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back and forth over it, disregarding the rough edges that scraped her wrists. Nothing worked. Despairing, beyond caring if she hurt herself, she yanked once more with all her strength. And, miracle of miracles, she finally felt something give. Something – a strap, a knot – had slipped or broken. The bonds were definitely looser. A few more yanks and she might be free.
    Sweating, praying, Summer gave a mighty heave – and glanced up to find the madman coming around the side of the building toward her. There was no mistaking his identity. Even through the darkness, she recognized him instantly. Part of it was his distinctive gait, and part of it was pure instinct.
    As his presence registered on her consciousness, she froze, then gave up the fight. Oh, God, she had only needed a few minutes more. Just a few minutes more, and she would have been free.
    In the brief time he’d been gone, he seemed to have acquired clothes. Flip-flops, cutoff jeans, and a tight black T-shirt with some kind of writing on the front that she couldn’t quite read through the darkness. Something about a dog?
    Not that it mattered. He was back, and she was still tethered. She’d blown what was probably her best chance to escape. She was at his mercy again.
    Defeated, Summer slumped, letting her head loll forward until her chin brushed her chest. A lamb for his slaughter, that was what she was. The worst part of it was, at that instant she didn’t even particularly care.
    The distinctive smell of him – kerosene and body odor – made her stomach heave as he moved around behind her. He did something to the bindings on her wrists, and suddenly they were free. Whatever he did was so quick, so easy, that it didn’t seem possible she could have struggled as hard as she had without achieving the same results, Summer thought resentfully as she brought her bruised and tingling hands forward to rub them. He reached down to pull the blouse from her mouth. The moist membranes seemed to have adhered to the nylon, and she could almost feel them rip as the wadded cloth was abruptly removed.
    Her jaws ached in the aftermath of its going. Her tongue felt dry and swollen. As she moved her mouth, testing to be sure it still worked, she discovered that her lips were numb. She swallowed once, twice. It didn’t seem to help. Nothing seemed to help.
    Behind her, she heard a squeak and then the rush of water. At the sound, saliva flooded her mouth. She glanced back to discover that he was sluicing his face with water from the faucet. She craved the taste of it like an alcoholic might liquor. Partially turning, reaching out an unsteady hand, she caught some in her palm, raised it to her mouth, and swallowed. The icy liquid felt wonderful to her dry throat and tongue. She reached for more, only to have him turn the water off.
    How could she have forgotten? She was helpless, defenseless, at his mercy. He could even decide how much and when she would drink. Her chin sank to her chest again in an attitude of total despair. Dully she watched her mangled bra and blouse land in a bundled heap on her knees, then roll to the grass, where they spilled apart.
    „Get dressed. Hurry.“
    Summer, still wallowing in the psychic quagmire of defeat, didn’t move. When she didn’t instantly respond, he grabbed her hair, jerked her head back, and waved the scalpel in front of her face.
    „Did you hear me? I said hurry.“
    The sight of the scalpel frightened her, and fright reawakened her survival instinct. The will to live pumped with renewed force through her veins. She reached out, fumbling for her clothes, and he let go of her hair. Still he loomed over her threateningly. She could feel him watching her as she pulled on her bra – one shoulder strap was broken – and clipped it together between her breasts after several abortive tries. Sliding her arms into the damp, wrinkled mess of her blouse, she managed to fasten three of its buttons despite fingers that shook. As she