Free Dark Ambition by Allan Topol Page B

with Jenny, her surrogate daughter, whose own mother had hit the road and left Jenny with her father when she was only four.
    So why did you marry him? she thought to herself.
    And the answer came out the same as it always did: Respectability, Dr. Freud... I was craving respectability once again.
    But it was a futile hope. Like virginity, once lost, it couldn't be recaptured.
    Ah, the world before Robert. Those were marvelous times. The late sixties, the early seventies. "Armies of the night," Norman Mailer had called them. We acted. We seized control. We shaped our country's path. The people ruled. Justice was on our side. After so many years, the embers from that conflagration still glowed deep inside of Ann. They were remnants from the greatest time of all for her.
    God, she was happy.
    Free! Free at last!
    Suddenly, she was startled by a sound from downstairs. It was a short, muffled cough, coming from someone in the living room. She bolted upright in the tub and climbed out. Grabbing her white terry-cloth robe, she instinctively drew the belt tight around her waist. For an instant she thought of calling the police, but decided they would never arrive in time to help her. She looked around the bedroom for a weapon.
    Nothing!
    But in the closet of Matt's old bedroom there was a baseball bat he had used in Little League and refused to toss out.
    Taking care not to make a sound, she retrieved the bat. Gripping it tightly in her right hand, she quietly descended the carpeted staircase. Halfway down, she stopped and peeked over the banister. The living room was empty, but a man had been there. The scent of a man's cheap cologne drifted up to her nose.
    There was noise coming from the den, adjacent to the living room. The television was playing softly. Why on earth would a burglar be watching TV? She remained frozen to the spot and listened. He was inserting videotapes into the VCR, playing a little of each tape, then tossing it on the floor.
    Continuing down the stairs, she trod softly, her damp, bare feet silent on the thick blue carpet. Then she raced across the living room and stopped behind the louvered door that connected the two rooms. A tape of a football game was playing. The man's back was facing her as he looked at the television screen. He was short and muscular—built like a tank, dressed in a gray sports jacket. His skin was dark and swarthy. A Spaniard or an Arab, she guessed. There was a bulge at his waist that might be a gun in a hip holster. She was about to sneak up on him when she realized that he would see her reflection in the television screen. So she waited. Finally, he ejected the football tape and squatted down, looking through their collection of a few dozen tapes in the cabinet below the television. That was when she made her move, stalking across the Oriental carpet, raising the baseball bat high.
    She swung the bat forward with all the strength she could muster, aiming for his head to knock him out. At the last second he heard her and stood up. The bat struck him square in the rib cage. She heard his bones crack.
    He screamed in pain and then fell to the ground, landing on his front with his face on the parquet floor beyond the edge of the Oriental. She let go of the baseball bat and jumped on his back. Ferociously, she grabbed his hair in both her hands and pulled his head back.
    "What are you looking for? Who sent you?" she shouted at him. "You invaded my house. Who sent you?"
    He didn't answer.
    She smashed his head forward, driving his face against the hard wooden floor. His nose broke. Blood poured from his face, down through his thick, dark beard. She pulled his head back again.
    "Who sent you?"
    Suddenly, she felt a tremor under her. He had been holding his body still, summoning his reserves of energy. Now he pushed up off the floor with martial-arts force. He flipped her off his back, and she flew halfway across the room. In an instant, he was on his feet, dashing toward the living room