The leafy canopy opened before them, revealing the Victorian bed and breakfast she’d left just this morning. But unlike the warm glow that filled the house then, now it was dark, the windows staring like soulless eyes. Rain glistened on the steep roof.
“The FBI has a more generous expense account than I ever imagined.” Dryden’s thin lips twisted into a smile. He turned to stare at her, his eyes as cold and deadly as the blade sheathed by his side. “Kind of them to clear out and leave the place to us now, isn’t it?”
“The FBI is going to figure out where we are.”
“You mean Burnell?” A bitter laugh sounded deep in his throat. “I hope he does. He’s going to like what I have planned.”
The image of Farrentina once again flashed through Risa’s mind. Dryden would display her body, too. Display her so Trent would find her. So the image of her mutilated corpse would haunt him the rest of his days.
“Would you like me to tell you about it?”
Risa bit the inside of her bottom lip until the coppery tang of blood drowned out the taste of fear. She knew Dryden’s game. He wanted to see terror in her eyes. Hear it in her screams. Revel in it. Feed on it.
She’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction.
She pursed her lips together and stared straight ahead through the windshield. The hard metal edges of the handcuffs securing her wrists bit into her skin. Her scalp and knees throbbed with each rapid pulse of her heart. But none of it mattered. She wouldn’t let it. He could say whatever the hell he pleased. She wouldn’t play her role in his fantasy.
He stopped the stolen police car at the foot of the path leading to the bed-and-breakfast’s front door and turned toward her. “Don’t want to hear about my exhibit, eh?”
“Not particularly.”
Reaching a hand to her face, Dryden ran a cold finger along one cheekbone.
She tensed to fend off the tremor of revulsion.
“Oh, Risa. So brave. So in control. You always have to control everything, don’t you? That’s your problem, you know. You’re a controlling bitch. Even your dim-witted sister picked up on that.”
Risa continued to stare straight ahead, letting his words hit her and bounce off.
“Well, you might as well give it up. You might as well let go. Because I’m in control now.” He moved his hand into her hair, tangling the strands around his fingers. His grip tightened.
Pain seared her scalp. Her eyes watered.
Opening the door, he forced her across the seat and out the driver’s side after him.
Her bruised knees hit pavement. A grunt tore from her lips.
He peered down at her, eyes gleaming. “Get up.”
Still gripping her by a fistful of hair, he yanked her to her feet and pulled her behind him, across the wet lawn.
Limping, she struggled to keep up. Blood oozed from her knees and stuck to the torn denim of her jeans. Her scalp burned as if it were on fire. Cold rain drenched her hair and trickled into her eyes.
He stopped at the edge of the woods and pulled her against him, his face just inches from hers. His breath fanned her, sharp with mint. “I’m not as inadequate as you thought, am I? Not as inadequate as you described in your article.”
She drew in a shaky gasp. “It was a psychological profile. It wasn’t personal.”
Even as the words left her lips, she knew she had made a mistake.
“Of course it was personal. I let you in. I talked to you. I was nice. And you? You weren’t nice at all. You were… inadequate. Wasn’t that what you wrote about me? Inadequate?”
Risa swallowed hard but didn’t say anything. She didn’t remember exactly what she had written in the article, but he was likely right about her word choice. Inadequate in his relationships with women. He felt belittled by his mother, humiliated by his wife. A man who believed that if anything didn’t go exactly his way, he was being victimized, and he fought back against perceived slights by victimizing others. She couldn’t deny what she’d written. What she’d written was the truth.
Still gripping her hair with one hand, Dryden reached to his knife with the other, sliding it from its sheath. “I’ll show you inadequate, Professor Risa Madsen. I’ll make you choke on it.”
Risa’s pulse pounded in her ears. Her throat constricted.
No.
She couldn’t let him see her fear. Couldn’t let him feel the tremors racking her body. She concentrated on breathing. In and out. In and out. She’d be damned if she’d give him what he wanted.
She’d be damned.
He raised the knife in front of her face. Rain dripped down the blade, turning red when it hit the remnants of blood. He smiled at her. “Have you ever been hunting?”
Risa fought to keep her breathing even.
“No?” His smile twisted into a sneer. “Well, let me tell you about it. It’s like a contest. A contest between man and beast. And the strongest—the most adequate, if you will—wins.”
“Go to hell, Dryden.”
“You first, Risa, darling. You first.” He untangled his fingers from her hair and released his hold.
She almost gasped. But her relief didn’t last long.
Circling one arm around her middle, he pinned her back against his chest. Against the length of his body. “First things first.”
He fit the sharp edge under the first button of her blouse. With a flick of his wrist, he sliced upward. The button fell to the grass and the fabric parted.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek. The coppery flavor of blood clogged her throat and almost made her gag.
He sliced off another button. Her blouse fell open further, revealing the top edge of her black lace bra. “Mmm. But I told you I prefer white. Clean, pure white. Or no bra at all.”
Risa forced herself to swallow the screams rising in her throat. She had to find a way to escape. To catch Dryden off guard. Before fear swamped her. Before Dryden’s knife put an end to everything.
He’d gone to great lengths to find the article she’d written for the academic journal. Maybe he would go to equal lengths to read more.
“I’m writing a book, Ed. A book about you.” Her voice sounded remarkably steady, as if this was an ordinary man she was talking to, an ordinary conversation.
As if he hadn’t heard her, he fit the knife under the next button and sliced. The button popped in the air.
“Even if you kill me, people will find it. They’ll read it. In fact, killing me will probably make it a bestseller.”
His mouth twitched. “And why should I care about that?”
“I thought you might want to read it before it was published.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” His farm-boy face twisted in disgust. He shook his head slowly. “You don’t matter anymore, sweetheart. You can’t control things. You’re nothing. And when I get done with you, you’ll be less than nothing.”
He cut off another button. Her blouse gaped open to her navel.
She had to get away from him. She couldn’t wait until he played out his hunting scenario. Once that happened, it was all over.
Once that happened, she was dead.
Dryden licked his thin lips and eyed her bra. He pulled the knife back and craned his neck as if to get a better view. His grip on her arms relaxed slightly.
And that was all she needed.
Coiling all her strength in her legs, she lurched back against him, breaking his grip and sending him sprawling backward onto the lawn. By some miracle, she stayed on her feet, whirled and, in two strides, plunged into the woods.
Raspberry bushes ripped her skin and snagged her blouse. Trees and bushes tore at her face and pulled her hair. Rain pelted her face. She fought on, racing through the woods. Scrambling to put distance between herself and Dryden.