Rachel's Run

By Sherry Bryant

Rachel Winslow dreams of being a screenwriter, but seems it’s not meant to be, until... Three years later, she recognizes her story, practically scene for scene, on the movie screen. Furious, she goes to Hollywood to confront Abel Caprio, the man she blames for plagiarizing her work.
Things go wrong in L.A. The able is turned. Rachel runs, Abel...The chase culminates in Georgetown where...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sherry Bryant
• Release date: May 25, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458104977

Sherry Bryant

I have had a love affair with the written word since my teens, but it was during my travels while in the employ of the USAF, FAA and the DOD that I finally began writing in earnest. My stories reflect those travel experiences abroad and nationwide.I have a lot of respect for my favorite authors, Raymond Chandler, Elmore Leonard, John Grisham, John Clancy, and all those great suspense/mystery novelists.I am a U of Maryland graduate. I was also a schoolteacher at one time. I now make my home in Hawaii.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

No one so much as twitched an eyelash when the siren shrilled above the din and the ambulance sped down Wisconsin Avenue. In Washington, D.C. it’s nothing out of the ordinary, especially on such a night. Although, out of conditioned reflex, or perhaps just plain curiosity, the boisterous Halloween revelers—college and university denizens of the Virginia, Maryland and Washington, D.C. area—took the briefest of pauses to check out where the sound was coming from. And then only long enough to feel the icy breeze from the wake of the vehicle whizzing by on its way to the District’s General Hospital.

* * *

High-pitched drama played beyond the sliding doors to the Emergency wing. A madhouse that defied description. A couple of paramedics ran flanking a gurney, calling a strident Out of the way! to hew a path down the corridor crowded with the night’s casualties.

In one of the emergency bays of the trauma center, two nurses and a doctor on duty worked furiously, efficiently, and quietly on a shooting victim. The doctor checked for vitals, his fingers deft, eyes keen, brows deeply creased. The nurses’ normally casual banter, which usually characterized an ER medical staff that’s supposedly inured to such sights of violence, seemed somehow guarded, even veiled with compassion.

The nurse with the nametag, Dolan, studied a clipboard.

Rachel Winslow, twenty-one...hah, today. What a way to spend a birthday.

That is ironic, Nurse Larsen said, shaking her head.

I know, I thought the same thing...she could very well ‘check out’ any minute. Hmmm, West Virginia. So far away from home. She glanced at Rachel as she lay the clipboard down, a flash of pity in her eyes. Rachel appeared lifeless; the doctor grim, as he peered and probed the bullet hole just below the clavicle, an exit wound. He lifted her gently on one shoulder and surveyed her back. His face darkened even more. Two entry wounds--the one about an inch lower than the other apparently still inside her. His face said it all. Not good. Not good at all.

Nurse Dolan, scissors in hand, studying Rachel’s costume, skirted the intravenous she’d administered the victim earlier.

How in heaven’s name did she get into this thing? A rhetorical question. It’s so tight. Looks like I’ll have to cut her out of it. Across the table, Nurse Larsen began cleaning off the victim’s face.

What a waste, she said, as more of the Rachel’s face became free of heavy make-up. I bet she’d wish she’d stayed home in West Virginia, if she were conscious right now.

Dolan said, You got that right. She should’ve stayed home.

What’s so great about Halloween in Washington D.C. anyway? Larsen asked, a hint of anger, resentment, maybe even contempt, in her voice. She was pushing forty and, quite possibly, unlike the young and adventurous, the lure and excitement of a big city all but lost on her. Is it like this here every year?

I’m guessing this is your first Halloween in D.C., Dolan said with a little snicker, before turning to the doctor. Think she has a chance, Doctor Burnham?

Get her prepped for surgery and into OR, Stat! Doctor Burnham said, looking away from the X-Ray reading machine. Dolan continued snipping away at the costume. What about Doctors Petrie and Haas, Dolan?

On their way, Dolan said, brows knit, guiding the scissors through the skin-tight sleeves that, thank goodness, flared out below the elbows.

Who are Doctors Petrie and Hass? Larsen asked, eyebrows crimped together, after Doctor Burnham had walked away to see to the patient in the next bay.

Surgeons. Specialists, Dolan said briefly, a little smile of triumph on her lips. She’d cut the last of Rachel’s costume away.

