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She nearly dropped the damned thing. Someone had shot her with what? Any kind of drug or poison could be inside the slim silver canister with its short needle and hidden charge that forced the foreign substance into her body.
She wanted to throw up.
Don’t! Keep your wits! The bastard’s near . . .
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Again there was movement in the reflective shards of what remained of the mirror—a blurry shifting.
She blinked hard, brought up her pistol as she turned toward the window, but it was too late. Her fingers were already not responding to her brain’s commands, the images in her mind scrambled, a tingling spreading through her.
The drug . . .
Another movement in the shattered, crumpled mirror.
The shotgun. She needed the shot . . . gun . . . She tried to respond, to look for her assailant, but she was feeling numb all over. Her head lolled to one side, the pistol slipped from her fingers, and the world began to spin in eerie slow motion, images becoming dim and foggy.
“No!” she said, her tongue thick as she tried and failed to find her sidearm again.
And then she saw him, his features distorted by the broken mirror, a tall figure in white, ski mask obscuring his face, huge dark goggles shielding his eyes.
She was beginning to fade, to slip beneath the surface of consciousness as he said, “Detective Pescoli,” in a warm voice that indicated he knew her. He was only a few feet away . . . if she could just aim her weapon . . . “Looks like you’ve had yourself an accident.”
She rolled her eyes up at him and with one last great effort snarled, “Go to hell.”
“Already there, Detective, but at least now I won’t be alone. You’re going to join me.”
Not if I can help it, she thought with a sudden 16
Lisa Jackson
burst of clarity. She scrabbled for her pistol, her hands sluggish as she brought it up and fired. A series of blasts echoed through the canyon. But the shots missed. Her aim was off.
As close as he was, she’d missed him, hitting only trees and rocks and God knew what else. He sighed and clucked his tongue. “You’re going to regret that.”
She wanted to squeeze off another round but her fingers refused to respond and the best she could do as he came closer was to swipe at him with her hand, her fingernails catching in his ski mask, then tearing down his skin. He let out a surprised yelp.
“You bitch!”
That’s me, jerk-wad, and I’ve got your epithelials and DNA under my fingernails. If I’m ever found, you’re as good as dead.
She noticed blood welling on his skin and he reached into some kind of pack and pulled out something . . . an apron? God, she just couldn’t focus . . . everything was so distorted . . . but she should recognize the piece of clothing dangling from his hand . . . A straitjacket?
A chilling, mind-numbing fear sliced through her. She realized he wasn’t going to let her die easily or quickly, he was going to keep her alive, torture her, nurture her, but inevitably kill her, just like the others.
But a straitjacket? Being bound and rendered completely helpless . . . it was as if he understood her worst, most terrifying fears.
The white blizzard swam before her eyes, his image and that of the straitjacket clouding in the swirling, dancing, icy flakes.
As she sank into unconsciousness she felt no fear;
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just a hard-edged determination that if she ever woke up again she was going to take this son of a bitch down. Way down. To a place so dark he would never, ever see the light again.
