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“This is almost too easy,” Tommy said.

“Just do it,” Bruno said.

I stared at the needle as it came closer to my arm. I would have told them that I was drugged already, if Bruno’s hand hadn’t been clasped over my mouth. I would have asked what was in the syringe, and whether it would react badly with what I had already taken. I never got the chance.

The needle plunged in. My body stiffened, struggling, but Bruno held me tight. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t get away. Dammit! Dammit! The adrenaline was finally chasing the cobwebs away, but it was too late. Tommy took the needle out of my arm and said, “Sorry, we don’t have any alcohol to swab it off with.” He grinned at me.

I hated him. I hated them both. And if the shot didn’t kill me, I was going to kill them both. For scaring me. For making me feel helpless. For catching me unaware, drugged, and stupid. If I lived through this mistake, I wouldn’t make it again. Please, dear God, let me live through this mistake.

Bruno held me motionless and mute until I could feel the injection taking hold. I was sleepy. With a bad guy holding me against my will, I was sleepy. I tried to fight it, but it didn’t work. My eyelids fluttered. I struggled to keep them open. I stopped trying to get away from Bruno and put everything I had into not closing my eyes.

I stared at my door and tried to stay awake. The door swam in dizzying ripples as if I were seeing it through water. My eyelids went down, jerked up, down. I couldn’t open my eyes. A small part of me fell screaming into the dark, but the rest of me felt loose and sleepy and strangely safe.

35

I WAS IN that faint edge of wakefulness. Where you know you’re not quite asleep, but don’t really want to wake up either. My body felt heavy. My head throbbed. And my throat was sore.

The last thought made me open my eyes. I was staring at a white ceiling. Brown water marks traced the paint like spilled coffee. I wasn’t home. Where was I?

I remembered Bruno holding me down. The needle. I sat up then. The world swam in clear waves of color. I fell back onto the bed, covering my eyes with my hands. That helped a little. What had they given me?

I had an image in my mind that I wasn’t alone. Somewhere in that dizzying swirl of color had been a person. Hadn’t there? I opened my eyes slower this time. I was content to stare up at the water-ruined ceiling. I was on a large bed. Two pillows, sheets, a blanket. I turned my head carefully and found myself staring into Harold Gaynor’s face. He was sitting beside the bed. It wasn’t what I wanted to wake up to.

Behind him, leaning against a battered chest of drawers was Bruno. His shoulder holster cut black lines across his blue short-sleeved dress shirt. There was a matching and equally scarred vanity table near the foot of the bed. The vanity sat between two high windows. They were boarded with new, sweet-smelling lumber. The scent of pine rode the hot, still air.

I started to sweat as soon as I realized that there was no air-conditioning.

“How are you feeling, Ms. Blake?” Gaynor asked. His voice was still that jolly Santa voice with an edge of sibilance. As if he were a very happy snake.

“I’ve felt better,” I said.

“I’m sure you have. You have been asleep for over twenty-four hours. Did you know that?”

Was he lying? Why would he lie about how long I’d been asleep? What would it gain him? Nothing. Truth then, probably.

“What the hell did you give me?”

Bruno eased himself away from the wall. He looked almost embarrassed. “We didn’t realize you’d already taken a sedative.”

“Painkiller,” I said.

He shrugged. “Same difference when you mix it with Thorazine.”

“You shot me up with animal tranquilizers?”

“Now, now, Ms. Blake, they use it in mental institutions, as well. Not just animals,” Gaynor said.

“Gee,” I said, “that makes me feel a lot better.”

He smiled broadly. “If you feel good enough to trade witty repartee, then you’re well enough to get up.”

Witty repartee?