Rage Factor (42 page)

Coombs teased Sarina with his knife, tasting her fear like a kid with the first lick of an ice cream cone. The more terrified Sarina became, the greater his arousal.

And the less sense of his audience, maybe. Dixie counted on that. With enough time, she knew she could get free. Duct tape was strong, yet all she needed was a nick to start ripping it.

But how much time did she have until Coombs let the knife cut deep enough to do real damage? And how could she lessen Sarina’s fear without attracting Coombs’ attention to her own busy hands and feet?

“Lawrence, you’re like a little boy at a slasher film,” she taunted, the words for Sarina more than Coombs. “Getting pumped by the special effects. The bench, the goofy plants.”
This is not real
, Sarina.
It’s part of his script, manufactured for our benefit
“Who’s your hero, Lawrence? Freddy Krueger? Jason? Pinhead?”

Sarina swiveled her gaze to Dixie.

“This girl’s had
lessons
in screaming,” Dixie said. “Real bloodcurdling shrieks, learned first day in acting class. Used in every nickel-a-frame horror film. Right, kid?”

Sarina’s eyes lost a fraction of their terror. She screamed, aiming the sound directly at Coombs.

“Not bad,” he murmured. “Nice, seeing a little fight in those pretty gray eyes.” He trailed the knife blade down her cheek.

Sarina cringed.

“It’s only make-believe, Lawrence,” Dixie said firmly. “The ingenue never fights back. Screams, faints, swoons, flails her arms, but she never
really
fights back. Sarina knows exactly how to
play
the fragile victim. It’s all just make-believe.”

Coombs pivoted toward Dixie. “Shut up, or I’ll tape your mouth.” He shoved Sarina behind the bench and pulled the
tape roll from his pocket. “We’ll see how
good
an actress she is.”

Dixie could feel her own bonds beginning to stretch, but not enough to wrench her hands free.

Sarina was trying to wriggle out of Coombs’ grasp. But the man’s strength was too much for her. He used his body weight to bend her over the bench while he taped her wrists, one to each bench arm.

Sarina’s terrified gaze locked on Dixie. She was smart
and
tough, Dixie reminded herself. She’d be okay once they got through this.
She’d be okay.

If they got through this alive.

The girl stiffened and went suddenly still as Dixie heard fabric tear. Sarina’s jeans fell around her knees.

Another rip of fabric, and Coombs held Sarina’s panties. She kicked and squirmed furiously. The box knife hit the tile floor and skidded across the room.

Coombs ignored it. “I like a woman with fire, darlin’.”

Dixie heard the clink of his buckle and a zip as he opened his fly. A fresh wave of fear tightened Sarina’s face.

“Bet you never had a man between those sweet thighs.”

Fury fueled Dixie’s actions as she sawed at the tape binding her wrists. The damn stuff would not give! Too many layers.

Coombs’ attention was totally on Sarina now, face flushed with arousal.

Damn the tape!
She rose clumsily to her knees, heels against the wall. Launching herself like a projectile, she lunged at the bench, falling into it, shoving it backward, smashing Coombs against the wall, Sarina screaming—

The thinner tape on Dixie’s ankles snapped. She scrambled to her feet and swung the heavy cast at Coombs’ shins. But her hands were still bound, and when he slugged her, blackness swirled like smoke inside her head.

She heard a screech behind her-not Sarina—

Coombs’ fist swung again, hitting Dixie solid on the
jaw, knocking her backward and splattering the wall with blood.

As Coombs grabbed for his pants, Dixie came back, head lowered, butting upward—but hitting only his muscled shoulder as he dodged. He backhanded her to the floor.

Another earsplitting screech.

Julie Colby flew at them, the box knife in her hand, her face deformed with rage. Still screeching, she hacked at Coombs’ face.

He sidestepped, but he was against the wall. His hand flew up to block the ferocious blows.

Julie sliced at his face, his chest, his stomach, and when he lowered his hands to protect his manhood, she went for his face again. Enraged, Coombs struck out with both arms, knocking her aside, and tried to move past, but she flew back at him, the knife arcing—

Dixie shoved the bench away, and Sarina with it. Let them fight, she just wanted to get the girl to safety. “Are you okay?”

Sarina nodded. “Get me loose.”

“I will.” But not yet.

A nauseating crack of bone snapping—a scream—Coombs had broken Julie’s knife arm. She fell against the wall, the weapon again in Coombs’ bloody grip.

The look in his eyes said Julie was about to die. He raked the blade across her throat.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“God’s Fi—” she murmured. Then her body fell sideways, into Coombs. The knife tumbled to the floor.

