She was on her feet and out of the room before he could turn around. She slammed open the front door and ran out into the cool night air. A light rain was falling, and the sounds of Uncle Willy’s furious pursuit were unmistakable. She raced toward the garage, dodging through doorways, as she heard him come closer and closer, his heaving, panting breath loud in the stillness.
Finally she reached the old van. The night was oddly silent—Uncle Willy must have gone in the wrong direction. She jumped in the car and reached for the ignition.
The keys were gone. She felt around on the floor, in the glove compartment, fright and desperation making her oblivious to the threat moving up behind her. When she straightened up she looked directly into Willy’s pale, murderous eyes.
Like a fool she sat there, too numb with horror to lock the doors against him. He yanked her out of the driver’s seat, insane fury mixing with some ghastly trace of amusement.
“I warned you I consider myself a master criminal,” he said in his soft voice, his pale fat hands on her arm, squeezing with surprising strength. “You just made a fool of me, Molly. Even though I had the foresight to remove the keys, you shouldn’t have gotten this far. You didn’t drink anything at all tonight, did you? You thought you could fool me. Most annoying of you. And it would have been a waste of time—the van isn’t working properly, remember? No,” he said, dragging her back through the barns and the courtyard, into the kitchen, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be punished for this. The loss of my dignity will come very dear. I was going to try to make it easy for you, for old times’ sake, but now it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt quite a bit.” His eyes glistened and Molly noticed he was drooling slightly.
For a moment she thought she saw a flash of light in the distance, but it was gone before she could look further, and she didn’t want to alert her would-be murderer. Help was highly unlikely. If she was to stay alive it was up to her, and right now her chances didn’t look too promising.
“How are you going to do it?” she asked him humbly when they reached the living room once more and he’d shoved her down into the chair.
He chuckled pleasantly, running his pale, sluglike hand across his mussed orange strands. “You’ll be found hanging from one of the rafters in the attic. And it should take quite a while to find you—a typewritten note will serve to distract everyone for a few days. Until you begin to smell, my dear.” He sat and reached for his drink. “I had meant to be generous and snap your little neck with a quick jerk of my wrists so that you’d only have a moment of blinding pain before it was all over.” He smiled through the cheerful firelight, and Beastie snored blissfully on. “But now, my dear, I’m going to strangle yon, slowly, so I can watch your eyes bulge out, watch you gasp and scream for mercy, watch you pleading as I rip your life away with my bare hands.” It all sounded like a recipe: detailed, but simple and effective.
Shuddering uncontrollably, she let her hand trail nervelessly, and noticed, an aching fraction of an inch out of her reach, the lovely old brass-handled fire tools. He would notice in a second if she appeared to reach for than, and her one final chance of salvation would be gone.
Willy looked at his watch in a businesslike fashion. “I’m afraid it’s getting late, my dear,” he announced affably. “This is pleasant but I do have to allow enough time to get back before my hosts return.” He rose, and came toward her slowly, very slowly. She watched him out of hooded eyes, concentrating desperately on the fire poker just out of reach, thinking of Patrick, and of poor, sick, dead Toby. Of her father, whom she’d barely known. She’d thought she could go to him for help, for a place to hide from Willy and the danger, a place to hide from the husband who hated her. Instead he’d been ready to betray her for money. But in the end he was the one who was betrayed.
Willy moved closer, running a quick tongue over his dry, flabby lips, his eyes moist and shining, his fat pale fingers twitching.
And then a sound, the briefest of unexpected noses broke in the room. He whirled around, his back presented for only a second. It was all Molly needed.
Without an instant’s hesitation she smashed him over the head with the lovely brass-handled fire poker, the fastidious orange hairs providing no padding. His squat body sank to the floor in a curious attitude of surprise. She looked up and met the astonished deep blue eyes of her husband, followed closely by Lieutenant Ryker and his posse.
After a moment Patrick broke the stillness. “How the hell,” he asked in a faintly disgruntled tone of voice, “am I supposed to save you when you prove entirely capable of rescuing yourself?”
She shrugged, and smiled, took one step toward him and quite calmly passed out on the body of dear Uncle Willy.
Epilogue
She slept in bis arms that night, curled up snugly against his body as if that was where she belonged. Patrick lay beside her, drifting in and out of sleep, his arms tight and possessive around her.
He’d tried to reason with her. “I’m too old for you,” he’d said. “I have too foul a temper.”
“I’m mature for my age,” she’d said, an arrant lie, as she bit his shoulder. “And I’m fairly grumpy myself.”
“I should never have married you,” he tried to tell her, later, when she was licking his navel. “I took advantage of you. I knew you had a crush on me, that you’d do anything for me...”
“I would,” she agreed, moving her head lower.
His voice grew tight and husky. “But it’s not fair to you.”
“Let me decide what’s fair,” she said.
“You’ll find someone better suited to you.”
“There isn’t anyone better for me.”
“You’ll regret it.”
Her mouth was too busy to reply to such a patently ridiculous statement, and he found he couldn’t manage to come up with any more arguments for the time being. But later, when they were curled tight around each other, he slid his hands through her thick tangle of wheat-colored hair and tilted her face up to his. Site looked sleepy, sated, immensely pleased with herself, and he didn’t want to care that much.
“I won’t hold you here,” he said in a harsh, quiet voice.
She stared at him, her eyes wide. “You can’t make me leave you.” She reached up her own hands to cup his cheeks, and her voice was intense. “Don’t you love me, Patrick?”
He’d never meant to tell her. He’d always thought it would take unfair advantage of her. But there was no way he could not answer her simple, heartfelt question.