Moze stepped out of the elevator, looking haggard, his shirt collar unbuttoned, bowtie untied and hanging down his shoulders. He looked like a younger version of the ever-wrinkled television detective, Columbo, only classier and a sight more good-looking. His coat hung over one shoulder, held in place with a hand sporting a 1972 Georgetown University ring on the ring finger. He headed straight toward the Nurses’ Station where Nurse Dolan, now clipboard in hand, had just finished talking to a uniformed policeman.

The officer flashed Moze a sign of recognition—a hesitant smile accompanied by a timid wave of a hand. They just took her into the Operating Room, Lieutenant, he said, in what he probably felt was a gentle, sympathetic manner. Moze didn’t even pause to acknowledge him, but headed straight toward the OR door.

You can’t go in there, sir, Dolan said, catching up to him. She grabbed him by the elbow, firmly but gently, and tried to lead him away. Now I heard this one’s personal. But you cannot be inside the room while the doctors are working on your friend. She tugged at Moze when he didn’t budge and just stood looking down at her. Believe me, she’s in good hands. Come on, she urged, more gently.

Moze traced the scar on his cheek. He paced the floor like a jungle cat, caged for the first time. Occasionally he picked up a magazine and tried to read, only to drop it back down on the table, unable to concentrate. He started to check his wristwatch, but changed his mind. It’d been barely two minutes since he last checked. 

After a while, he trudged back to the operating room door and stared through the small glass pane. The doctors’ faces would reflect how the operation was going, wouldn’t they? But whom was he kidding? With head and face coverings, magnified eyeglasses, and the glare of light bouncing off them, there was no way of telling. He could no more deduce anything by peering at any of those faces inside the room than he could fly, no matter how intensely he tried. He finally realized there was nothing much he could do but go back to the Waiting Room. There he resumed his pacing.

Another hour went by. By then the waste cylinder by the door overflowed with paper or Styrofoam coffee cups and silver gum wrappers. Moze stared at the floor, giving his scar a quick rub before scratching the ever-darkening fuzz along his jaw line and under his chin. The sound of a ding, followed by the elevator door rasping open had him looking up expectantly.

Moze stared at the woman in a faded tan coat who stepped out of the elevator. She would be the sister Rachel told him about. Or not. Rachel’s description of her sister hardly fit the woman. This one’s hair was...blond...gray? Hard to tell. One shade practically blended into the other—a total washed-out look. Tension showed in her blue eyes. Understandable, given the gravity of the situation. Add to that, the unflattering harsh glow of the neon lights, to make her appear older than her thirty-seven years. One of the two uniformed policemen with her approached Moze and whispered in his ear. Moze nodded imperceptibly.

Mrs. Hingle? Moze said, rising from his seat. He might have meant it as a greeting, but the anxiety in his voice sounded more like an expectation of assurance that he had indeed addressed the person correctly. He stuck his hand out in greeting. Mrs. Carla Hingle? I’m Lieutenant Moses Sherman.

Where is she? Carla asked, her voice tight. She looked around as though unaware someone had just spoken to her, taking the hand offered her like an automaton.

Moze overlooked the seeming indifference, took her by the elbow, led her to the couch and sat down with her. In a little while, Nurse Dolan came out of the Operating Room. Moze sprang up from his seat again and got in step with her.

They’re still working on her, Lieutenant, Dolan said before Moze could speak, shaking her head. You have to be patient.

Left with no choice, Moze rejoined Carla. He had blown his calm façade and he knew it. He excused himself and wandered down the corridor, returning after a while with vending machine paper cups filled with steaming-hot coffee in each hand. He kept his eyes averted as he handed Carla one of the cups.

How long is she gonna be in there, did she say? Carla wrapped both hands around the coffee cup while she spoke. Moze watched her eyes become anxious once again.

I wouldn’t worry, he said, still reassuring, trying to believe his own words. I was told she has the best team of doctors working on her.

Glued to the Operating Room door while she absent-mindedly tipped the coffee cup to her lips, Carla’s eyes swung back toward Moze. A dozen questions swirled in her head. She had an idea as to who and why. But, where? How? It was as though it mattered at all if she did know.

She searched Moze's eyes. They didn’t look like those of a man of the law who would worry over any ordinary Jane Doe. He didn’t have to hang around and wait just to see how the surgery would turn out, either. No, the look was more than that; it was something more personal.

She had seen that look before—on Dennis’ face—that time he burned rubber on the dirt road back home, rushing her to the hospital, in hemorrhagic throes. That was a lifetime ago.