With one final twist, Dixie ripped the tape from her hands. She dropped to the floor, scrambling madly.
She couldn’t reach—the goddamn knife
—

Coombs grunted, threw himself at her.

Dixie’s fingers closed on a weapon. She turned and slammed it into Coombs’ ear. Screaming, he raised both hands to his bleeding head.

She slammed it into his face, punched it into his unprotected
stomach, then tossed the broken puppet aside and finally scooped up the knife.

With one hand on his collar and the knife at his throat, she threw him face first against the wall and kicked the back of his knees.

“Down. Down to the floor.”

He resisted, but pressure from the blade convinced him. He sank to his knees.

“All the way. Facedown.”

Eyes straining toward the knife, he stretched out flat. With a knee in his back, Dixie released his collar to grope for the tape.

“Give me your hands.”

He complied.

She sliced off a tape strip and fastened his wrists.

Then she freed Sarina. As she helped gather her clothes together, Dixie had the compelling urge to count the kid’s fingers and toes.

Sarina snatched up the bloody puppet. “Wait’ll we tell Mother it was Fire Dweller who saved us. Uncredible!”

February 14—that night

Dixie lay curled in a chair, Mud’s muzzle resting on her lap, as they waited for the ten o’clock news. The heart-shaped balloon, partially deflated, bobbed overhead. She’d found one of Parker’s lumberjack shirts in the laundry room, plaid cotton flannel, soft from uncounted washings. Wearing it against her bare skin, she wondered what he was doing in his big new house.

Wondered if he was alone.

Wondered if he missed her as much as she missed him.

Mud’s ears pricked forward. A second later, the phone rang.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” Parker’s deep voice rumbled over the phone line.

“Happy Valentine’s to you, too.” Why couldn’t she ever think of anything brilliant to say when she needed to?

“I caught a newscast, heard your name mentioned.”

“Hang around with celebrities, it’s bound to rub off.”

“How many bruises?” He said it lightly, but she could hear the worry in his tone.

“One.” The others were too small to count.

“How’s the kid?”

“A few bruises, but that kids tougher than she looks—about as timid as Tabasco.” Being a minor, Sarina had been spared all but a short interview with the cops—with Belle present for moral and legal support. What mattered to Dixie was that the girl had come through without any physical injuries or, apparently, any debilitating psychological ones. “She’ll be okay.”

Dixie herself had suffered a sustained ass-chewing from Belle, before reminding the attorney that twenty-four-hour protection might’ve prevented Sarina from leaving the hotel alone. That ended Belle’s diatribe, but not the worms of guilt that crawled through Dixie’s gut every time she closed her eyes and saw Sarina’s terror. Those minutes at Hamman Hall, when she’d felt unable to help the girl, had given her a good dose of what Parker must feel at times.

“Guess you’ve had a long day.”

“Yeah.” She’d spent too much of it telling various police officers what had happened, and the rest of it with a doctor examining her jaw where Coombs had popped her. But at least she’d talked the doc into finally removing the cast. “Got my clutch foot back. How’s the boat?”

After a stretch of silence, Parker said, “Had to let it go.”

Well, hell.
“Sorry. I know you wanted it.”

“There’s always another good deal around.” He hesitated. “I have a confession to make.”

Oh, God.
Dixie thought about the blonde and didn’t know if she wanted to hear this.

“I stole your pillow,” he said.

“My pillow?”

“It smells like you….”

Dixie buried her nose in the collar of his plaid flannel shirt. “That’s okay. I can get another pillow.”

“I miss you.”

Dixie dropped a hand on Mud’s warm, furry neck.

“We miss you, too. Why don’t you drive in and watch the news with us?”

Parker’s sigh came long and low and heartsick. “I wish it were that easy, Dixie.”

The good stuff never comes easy.
“Do you think it’s impossible?”

Another unbearable silence.

“I think when people are thrown together under stressful conditions, emotions can get tangled.”

Tangled? What does that mean?
“Is this a new way of saying ‘Let’s just be friends’?”

“Dixie, this was the emptiest day of my life, until I heard your voice. I sure don’t want to be strangers.”

A huge gray lump wedged itself under Dixie’s heart.
Friends or strangers.

“Are those our only two choices?”

“Maybe down the road we’ll see some others. Why don’t we just say good night now and talk again tomorrow?”

Dixie looped the dangling balloon string around her finger as she stalled for something—
anything
—to say that would make a difference. Words were so damned useless.

“Good night, Parker.”