He heard the chair scrape in the kitchen. "Who's there?"
He didn't move. A few soft tentative footsteps into the hall to the living room. "Is someone there?"
Maddox waited, controlling his breathing. She would come in and see what made the noise. He heard several more hesitant steps down the hall, which paused as she evidently halted in the entryway to the living room. She was just around the corner, close enough that he could hear her breathing.
"Hello? Is someone there?"
She might turn and go back to the kitchen. She might go for the phone. But she wasn't sure . . . She'd heard a noise, she was standing in the doorway, the living room looked empty ... it could have been anything-a falling twig hitting the window or a bird flying
into the glass. Maddox knew exactly what she was thinking.
A low whistle started from the kitchen, climbing in shrillness. The kettle was boiling.
Son of a bitch.
She turned with a rustle and he heard her footsteps receding down the hall to the kitchen.
Maddox coughed, not loudly, but distinctly, as a way to bring her back.
The footsteps halted. "Who's that?"
The whistle in the kitchen got louder.
She suddenly came charging back into the living room. He leapt out at the same time that he saw, to his complete shock, that she had a .38 in her hand. She whirled and he dove at her legs at the same time the gun went off; he hit her hard and dropped her to the carpet. She screamed, rolled, her blond hair all in a tangle, her gun bouncing across the carpeted floor, her fist lashing out and dealing him a stunning blow to the side of the head.
The yellow-haired bitch.
He struck back wildly, connecting with his left somewhere in a soft place, and it was just disabling enough to get himself on top of her, pinning her to the floor. She gasped, struggled, but he lay on her with all his weight and pressed the Clock to her ear.
"You bitch!" His finger almost- almost-pulled the trigger.
She struggled, screamed. He pressed down harder, lying on top of her, pinning her flailing legs in a scissor grip between his. He got himself under control. Christ, he'd almost shot her, and maybe he would still have to.
"I'll kill you if I have to. I will."
More struggling, incoherent sounds. She was unbelievably strong, a wildcat.
"I will kill you. Don't make me do it, but so help me I will if you don't stop."
He meant it and she heard that he meant it and stopped. As soon as she was quiet he slid around with his leg, trying to snag the .38, which lay on the rug about ten feet away.
"Don't move."
He could feel her under him, hiccuping with fear. Good. She should be afraid. He had come so close to killing her he could almost taste it.
He got his foot on the .38, pulled it to him, picked it up, shoved it in his pocket. He pushed the barrel of the Clock into her mouth and said, "We're going to try this again.
Now you know I'll kill you. Nod if you understand."
She suddenly twisted hard and gave a vicious kick backward to his shins, but she had no leverage and he checked her struggling with sharp, wrenching constriction of his arm around her neck.
"Don't fight me."
More struggling.
He twisted the barrel hard enough to make her gag. "It's a gun, bitch, get it?" She stopped struggling.
"Do what I say and nobody'll get hurt. Nod if you understand." She nodded and he loosened his grip, slightly.
"You're coming with me. Nice and easy. But first, I need you to do something."
No response. He pushed the barrel deeper into her mouth.
A nod.
Her whole body was trembling in his arms.
"Now I'm going to release you. No sound. No screaming. No sudden moves. I'll kill you fast if you don't do just what I tell you." A nod and a hiccup. "You know what I want?" A shake of the head. He was still lying on top of her, his legs entwined around hers, holding her tight.
"I want the notebook. The one your husband got from the prospector. Is it in the house?"
Shake of the head. "Your husband has it?" No response.
Her husband had it. That much he was sure of already. "Now listen to me carefully, Sally. I'm not going to screw around. One false step, one scream, one bullshit trick, and
I'll kill you. It's that simple." He meant it and once again she got the message.
"I'm going to get off you and step back. You will go to the telephone answering machine over there on the table. You will record the following message: 'Hi, this is Tom and Sally. Tom's away on business and I'm out of town unexpectedly, so we won't be able to get back to you right away. Sorry about the missed lessons, I'll get back to everyone later. Leave a message, thanks. 'Can you do that in a normal voice?" No response. He twisted the barrel. A nod.
He removed the gun barrel and she coughed. "Say it. I want to hear your voice." "I'll do it." Her voice was all shaky. He got off her and kept the gun trained on her while she slowly got up.
"Do what I said. I'm going to check the message on my cell as soon as you're done, and if it isn't right, if you've pulled some kind of stunt, you're dead."
The woman walked over to the phone machine, pressed a button, and spoke the message.
"Your voice is too stressed. Do it again. Naturally."
She did it again, and a third time, finally getting it right.
"Good. Now we're going to walk outside like two normal people, you first, me five feet behind. You won't forget, even for an instant, that I've got a gun. My car is parked in a grove of scrub oaks about a quarter mile up the road. You know where those trees are?"
She nodded.
"That's where we're going."
As he pushed her across the living room, he became aware of a sensation of wetness on his thigh. He looked down. The plastic raincoat was torn and a tuft of material stood out from the pant leg. There was a dark patch of blood, not a lot, but still it was blood.
Maddox was astonished because he had felt nothing, and still felt nothing. He scanned the rug but saw no evidence that any of the blood had dripped to the floor. He reached down with a hand, explored, feeling the sting of the wound for the first time.
Son of a bitch. The blond had winged him.
He marched her out of the house and across a brushy flat and alongside the creek, soon
arriving at the hidden car. Once in the cover of the scrub oaks he took a pair of leg cuffs out of his rucksack and tossed them at her feet.
"Put them on."
She bent over, fumbled with them for a while, snapped them on.
"Put your hands behind your back."
She obeyed and he spun her around and snapped on a pair of handcuffs. Then he opened the front passenger door. "Get in."
She managed to sit and swing her feet in.
He took off his knapsack, took out the bottle of chloroform and the diaper, poured a good dose.
"No!" he heard her scream. "No, don't!" She swung her feet up to kick him but she had little room to maneuver, and he had already lunged in on top of her, pinning her manacled arms and mashing the diaper into her face. She struggled, cried out, writhing and kicking, but in a few moments she went limp.
He made sure she had breathed in a good dose, then got in the driver's side and slid behind the wheel. She lay slumped on the seat in an unnatural position. He reached over, hefted her and propped her up against the door, put a pillow behind her head and drew a blanket up around her, until she looked like she was peacefully asleep.
He powered down the windows to get the stench of chloroform out of the car, and then pulled off stocking, shower cap, booties, hair net, and raincoat, balling them up and stuffing them inside a garbage bag.