She blinked rapidly, remembering. She’d watched the pain come down over his face like a dark, heavy shroud when the doctor told him she would not be getting pregnant again any time soon. Not ever again, in fact. They, Dennis and the doctor, talked as though they thought she was so distraught she wouldn’t be listening. They were wrong. She did hear every question of concern Dennis asked, every cautious, sometimes-senseless word the doctor said in reply. She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes momentarily. Yes, she knew that look on Moze's face.

Lieutenant, I’m sorry for being so short--

Moze released a sigh. Don’t be, Mrs. Hingle. Believe me, I understand.

And I’d feel much more comfortable if you’d call me--

Carla. I know. Thank you…Carla. Moze put his cup down. You’re the sister who raised her.

Carla nodded, tipping the coffee cup to her lips for a sip.

I should’ve been here earlier, Carla said just above a whisper. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened. I had car trouble. Transmission. You know, old car. Old truck, actually. It’s all we got. It’s a wonder it ever made it down the mountain. Moze strained to hear the words by the time she got the last sentence out. The fading words seemed to tell of a harrowing experience she might’ve had.

It’s not your fault, Moze started to say but thought better of it. Don’t be too hard on yourself, he said simply.

Now I wonder how I’ll get it back up there, Carla said with a wry snort. She’d verbalized a thought. A pall permeated the room.

Moze tucked his hands inside his pants pockets, shuffled over to the window and closed his eyes, leaving Carla to her own quiet thoughts. The world outside reflected the vacuum they were in—dark, mute, suspended in time and space, with only the dwindling starlight and the fading lop-sided moon to witness the pain and the worry they each felt inside.

She’s so headstrong, Carla said, breaking the silence, as though needing to hear a human voice, if only her own. She fidgeted with the cup as she spoke. I told Dennis not to encourage her...I mean, to leave home. And I told her to forget about the damned screenplay. I knew it would only lead to trouble. Her mouth twitched as she lowered her eyes to the cup. I truly wish I hadn’t been right.

Trouble...like what? Moze turned around, switching off his own private thoughts to give Carla his attention. He studied her. He sensed her need to talk, to keep her mind occupied. He sauntered back toward her, the blue of his eyes turning bluer as his hand reached up to stroke the scar on his cheekbone. It seemed forever before Carla spoke again.

"It started that night she and Robbie went to see ‘Witch Hunt’. Moze's eyebrow lifted. Don’t you go to the movies? Oh, you mean Robbie, her ex-...uhm..."

Moze's Oh was barely audible. You want to tell me about it? I mean, about the movie that started it all.

Rachel never told him this part of the story. It was the secret she obviously did not want to share with him. He was eager to hear Carla’s version. It could very well be the key to Abel’s desperation to kill Rachel.

Carla stared down at the coffee cup in her hand. It had lost the warmth she’d found comforting just a few minutes ago. Her eyes glazed over as though trying to recall.

God, I can’t believe that was only two weeks ago, she said, her voice going softer, closing her eyes with a sigh as her mind reached back in time not so long ago.

CHAPTER 2

Rachel sat at an empty table near the kitchen pouring over a day-old newspaper. Suddenly, leaning forward, closer to the paper…

Sonovab--! she said under her breath, her lips pursing tightly as she finished scanning the words. Her grip on each side had crumpled the newspaper spread out on the table.

She stared at the item for a long time, shutting out the din of boisterous greetings and guffaws breaking out across the room, challenging the country music blaring from the jukebox.

She closed her eyes, her face a mixture of emotions—anger and pain. Hopelessness. A taunting face greeted her on the screen of her mind like an image on a television set.

Hang on to your day job, missy, it said. She could see the sneer that went with the words. She hated the words. And the voice. Especially the voice. It had haunted her for the past three years. Now, just when things felt normal again...

At last she reopened her eyes, shook off voice and image. I’m overreacting, she told herself, rationalizing her dark thoughts. She hadn’t put them all behind after all. All she needed was to see the thumbnail film review in the day-old local papers to dredge it all back up.

Breathe. Think of pleasant things, picnics in the summer, dips in the ice-cold mountain lake with your friends, listening to your favorite song; how it makes you feel when you hear it. That was what Carla told her to do those first few days after coming home from the workshop, when the disappointment, the hurt, and the anger gave way to nightmares at night and made her hard to live with by day.

