Free Willing Hostage by Marlys Millhiser Page A

pins flew, one of them slid down the skin under her dress. The cracking sound in her neck mingled with the sound of hair pulling out at the roots.
    Leah told him about the blonde in her Volkswagen.
    When he let go, she almost fell over backward. She huddled into her coat, her hair falling about her face and shoulders, and hated him.
    â€œProbably the real Sheila, if you’re not.”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œWhere are your jeans?” He was at the car, pulling the keys from the ignition, opening the trunk, dragging out her suitcases.
    Leah stared at the stars through the open slats in the roof. The brute had a penchant for blue jeans.
    Glade rummaged through a bundle of something in the corner and came back with a flashlight to attack her luggage again. Muttering low, he dumped her hair dryer and rollers from the duffel bag and replaced them with clothing.
    Bars of light and dark crossed his face and body as night light filtered through slats.
    â€œGet into these.” He dumped a pile of clothes in her lap.
    Ice in the air fingered her body as she slipped out of her dress and into jeans, blouse, wool sweater, and an oversized sweat shirt.
    He’d lost all interest in her “great” body and was pawing through her purse. “You’re a hell of a lot richer than the last time we met.” He held up the wad of bills, then slid them into her wallet. Adding her wallet and the Maalox to the contents of the duffel, he threw her luggage, coat, and purse into the trunk with the clothes she’d removed and locked it.
    When she’d tied her tennis shoes, he pushed the duffel at her and gathered his bundle from the corner. They left the shedlike building to hurry between shadows to the river.
    â€œI can’t swim,” she lied. Maybe he intended to drown her. Maybe she could swim away if he thought she was helpless in water. Maybe.…
    He grunted in answer and pushed her along the bank until they came to a log over splashing water. His grip kept her balanced as she crossed it. They stood on a tiny island, the river—really just a stream that sounded like a river as it crashed over rocks—surrounded them with sound and a moonlight shimmer of spray. There was a smell of coal dust in the air.
    Glade looked up and down the bank, as if trying to find a crossing. The frogs resumed their debate in baritone burps. Her alleged assailant turned, stooped, and put his shoulder in the pit of her stomach. “Hold onto your bag,” he said and stood to wade across the stream with Leah flopping breathlessly across his shoulder. He put her down on the other side and they headed toward a dark mountain. Glade started straight up the side of it.
    Leah was already winded by the pace he set. “I can’t—”
    â€œYou will.”
    And on they climbed until her legs screamed with aching. It seemed forever before he stopped to let her rest.
    â€œWhy … why don’t you just … kill me down here? I can’t—”
    â€œI haven’t decided what to do with you.” Again the viselike grip on her sore arm as he dragged her to her feet. “But don’t tempt me.” And they set off.
    Leah’s heart was pounding and her throat stung from gasping when he stopped on top of the ridge. He surveyed the countryside while she sprawled at his feet.
    Crickets sang. Wind whirred in the trees below, moved closer until it ruffled their hair and whirred past. Leah shivered and sat up, holding her head in her hands.
    Glade offered her a drink from a cloth-covered canteen. “It’s just water,” he said when she hesitated.
    The water tasted of metal.
    He stood towering over her, big and hostile like the country around them. “Let’s go.”
    They started downhill, Leah stumbling and slipping each time the grade steepened, her duffel bag dragging on the ground behind her, but always the cruel hand to steady her and force her onward. The night