away, because that would be unexpected. In the sudden blackness she knew she’d have a second’s worth of advantage. It was just the second she needed.
She leapt forward, and saw his fist too late. It impacted her temple with the force of an explosion, hurtling her backward into the gaping hearth-well. Her body seemed to hang for a moment, suspended in space—until it smashed against the dirt, forcing the last molecule of air from her lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
Her eyes blinked in the dark, her mind searched for options. She saw his huge feet land on the dirt near her, and kept her eyes still. If he thinks I’m already dead he’ll just leave me. Don’t breathe!
He was carrying something . . . a shovel. No ! He stepped on its edge, forcing it into the big pile of soft earth, lifting a load of it, moving it toward her head.
Just before the dirt hit her face, she closed her eyes. I’m covered enough now that he can’t see me. I’ll breathe soon.
Another shovelful landed on her chest, its weight sodden. Now another was flung
“You must know the house real well if you work here.” Burly muscles, heavy work boots. “One of the construction crew, huh?”
“Right again.”
“Well, listen, I’m running late for an appointment and someone’s waiting for me. He tends to get upset when I’m not on time. I’ll come back in the daylight when I can see better.” She made a move away from the hearth-well, but it only brought her closer to him. As she took another step, her foot caught on something, pitching her forward.
The worker’s arm shot out in front of her, his large hand capturing hers as she regained her balance. He couldn’t stop the impulse to catch me . She stood toe-to-toe with him now, and could smell alcohol on his breath as he exhaled. Probably a bourbon drinker, she noted, unable to stop cataloguing details.
His hand opened suddenly. She slipped hers free and stepped back. Has his brief moment of gallantry put him enough off balance that I can appeal to him? Don’t I always reach people with my authenticity and with my words? She looked up into the weathered face, trying to make eye contact, but could see nothing more than a glint. “Thanks so much for taking care of me.”
He paused, then smiled. “Oh, I haven’t taken care of you yet.”
Damn! “But you’re about to, am I right?”
A chuckle rumbled in his barrel chest. “Too right.”
Good! Maybe I did reach him this time . . . I made him laugh. How many times have I talked my way out of a tight spot? How many times have I played out this kind of scenario in my head?
Time seemed to slow, and her perspective shifted until she watched the stand-off between herself and burly-guy from a slight distance, as though she were discussing the angle with her television camera crew. It’s an over-the-shoulder two-shot, like one of my interviews. Then we cut to a close-up that shows the mole, the craggy face—trying to give the audience a chance to read his expression.
Now her view altered and the setting was a Western: a black-hatted hulk blocked the path of a red-dressed spit-fire. Whose story is this? When did it happen? Why are we in the Old West? She almost seemed to recognize the scene . . . from a story by her favorite writer, Louis L’Amour. Never let the opponent gain the advantage, his narration advised. Don’t wait. Make the first move.
The scene shifted again, and now she saw herself as Emma Peel in The Avengers . Skilled in martial arts, undaunted by her precarious predicament, the heroine faces her adversary. Emma kicks out with those long legs, takes her man by surprise .
Suddenly, Chris found herself standing in her own shoes, opposite her own bad guy. He might be bigger, stronger, more massive, but maneuverability was on her side. It’s now or never!
She clicked off her flashlight and hurled it at his head. She’d already chosen exactly what direction she would run—past him, not away, because that would be unexpected. In the sudden blackness she knew she’d have a second’s worth of advantage. It was just the second she needed.
She leapt forward, and saw his fist too late. It impacted her temple with the force of an explosion, hurtling her backward into the gaping hearth-well. Her body seemed to hang for a moment, suspended in space—until it smashed against the dirt, forcing the last molecule of air from her lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
Her eyes blinked in the dark, her mind searched for options. She saw his huge feet land on the dirt near her, and kept her eyes still. If he thinks I’m already dead he’ll just leave me. Don’t breathe!
He was carrying something . . . a shovel. No ! He stepped on its edge, forcing it into the big pile of soft earth, lifting a load of it, moving it toward her head.
Just before the dirt hit her face, she closed her eyes. I’m covered enough now that he can’t see me. I’ll breathe soon.
Another shovelful landed on her chest, its weight sodden. Now another was flung
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