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here. Until then, promise me, Henry, that you will do nothing to disturb the serenity of our stay .”
    “ Let go of me. Please .”
    “ Promise ?”
    “ Yes .”
    Weinberg patted his cheek. “ Thank you, Henry .”
    Lisa heard banging. First a door, slamming. Then mut tered curses. Then things being thrown. A face came into view. Her eyes were slow to focus but she knew from the deep tan and the color of the shirt that it was the jogger.
    “ You little cunt ,” she heard him say. His fist was raised as if to strike her. But he did not. Instead, the hand lowered, slowly. She felt it on her hip. It moved to her stomach, her chest, feeling her through the cotton blanket. And the face was changing. The anger was gone. Some thing else in its place.
    Henry Dunville had made a decision.
    Now she felt him unstrapping her. First her ankles, then her wrists, then, last, her head. It had been held in place with a belt wrapped in thick terry cloth. More rolled up towels had been packed against her temples. She was free now. She raised one arm. It felt so heavy. She let it fall. The fingers seemed to work but not the arm.
    She felt his hands reaching under her, lifting her. The blanket fell away. She was out of the light now. She could see better. The ceiling turned and she felt herself being lowered onto something cold. She felt its texture. A leather couch. He stood over her. He was only a shadow now against the light but she could see that he was undoing his clothing. His trousers fell. His belt buckle struck the

floor. He stepped out of them. The shadow lowered itself on her. She screamed, cursing him.
    A door opened. A woman's voice. The pock-marked one. No, she shouted. Don't do that. He turned his head. Get out, he said. Right now. Out. The door slammed. Angry words from outside it.
    She felt him trying to enter her. Roughly. Clumsily. She made herself relax so that it would not hurt so much. Yes. That was better. She felt herself becoming moist. He felt it as well. He entered her.
    She listened, her face turned away, as his breathing became rapid. She felt him raise himself on his elbows. His hands, which had gripped her shoulders, now moved to her throat. It frightened her. She looked into his face, saw his eyes searching her own, and she knew what he intended. She closed her eyes, tightly.
    Car l a, she thought, desperately.
    What would Carla do?
    She would use her teeth. Tear at his face. Bite into his neck with a pit bull's death grip. Drive the heel of her hand against his nose. But she could do none of these. She still had no strength. Except . . . except in her fingers.
    “ Open your eyes ,” he gasped, softly. “ Look at me .”
    She squeezed them harder. She felt one hand come free from her throat. It slapped her, viciously.
    “ Open them ,” he snarled. “ Open them wide .”
    T he eyes, she thought. Yes.
    She obeyed. She let him peer into the light that he wanted to watch as it flickered and died. The hand that had slapped her returned to her throat, joining the other. His grip tightened. He quickened his thrust. He was coming.
    She saw her own right hand. She willed it to stop float ing, to make a fist, thumb extended, to strike at his eye.
    He shrieked.
    Drive deep, she said in her mind.
    She watched, almost curiously, as her long thumbnail felt its way, sinking in to half its length. Blood spat from his eye. She felt it on her face. More shrieking. His hand clawed at her arm. His other hand, now a fist, tried to hammer at her face but his body slipped on the wetness between them and the blow glanced off her forehead. He steadied himself. Again he seized her by the neck. She felt his thumbs pressing, digging, much deeper than before. Something ruptured inside her throat. She heard it. And now more sounds. The door again, slam ming open.
    She heard , through a wall of pain and flashing lights, a woman's voice. A different one. This new woman was shouting, kicking at the jogger's ribs. She was trying to