it would hurt later. God, would it hurt later when adrenaline and fear werenât anesthetizing her.
Run. Run. Run.
He tackled her from behind, taking her down. Her head slammed on the wood floor of the porch, hitting hard, but she tucked and rolled as sheâd been taught, managing to stagger back to her feet before he could grab hold of her again. She turned to race down the five steps leading away from the houseâ
He grabbed her arm, swinging her into a support column with teeth-jarring impact. Several of the little fir trees sheâd decorated yesterday toppled over. Lights, garland, and faux candied fruit bounced down the steps. He pulled her up by her collar, then clamped her throat in a one-handed vise. âStupid. Stupid bitch.â His voice, as always, was chillingly calm. Which made it more frightening and ominous than if heâd been yelling at the top of his lungs. âYou ruined it. You ruined it all.â He smashed the hilt of the knife into her cheekbone. She screamed with the blinding, white-hot pain. Brilliant dots danced in her vision as she struggled to stay conscious. It was a losing battle. There was a fuzzy buzz in her ears, then she slipped into silence.
Minutes, hours, days later, Kendall came to in a rush of cold and bone deep terror. Oh, God. Oh, God. Treadwell had her slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Déjà vu.
They werenât in the front yard. Her hair hung over her face, and she surreptitiously parted the strands. She couldnât see the house. Or the snowplow. Or Joe.
Joe.
Her arm was on fire. The pain intense. Nausea choked her. She heard nothing over the blood pounding in her ears, although the trees must be rustling in the wind, and his boots surely must be making a rhythmic sound as he trudged through the virgin snow.
The wind whipped her hair silently about her head as she hung there like a bat, upside down, almost blinded by the dancing, swirling red strands and the blood rushing to her brain. She forced herself to remain limp. But it wasnât easy. Every fight and flight instinct screamed at her to do something. She wanted to ask him about Joe but didnât dare. She focused on that for a second, reasoning that if Treadwell had killed Joe, heâd have told her as much. Sheâd learned that about him during her captivity. Treadwell liked to regale her with the gory details of past trophies.
She knew she just had to hang on long enough for Joe to realize that Treadwell had her. Just long enough for him to find her. Please God make it soon. Oh, God. Please ⦠Her arm wasnât totally useless. She might not be able to move it, but hot red blood dripped freely from her fingertips onto the pure white snow. She was leaving a trail of blood in Treadwellâs footprints. She could only pray that he didnât look back.
She swallowed convulsively, a blend of bile and terror. She didnât want him to realize she was conscious. She could ⦠would ⦠as soon as ⦠Unfortunately she ruined the element of surprise by puking down his back.
âJesus! You fucking bitch!â Treadwell growled, flinging her off his shoulder so she landed face first in the snow.
He hauled her to her feet, but somehow she managed to break away. Run. Run. Run. She felt as if she was looking through the bottom of a thick glass. Tree branches slapped at her, though sheâd stopped feeling pain long ago. Clutching her arm, she ran. Her life depended on it.
He grabbed her around the neck from behind. She bucked and jerked, leaning her weight to counter his, hoping to slow him down. Keeping her completely off balance, Treadwell dragged her through frozen quicksand toward the tree line. Every time she tried to pull away he found another place to cut her. Her bright yellow coat was trailing ribbons of fabric, many of them now tinged red. She kicked and bit, screaming hoarsely as he took her deeper and deeper into the isolated
Run. Run. Run.
He tackled her from behind, taking her down. Her head slammed on the wood floor of the porch, hitting hard, but she tucked and rolled as sheâd been taught, managing to stagger back to her feet before he could grab hold of her again. She turned to race down the five steps leading away from the houseâ
He grabbed her arm, swinging her into a support column with teeth-jarring impact. Several of the little fir trees sheâd decorated yesterday toppled over. Lights, garland, and faux candied fruit bounced down the steps. He pulled her up by her collar, then clamped her throat in a one-handed vise. âStupid. Stupid bitch.â His voice, as always, was chillingly calm. Which made it more frightening and ominous than if heâd been yelling at the top of his lungs. âYou ruined it. You ruined it all.â He smashed the hilt of the knife into her cheekbone. She screamed with the blinding, white-hot pain. Brilliant dots danced in her vision as she struggled to stay conscious. It was a losing battle. There was a fuzzy buzz in her ears, then she slipped into silence.
Minutes, hours, days later, Kendall came to in a rush of cold and bone deep terror. Oh, God. Oh, God. Treadwell had her slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Déjà vu.
They werenât in the front yard. Her hair hung over her face, and she surreptitiously parted the strands. She couldnât see the house. Or the snowplow. Or Joe.
Joe.
Her arm was on fire. The pain intense. Nausea choked her. She heard nothing over the blood pounding in her ears, although the trees must be rustling in the wind, and his boots surely must be making a rhythmic sound as he trudged through the virgin snow.
The wind whipped her hair silently about her head as she hung there like a bat, upside down, almost blinded by the dancing, swirling red strands and the blood rushing to her brain. She forced herself to remain limp. But it wasnât easy. Every fight and flight instinct screamed at her to do something. She wanted to ask him about Joe but didnât dare. She focused on that for a second, reasoning that if Treadwell had killed Joe, heâd have told her as much. Sheâd learned that about him during her captivity. Treadwell liked to regale her with the gory details of past trophies.
She knew she just had to hang on long enough for Joe to realize that Treadwell had her. Just long enough for him to find her. Please God make it soon. Oh, God. Please ⦠Her arm wasnât totally useless. She might not be able to move it, but hot red blood dripped freely from her fingertips onto the pure white snow. She was leaving a trail of blood in Treadwellâs footprints. She could only pray that he didnât look back.
She swallowed convulsively, a blend of bile and terror. She didnât want him to realize she was conscious. She could ⦠would ⦠as soon as ⦠Unfortunately she ruined the element of surprise by puking down his back.
âJesus! You fucking bitch!â Treadwell growled, flinging her off his shoulder so she landed face first in the snow.
He hauled her to her feet, but somehow she managed to break away. Run. Run. Run. She felt as if she was looking through the bottom of a thick glass. Tree branches slapped at her, though sheâd stopped feeling pain long ago. Clutching her arm, she ran. Her life depended on it.
He grabbed her around the neck from behind. She bucked and jerked, leaning her weight to counter his, hoping to slow him down. Keeping her completely off balance, Treadwell dragged her through frozen quicksand toward the tree line. Every time she tried to pull away he found another place to cut her. Her bright yellow coat was trailing ribbons of fabric, many of them now tinged red. She kicked and bit, screaming hoarsely as he took her deeper and deeper into the isolated
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