Stalker. Faye Kellerman
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heard a jangle of metal. Her keys? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the passenger door to her station wagon had been opened. Again, she felt the press of the gun.
“Go in. From passenger’s side! You do it or I shoot your baby!”
At the mention of her baby, Farin lost all resolve. Tears poured down from her eyes. Hugging her child, she walked around the front of the car, thoughts of escape cut short by the metal at her tailbone. She paused at the sight of the open door.
“Go on!” he barked. “Do it now!”
With Tara at her bosom, she bent down until she found her footing. Then she slid into her passenger’s seat.
“Move across!” he snapped.
Farin tried to figure out how to do this. The car had bucket seats and there was a console between them. With clumsy, halted motions, and still holding Tara, she lifted her butt over the leather-cushioned wall, and into the driver’s seat, both now scrunched behind the wheel. Again, Tara started to cry.
“You shut her up!” he barked.
She’s a baby! Farin wanted to shout. She’s scared! Instead, she began to rock her, singing softly into her ear. He was right beside her, the gun now in her rib cage.
Don’t look at him, Farin reminded herself. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look!
Staring straight ahead. But she could tell that the gun had shifted to Tara’s head.
Think, Farin! Think!
But nothing came into her hapless brain, not a thought, not a clue. Fear had penetrated every pore of her being as her heart banged hard against her breastbone. Her chest was tight; her breathing was labored. Within seconds, Farin felt her head go light, along with that ominous darkening of her vision. Sparkles popped through her brain … that awful sensation of floating to nothingness.
No, she hadn’t been shot. She was going to pass out!
Don’t pass out, you fool. You can’t afford—
His voice brought her back to reality.
“You give me the girl! Then you drive!”
Tara was still on her lap, little hands grabbing Farin’s blouse. Once Tara was out of her grip, Farin knew they both were helpless unless she did something.
Farin knew she had to move. Without warning, she pivoted around, using the solid weight of her shoulder bone to slam it against his gun-toting hand. Although the sudden move didn’t dislodge the gun from his grip, it did push his hand away, giving Farin about a second to spring into action.
This time, the console was her friend. Because now he had to get over it to do something to her. She jerked down on the door handle, then kicked open the metal barrier to the max. Still holding Tara, Farin bolted from her seat, and attempted to run away.
But her shoe caught and she tripped, falling toward the pebbly road.
What a klutz!
Thinking as she plunged downward: Break the fall with your hip, cover Tara, then kick …
She contorted, managing to land on her hip and shoulder, scraping her right cheek on the unforgiving, rocky asphalt. Immediately, she rolled on top of Tara. Finding her vocal cords, she let out a scream worthy of the best B horror movies.
A deep male voice shouting, “What’s going on over there?”
Even from her poor vantage point, Farin thought that the shout might belong to the man with the brown pit bull.
Several popping sounds.
Oh God, she thought, he’s shooting at me!
Farin prepared for the worst—the sting, the pain, the writhing and horror, or whatever was to come … because she’d never been shot.
But nothing penetrated her body.
Instead, the popping turned out to be her car’s engine. Within moments, the Volvo’s tires screeched as they peeled rubber. One of the back radials smashed over her left foot and ankle as the car blasted from its launch pad.
Now came the pain! It burst into her head and made her sob. Loud, but it didn’t drown out Tara’s piercing cries.
Oh God! My baby is hurt! She called out, “Somebody help me!” Her foot and ankle were pulverized, but agony also stabbed her entire lower body—specifically legs and hips. Her stomach was a bucking storm, her face felt as if attacked by a raging hive of bees. She could hardly breathe. She felt as if she were having a heart attack. At least, she could wiggle the toes on her right foot so she knew she wasn’t paralyzed.
While moaning back excruciating sobs of anguish, she could see the man with the brown pit bull running toward her. He was yelling for help, that Farin could tell. The pit bull was barking wildly … menacingly. It was pulling against the restraints. Suddenly, the dog broke loose from its owner, galloping toward them at full speed!
Lunging toward them!
A huge leap into the air!
The final touch! She was going to be eaten alive!
The dog was within inches of her face.
She passed out just as the pit bull started to lick her tearstained cheek.
The husband was pissed, trying to make Decker go away by throwing him dirty looks. Not that Decker blamed the guy. Nor did Decker, or his twenty-five years of experience, take it personally. Part of the job with a capital J.
“Look at her!” he exclaimed. “She’s in pain—”
“Jason, I’m okay—”
“No, you’re not okay!” Jason interrupted. “You’re a wreck. You and Tara have gone through hell!” Anger had made him red-faced. Suddenly, his lower lip quivered. “You need your rest, Farin!”
He was about an inch away from breaking down. Decker understood the feeling firsthand, the helplessness that clouded and infuriated. Men were supposed to protect their families. When they couldn’t, the guilt washed over them like a tidal wave.
Truth be told, Farin Henley was a mess. The woman had deep lacerations on her left cheek, probably down her entire body as well. Her left leg was in a thigh-high cast. Not that the leg was broken, the docs had told Decker. But her ankle had sustained multiple fractures. The more the leg was immobilized, the better the ankle would heal.
Even through the scrapes and scratches, Decker could tell that Farin was a “cute” woman. She had a round, pixie face framed with clipped, honey-colored hair. Big blue eyes, which were red-rimmed at the moment. She appeared to be in her late twenties. Husband Jason was probably around the same age. Light skin surrounding dark brown eyes. He had a head of thick brown hair that had been blow-dried. His black eyebrows were shaped in a perfect arch. His teeth gleamed white, although he had yet to smile. Medium height, but well built. Jason worked out.
Rather than a direct hit, Decker used the sideswipe approach. He looked down at the crib abutting Mom’s hospital bed, peering at the sleeping form. Tara’s porcelain complexion was marred with scratches, but the wounds appeared superficial. The baby was sucking in her slumber.
Decker said, “What is she? About eighteen months?”
Farin wiped her tears. “Exactly.”
Jason remained hostile. “What is this? A pathetic attempt to gain rapport?”
“Jason!” Farin scolded.
“Are you going to catch this monster?” Jason rolled his eyes. “Probably not. You have no idea—”
“We have an idea.”
The room fell silent.
“And?” Jason asked expectantly.
Decker