Right now she couldn’t coax any good thoughts. There didn’t seem to be any floating around. She only knew there would be no relief from her torment until she’d seen the movie. And only if she proved her suspicion wrong.

* * *

BLAM! The double doors to the old Globe Theater burst open with a forceful swoosh that blew a candy wrapper clear off the floor and sent it sliding a couple of feet away where it waffled a bit before settling.

Rachel, face flushed, came storming out, her tangle of long, curly hair trailing behind her like wild streamers. Her lips compressed into a single quivering slash on her face. She fought the hot tears gathering up as she stomped through the small lobby, her scuffed up calf-high boots clacking heavily right through the threadbare carpet that was once a more recognizable brown.

Robbie followed close behind. He’d never seen Rachel that agitated in all the years he’d known her. I knew this was gonna be a mistake, he said, half muttering to himself. Look at you--you’re all gnarled up inside. He took a last drag off his cigarette before flicking it away. You know...that there movie wasn’t half bad. Except I had to listen to you groan and cuss the whole time. Did you have to gripe so loud...and guess at what would happen next?

Rachel didn’t slow down. I didn’t guess. I wrote those scenes--, she said, thumping a fist on her chest for emphasis.

Robbie wasn’t listening. Christ, I can’t blame that guy behind us for threatening to have us thrown out of there. I bet he would’a done it himself if we hadn’t got up and left when we did. He half-ran after the blustering Rachel crossing the street in a huff. Slow down, will you.

Damn him. I hope he rots in hell!

Robbie was getting exasperated. Aw, come on, Rachel. You can’t be sure that’s your story. People come up with the same ideas all the time. Coincidence. That’s all it is.

Coincidence, hell! That there movie we just saw came right out of my script. That was my script, dammit...except maybe for a few minor changes. But not enough to change the story. I knew it ten minutes into the picture. Dirty, lying, cheating bastard. Each word dripped with anger and venom. She stopped for a moment to dig into her jeans pockets for a tissue and blew her nose loudly. "That was my Witch of Morass County, dammit! Remember that trip to Baltimore with Carla?"

Robbie snickered. The one week that homely little critter, Sally Cross, worked double shift for you? He paused for a second. Oh, yeah, and that oversexed-looking gal with the big jugs. What about it?

Robbie Baines, you are disgusting, referring to Gilda that way. Sometimes you can be such a pig. As for Sally, it didn’t hurt her none. She was glad to do it. She needed the money to…something about a surprise for-- She stopped abruptly, her eyes narrowing as she sized up Robbie, a Fonzie clone. She’d never given it much thought before. Now, all of a sudden it annoyed her.

Robbie, reddening, snorted. What, we gonna fight over them two cows now? he said, feigning sarcasm. He was really just trying to keep Rachel from focusing on him. Not that he succeeded, but Rachel could’ve cared less about the two women. She had to rail at someone about something, to blow off steam. And he was "It". She continued grumbling, half to herself.

I stayed up nights for months working my tail off to finish that script so I could send it to him months ahead of time. So he’d have an idea how much of the writing process we ‘wannabes’ knew. Oh yeah, that’s what he called us in the class the whole week—`wannabes’. She tried to keep from sniffling.

Well, you are a ‘wannabe’, ain’tcha?

Rachel ignored the smirk on Robbie’s face. She had stopped listening to him. For three years she had kept it all inside. Now, for the first time, she felt like talking about what happened. Everything spilled out in a torrent.

He said my characters were ‘too white bread.’ Catching the unspoken question in the arch of Robbie’s eyebrow, she added right away, Too goody-goody. I knew he wasn’t crazy about the title. I could’ve changed it. No big deal. If he’d only said something about it. He didn’t have to be so...so...oh, damn him!

She began pacing in a tight circle, occasionally running a hand over her forehead to push away the curlicues off her face. She stared at the sidewalk, lost in thought and roiling emotions. I guess that’s not what he had in mind at all, she said, traces of despondency in her voice.

Robbie’s voice jogged her out of ruminating. He peered into her face, then in a cheery voice said, Well, what you gotta do now is stop griping and stewing and just do something about it. Have a plan. Something, ah, constructive.

Like what, Mister Know-it-all? You think you know all about writing, don’t you? Next you’ll be telling me you can write better’n me.

