Blood Price

whisper, but it was all she could manage.

    Norman turned. "Yes?"

    "I was wondering ..." Swallow. Ride the pain. Continue. ". . . if I could have my glasses."
    Breathe, two, three, while Norman waits patiently. He isn't going anywhere, after all. "Without them, I can't see what you're doing."

    "Oh." She could almost hear his brow furrow even though she couldn't see it. "It only seems fair you should get to see this."

    He trotted out of her line of sight and she closed her eyes for a moment to rest them. Only seems fair? Well, I suppose I should be happy he doesn't want to waste front row seats.

    "Here." He squatted down and very carefully slid the plastic arms back over her ears, settling the bridge gently on her nose. "Better?"

    Vicki blinked as the intricate stitching on his black cowboy boot came suddenly into focus.
    "Much. Thank you." Up close, and considering the features without the expression, he wasn't an unattractive young man. A bit on the thin and gawky side perhaps, but time would take care of both. Time that none of them had, thanks to Norman Birdwell.

    "Good." He patted her cheek and the touch, light as it was sent ripples of pain through her head. "I'll tell you what I told her. If you scream, or make any loud noise, I'll kill you both."

    "I'm going to go do my teeth now," he continued, straightening up. "I brush after everything I eat." He pulled what looked to be a thick pen out of the pocket protector and unscrewed the cap.
    It turned out to be a portable toothbrush, with paste in the handle. "You should get one of these,"
    he told her, demonstrating how it worked, his tone self-righteously smug. " I've never had a filling."

    Fortunately, he didn't wait for a reply.

    Some lucky providence had put Coreen directly across the small room, making it thankfully unnecessary for Vicki to move her head. She studied the younger woman for a few seconds, noting the red patch on one pale cheek. Even with her glasses, she seemed to be having trouble focusing. "Are you all right?" she called quietly.

    "What do you think?" Coreen didn't bother to modulate her voice. "I'm tied to one of Norman Birdwell's kitchen chairs-with socks!"

    Vicki dropped her gaze. At least six socks per leg tied Coreen to the chrome legs of the kitchen chair. Gray and black and brown nylon socks, stretched to their limit and impossible to break. Intrigued, in spite of everything, she gave her own bonds an experimental tug; they didn't respond like socks. As it seemed safer than moving her head, she slid her arms up along the floor until she could see them. Ties. At least four, maybe five-the swirling leaps of paisley and the jarring clashes of color made it difficult to tell for sure-and while it might have had more to do with her own weakness than Norman's skill, for she doubted he'd ever been a boy scout, he certainly seemed to know his knots.

    "You were about to jump him, weren't you?"

    "What?" Vicki looked up and wished she hadn't as her body protested with alternating waves of dizziness and nausea.

    "When we came into the apartment and I . . . I mean. . . . Well, I'm sorry."

    It sounded more like a challenge than an apology. "Don't worry about it now." Vicki swallowed, trying not to add to the puddle of drool collecting under her cheek. "Let's just try . . .
    to get out of this mess."

    "What do you think I've been trying to do?" Coreen gave a frantic heave that only resulted in bouncing the chair backward less than half an inch. "I don't believe this! I really don't believe this!"

    Hearing the tones of incipient panic, Vicki, in the driest voice she was capable of, said, "It is a little like . . . Alfred Hitchcock does Revenge of the Nerds . "

    Coreen stared at her in astonishment, sniffed, and grinned somewhat shakily. "Or David Cronneberg does I Dream of Genie , " she offered in return.

    Good girl. It took all the energy Vicki had left to smile approvingly. While there were dangers in Coreen not taking Norman seriously, the dangers were greater if the girl fell apart.

    Struggling did more damage to her than to the ties. She kept struggling anyway. If the world had to end, she'd be damned if she let it go down under the ridiculously high, cowboy booted heel of Norman Birdwell, adding insult to injury.

    * * *
    "Enough!" Henry spun away from the window and hurled himself toward the door. He had a name, he had a place, it was time he joined the hunt. "I should never have waited this long."

    At the door, he slowed,