Free Minor in Possession by J. A. Jance Page A

the floor somewhere in the general direction of the outside door.
    And that's when I heard the snake. Even over the rush of water in the shower, the chilling sound of the rattlesnake's rattle was unmistakable.
    With a sinking clutch in my gut I recognized it as a sound I had learned from watching hundreds of Saturday afternoon serials and westerns as a kid, first at the old Baghdad Theater and later at the Bay in Ballard. When I threw the pants toward the door, I must have unintentionally scored a direct hit.
    I froze, squinting my eyes at the murky darkness. Fortunately, the pissed-off rattlesnake continued to sound its ominous warning. I was exceedingly grateful it did so. Armed with infrared sensors, the snake knew my every movement, all the while remaining totally invisible to me. If the rattling ever stopped, I'd have no way of knowing where he was.
    Waves of goose bumps surged up and down my legs. My pulse pounded in my temples. I listened desperately over the noisy rushing of my own blood, trying to pinpoint the exact location of that bone-chilling rattle.
    It had to be coming from somewhere near the door. If that was the case, I was lucky as hell that I hadn't stepped on the damn thing when I came inside. But now I was trapped. And in the dark. Not only was the snake beside the door, so was the light switch.
    Holding my breath, I took one cautious step backward, dreading the feeling of snake's fangs sinking deep into the naked flesh of my leg or ankle. When nothing happened, I tried another step. The rattle stopped for only for a moment, then it began again in what seemed like a slightly different position.
    I took another backward step, wondering how far it could possibly be—not inches, not feet, but miles—before I reached the relative safety of the bathroom.
    Two more cautious steps and I felt the welcome cool of the tiled bathroom floor beneath my feet. Sick with relief, I sprang backward and slammed the door shut. Quickly I turned on the light and then looked down at what seemed suddenly to be an immense crack beneath the door. It may have been irrational, but all the same, I plugged it with a bath towel just in case the snake might be able to squash itself flat and somehow squeeze under the door to come after me.
    While I stood there shaking with relief and resting my head on the door, I watched the towel for any sign of movement. Seeing none, I finally pulled myself together enough to turn off the water and take stock of the situation. The ringing of last-call dinner bell greeted my ears. By now everyone would have gone up to the dining room except for a few flood-fighting stragglers like me who might possibly still be showering.
    I tried to think. I may have been safe in the bathroom, but it was a hollow victory at best. I was still trapped. I still couldn't get out. Yelling wouldn't help. Once they left for dinner and the meetings, no other clients would be within earshot for hours. The trip into Wickenburg usually lasted until around ten, unless…
    A sudden thought spilled over me like a bucket of icy water. Unless they noticed I was missing and sent someone to find me.
    What if they sent Kelly or Scott? I thought with my heart sinking. What if one of my own unsuspecting kids walked directly into the snake? I wouldn't be able to see them coming in time, wouldn't be able to warn them.
    I had to get out! Somehow I had to do it, but I'd be damned if I was going to open that bathroom door.
    I looked at the shower. A combination tub and shower. Five feet above the bottom of the tub was a window, a discreet frosted jalousie window. Small, and tough to get to, but maybe I could make it work.
    Adrenaline is wonderful. It surged through me, giving me a strength I didn't know I had. I'm reminded of the five-foot-two grandmother from Tulsa, Oklahoma, who single-handedly lifted a 327-cubic-inch GMC engine off her husband's legs when it fell on him in their garage. That dame didn't have anything on me.
    Wrapping my