Dark Lie (9781101607084) by Nancy; Springer Page B

thing. Could I have a recent photograph of your wife?”
    â€œUm . . .”
    Officer Chappell stared at him, puzzled, as if it should have been the easiest thing in the world for him to produce a photo of Dorrie.
    â€œUm, I guess she’s kind of camera shy,” Sam said slowly, trying to explain to her as well as to himself why there weren’t any recent photos of Dorrie in the house. “And we aren’t the kind to go snapping away with cell phones.” Neither of them had a cell phone that did anything except phone. “I might be able to get a photo of her from somebody else.”
    â€œPlease do. As soon as possible.” After frowning at him for a moment, either in thought or disapproval, Officer Chappell ran downstairs and out the door.
    Sam flicked off the upstairs lights, descended the stairs more slowly, sat on the edge of the sofa, and cradled his head in his hands for a moment before reaching for the phone.

SIX
    â€œR un!” I screamed again. “Juliet,
run
! Get away!”
    She’d flung the van door open but seemed to be struggling to get out of her seat.
    Flicking my flashlight on, I hustled around there to see what was the problem.
    At my first sight of her sweating, straining face, her frightened eyes . . . But there was no time for anything I was feeling.
    â€œHe’s got the seat belt rigged to lock.” Like a wounded deer she looked up at me, hair coming undone and hanging in her face, the whites of her eyes flashing. “I can’t get out.”
    â€œOh, God . . .” I handed her the flashlight, groped for my purse, and yes, it was still there hanging from my arm; it had come along with me like an appendage of an appendage. I ripped it open and started rooting like a bear, hoping for something, anything, a nail file maybe, that could cut through a seat belt. Wallet, tube of sunscreen, address book, appointment book, checkbook, Tylenol, paste foundation to tone down the rash on my face, lupus meds, ballpoint pens, coupon folder, roll of Tums, loose change—why did I have to be so asininely afraid of knives that I kept “losing” the cute little penknives Sam kept giving me? Damn, there had to be
something
—
    Silence fell like a guillotine as the tire pump stopped.
    And in the silence I could hear someone moving on the other side of the van. Him.
    Boots scuffed in gravel. Through the windows of the van I saw him struggling to his feet. I’d hit him as hard as I could, but it hadn’t been hard enough.
    â€œYou go,” Juliet whispered to me frantically. “Go, run, hurry, get help.”
    I shook my head. “No way am I leaving you.” I took the flashlight back and wrenched open the sliding side door of the van, looking for the heavy wooden cane with which the abductor had clubbed Juliet over the head, but I saw no sign of it.
    Footsteps crunched toward me.
    I heaved myself into the van.
    Lurching onto the rear seat, I didn’t stop there; it would be too easy for him to reach in and dislodge me. I slid on over, then down, to the floor, stuffing my large self sideward behind the driver’s seat, with my back against the van’s wall. I turned the flashlight off and hid it behind my butt. Darkness would be better; I did not want him to see me trembling.
    Nor did I want to see him. Ever. Never again. Quivering, I folded my arms over my purse, clutching it to my heart like a shield.
    I looked up.
    He stood, a shadowy presence, at the van’s side door, the wicked sheen of a knife in his hand. All I could see was that blade hovering bright in the darkness like a Cheshire cat’s grin. Every detail. Shining steel, maybe eight inches, honed to a razor edge on its curved side. The groove defining its gray spine—not just a pocketknife’s fingernail groove; this was a blood groove. Evil, that blade, meant to stab, slash, kill. Even the edge that did not cut, its back,