I might could. Never know, Robbie said, chuckling. Aw, for chrissake Rachel. If it were me he done that to, I’d go punch him in the snot-locker. And he slammed a fist into his other hand. He knew right away that he’d gotten carried away. With a sheepish grin on his face, he ran both hands over his hair. As tough coming up with an idea, said, Go to the...whatchacall... snapping his fingers rapidly.

You mean the ‘WGA’?

He looked at her, his face blank. Huh...?

"The Writers Guild of America. I thought you knew everything?"

Right...what you said. Why the hell not? If you can’t punch him, go to the authorities and tell on him. Sue the bastard. Yeah, you can do that, too. It’s a plan.

Rachel stopped her circular pacing and sat on the curb, shoulders slumping, now in utter defeat. She didn’t speak for a long time. After a while, she sighed and dropped her head on the arms she’d folded on her knees.

Robbie stared at her, perplexed. What? It’s an idea. I can come up with a good idea once in a while.

I never registered the script, Rachel said, her voice barely a whisper, the anger in her suddenly fizzling out like a flame doused with ice water.

What you mean?

I have to prove it’s my work and I can’t do that. I never copyrighted the manuscript.

Robbie’s jaw dropped, his eyes widened, pushing twin arches of dark eyebrows halfway up his forehead to stare at her. Those were not fighting words from her lips. Why, she didn’t even sound like the feisty Rachel he knew. Where was the fiery Rachel arguing with him just moments ago?

So that’s it? You’re quitting? Giving up? Hah! I thought you’re a fighter.

You should’ve heard him. Rachel had become preoccupied with depressing thoughts, thinking them out loud while a faraway look crept into her eyes. The way he tore at my script...it was horrible. And I believed him. After all he was supposed to be the best...the high mucky-muck, the ultimate ‘guru’ of screenwriting gurus!

Robbie turned to her, disbelief in his eyes. Somehow this weak, whimpering side of the spunky girl he thought he knew wasn’t all that attractive.

I got a good mind to go to Hollywood. A petulant, halfhearted threat devoid of conviction. But it made Robbie sit up and stare at her for a moment. Now he was confused. Whiny and threatening, practically in the same breath? A frown creased his forehead.

And do what, go see what’s-his-face? That’s your plan? He got up and, pulling Rachel by the hands, led her toward the old Cougar parked across the street from the theater.

His name is Abel Caprio. What’s wrong with that?

"And what would you say to Mister Abel Caprio? Like, ‘Uh, hey, there, man, Mister Abel Caprio. You know I wrote Witch Hunt.’"

"I wrote it as The Witch of Morass County. I don’t see why not."

Whatever. Anyway, what’ll you say? ‘You damn well better ‘fess up and give me rightful credit for my hard work or...’ Then what? He’d quiver in his boots and say, ‘Well, sure thang, princess...will do, no problemo.‘ And everything would be ju-u-ust fine. Hah! I don’t think so, missy. Not from what I’ve read about them Hollywood folks.

I might could make him see reason, she said, sounding like a resentful, pouting child once more.

Oh, yeah, right, Robbie said, slamming the door shut, before rounding the rear of the car to get to the driver’s side. He watched Rachel buckle up for a moment. Then he reached over to kiss her. C’mere. Forget the damned movie.

Rachel turned her face to deflect the kiss and slumped against the door.

Take me home, please. Her voice was quiet. She didn’t even glance at him, choosing to turn her eyes to the rows of ‘mom and pop’ stores that lined the street instead.

Where was everybody? It was Saturday night, and barely ten o’clock, according to the clocks in the display window of Mister Herman’s clock repair shop. So why was the whole town already locked up tight?

It may have been only in her head, but she had a sudden attack of conscience, finding fault with everything. Why was that? Was it just frustration? With what, Abel Caprio and his version of her screenplay, The Witch of Morass County? Or was she giving voice to what had been on her mind for a while now, maybe even for the past three years? Leave home and...

Leave home. That last thought both surprised and scared her. She was unprepared for it coming out that way. She tried to steer her focus elsewhere, but the thoughts kept coming.

The town routine seemed to stare her in the face now: Taylor’s small grocery store got boarded up by nine o’clock; the Unisex Hare Shop next to the lone First Federal Bank which shut down even earlier. By ten, everything was rolled in and folded up. Except for the movie house and Ozzie Madden’s diner next door to it. Those, too, turned dark and silent as soon as the last customer got up and walked out the door. But that’s how it was in Williamstown. Nothing exciting ever happened. Absolutely nothing. The day came and went like the one before, and the one before that, and so on and so on.

