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working the lock. Click. Open. She pulled up the door handle.
    The sharp point of the knife dug into her ribs. “Car died a few miles back. I need a lift.”
    Could she get into the car and away before he stabbed her?  Or maybe only stabbed a little?
    The point pressed into the soft flesh of her waist. “Uh...sure. Where do you need to go?”
    “South.” The knife moved away. “Get in the car, but don’t start it.”
    Right. She opened the door and heard the click of a rifle safety.
    Had he turned it on or off?
    “Don’t do anything stupid.”
    Off.
    She sat in the driver’s seat and looked in the rear-view mirror, hoping to see a car— preferably a police car—coming rapidly down the road. Nothing but swirling dust devils. In the reflection, her gray eyes stood out in her wan face, limp blonde hair plastered to her head.
    Her life would end before she had a chance to live it. Typical. She’d be buried in a shallow grave in nowhere Nevada, dug up by coyotes…
    The rear door squealed open. Eli tossed a faded blue backpack in the back seat and closed the door. His movements were measured, deliberate. The car settled as he lowered himself onto the passenger seat and placed the rifle next to his right leg, the Bowie knife on his lap.
    “Okay,   drive south,” he said almost pleasantly. “Don’t do anything stupid or I’ll gut you like a pig.”
    She swallowed, nodded and started the car, the image of the hilt of the Bowie knife sticking from her stomach firmly implanted in her mind. The macadam hummed under the wheels of the car as she increased her speed on the highway, her thoughts churning as fast as the engine.
    How the hell had she wound up in this predicament? Was there any chance she would get out of it alive?
    Not with her luck.
    She flicked her eyes at the man sitting next to her. He was staring at the road, humming a tuneless series of notes. What were his intentions?
    Not good.
    Brent had been right to break up with her. She was just a dumb blonde with a useless degree in American History.
    “Is that your knife?” she blurted out.
    “Is now.”
    “Why is it bloody?  I mean…did you kill an animal or something?”
    “More like the ‘or something.’”  He tapped it on his leg.
    “It looks old. Must be pretty valuable.” Maybe she could distract him with her superior arcane knowledge.
    Then what?
    The sun glinted on the clean parts of the blade when he held it up. “One of my wife’s favorite possessions.  She swore it was made by old Jim Bowie himself.”
    Laurie looked over at her passenger. The expression on his face chilled her.
    Eli must have felt her glance. “Oh, no need to worry about my wife anymore. She’s dead to me now.” He placed his hand on Laurie’s thigh. “But a man has certain needs, you know. And with you being such a pretty young thing, I’m sure you’ll do nicely.”
    Laurie was going to throw up.
    A few hours later Eli said, “Turn here.”
    Laurie took the turn. How long before they reached their destination? She was exhausted from the unrelenting sun and hot wind, Eli’s disgusting hand on her leg, and the tension of not knowing when or how she would die.
    The condition of the roads they’d traveled had deteriorated and now they were down to dirt.
    “I’m not sure this car will make it,” she said as they followed the road up to a ridge.
    “Longer to walk if it doesn’t.” He tapped the knife on his leg.
    He’d probably rape her before he killed her.
    Unless a miracle occurred.
    If only this had been a script from one of her father’s television westerns. The hero would arrive in the nick of time and carry her off in the sunset.
    But she’d never really liked the heroes on her father’s sets. They’d never had time for the producer’s little girl. 
    Instead, the stunt men had been her playmates, teaching her to ride, lasso a wooden cow, and shoot cans off a fence rail.
    A clunk took her out of her reverie.
    “Damn it! Watch what you’re