She wished something would happen in Williamstown. Just once. Something different. Maybe a murder. Somebody committing arson. A burglary. Anything. But nooo--it was the same dull thing, day in and day out. Everyday she got out of bed; went to work at Riley’s truck stop at the edge of town; went home when her shift was over and pounded on her typewriter until she could hardly keep her eyes open. Then she went to sleep, only to awaken and do it all over again the next day.

Rachel sighed and settled back. It was worse than she thought: she was dying of boredom. She let out another sigh.

I have a good mind to-- There it was again! She felt her heart beat faster. What was she doing, looking for an excuse to leave...what? Surely not just home. Which, then, the town? The people? The boring life? What’s keeping her? What reason was there to stay? There, in that snug little nest up in a West Virginia mountain, where everybody knew everybody and everything was familiar and uncomplicated? And safe. What a mealy-mouth thought.

They drove in silence for a while until Rachel realized they weren’t heading toward her house anymore. She sat up then, her eyes wary. Robbie had turned into a dirt road. She knew exactly where it went. Another damned boring routine.

Robbie...

Aw, come on, Rachel. Forget the movie, the screenplay, everything. Chuck it to experience. You can always write another. You’ve been writing since grade school.

Rachel wasn’t in the mood for a pep talk. Right now, what she wanted was to lash out at Robbie, cut him with words, the way Abel’s words cut her to the quick three years ago. Just to unleash the wrath that gnawed at her.

Wow, yet another surprising revelation.

What was the matter with her anyway? She was not a mean person. She didn’t care anything about Sally, not about her love life. And she couldn’t care less that it was Robbie she fooled around with. Who’d they think they were kidding anyway—the way Sally followed Robbie around cow-eyed in that funny lovesick way of hers; the way Robbie avoided eye contact with her, looking guilty as hell, when he noticed her watching Sally mooning over him.

She wasn’t ‘in love’ with Robbie. Sometimes she didn’t even like him. Theirs was never a romance. He was just (the thought made her shiver)...there. After high school most of the young men in Williamstown had left home to find a job in New York City, or Chicago, or Washington, D.C. Or, go to college somewhere. She, too, would’ve gone to some college, if Carla and Dennis could’ve afforded it.

Robbie helped take her mind off a lot of things. He made boredom a tad more tolerable. So how did Sally Cross get into the picture? Poor little Sally. She wasn’t important at all. Rachel was merely venting.

I told you I wanted to go home, she said, trying to be firm, only sounding cold, devoid of emotion.

Robbie put an arm around her shoulders and tried to pull her toward him. But we always go to old man Ogden’s pond after a movie. For a little, uh, you know. Why should it be different tonight? You’ve no idea how hot and bothered watching that movie made me. I need cooling off. Hah! So it wasn’t all embarrassment for my behavior inside the theater that made him squirm. I thought a little skinny-dipping this time might, uh, take the edge off.

Rachel pushed him away.

No one’s stopping you. Go back and jump right in...after you take me home.

Don’t be that way, Robbie said, laughing, leaning to kiss her again. Rachel pushed harder. The harder she pushed, the more persistent and playful Robbie got. The car swerved and fishtailed as they scuffled.

Stop it, Robbie, this isn’t funny. Turn this car around and take me home. Right now!

You don’t mean that.

The hell I don’t, she said. She’d had enough of his nonsense. She stopped pushing and made a grab for the steering wheel.

Surprised, Robbie faltered, but quickly regained his composure. A devilish smirk parted his lips. Rachel Winslow had never gotten the better of him before. He was not about to let her now. No siree, bub! Maybe she was only being coy. Maybe she just needed some roughing up before...just for a change, to get her mind off that stupid movie. Seeing Witch Hunt got her pretty worked up. She needed a release. Besides, she’d put him off long enough. Could be his lucky night...at last.

He laughed again. The struggle seemed to exhilarate him. They wrestled for control of the wheel. The car veered crazily.

Stop it, Robbie! You’ll kill us both.

You’re the one gonna kill us.

Once more Robbie jerked the wheel left, out of Rachel’s grip. The car swerved off the dirt road and bumped along on brush and stones and headed straight for a tree.

Rachel panicked. She screamed, then turned to Robbie and slapped him full in the face. Stunned, Robbie jammed his foot on the brakes. His