Mind Prey

THE doors slide on the van behind her; felt the presence of the man, the motion. Automatically began to smile, turning.
    Heard Genevieve grunt, turned and saw the strange round head coming for her, the mop of dirty-blond hair.
    Saw the road-map lines buried in a face much too young for them.
    Saw the teeth, and the spit, and the hands like clubs.
    Andi screamed, “Run.”
    And the man hit her in the face.
    She saw the blow coming but was unable to turn away. The impact smashed her against her car door, and she slid down it, her knees going out.
    She didn’t feel the blow as pain, only as impact, the fist on her face, the car on her back. She felt the man turning, felt blood on her skin, smelled the worms of the pavement as she hit it, the rough, wet blacktop on the palms of her hands, thought crazily—for just the torn half of an instant—about ruining her suit, felt the man step away.
    She tried to scream “Run” again, but the word came out as a groan, and she felt—maybe saw, maybe not—the man moving on Genevieve, and she tried to scream again, to say something, anything, and blood bubbled out of her nose and the pain hit her, a blinding, wrenching pain like fire on her face.
    And in the distance, she heard Genevieve scream, and she tried to push up. A hand pulled at her coat, lifting her, and she flew through the air, to crash against a sheet of metal. She rolled again, facedown, tried to get her knees beneath her, and heard a car door slam.
    Half-sensible, Andi rolled, eyes wild, saw Genevieve in a heap, and bloody from head to toe. She reached out to her daughter, who sat up, eyes bright. Andi tried to stop her, then realized that it wasn’t blood that stained her red, it was something else: and Genevieve, inches away, screamed, “Momma, you’re bleeding…”
    Van , she thought.
    They were in the van. She figured that out, pulled herself to her knees, and was thrown back down as the van screeched out of the parking place.
    Grace will see us , she thought.
    She struggled up again, and again was knocked down, this time as the van swung left and braked. The driver’s door opened and light flooded in, and she heard a shout, and the doors opened on the side of the truck, and Grace came headlong through the opening, landing on Genevieve, her white dress stained the same rusty red as the truck.
    The doors slammed again; and the van roared out of the parking lot.
    Andi got to her knees, arms flailing, trying to make sense of it: Grace screaming, Genevieve wailing, the red stuff all over them.
    And she knew from the smell and taste of it that she was bleeding. She turned and saw the bulk of the man in the driver’s seat behind a chain-link mesh. She shouted at him, “Stop, stop it. Stop it,” but the driver paid no attention, took a corner, took another.
    “Momma, I’m hurt,” Genevieve said. Andi turned back to her daughters, who were on their hands and knees. Grace had a sad, hound-dog look on her face; she’d known this man would come for her someday.
    Andi looked at the van doors, for a way out, but metal plates had been screwed over the spot where the handles must’ve been. She rolled back and kicked at the door with all her strength, but the door wouldn’t budge. She kicked again, and again, her long legs lashing out. Then Grace kicked and Genevieve kicked and nothing moved, and Genevieve began screeching, screeching. Andi kicked until she felt faint from the effort, and she said to Grace, panting, three or four times, “We’ve got to get out, we’ve got to get out, get out, get out…”
    And the man in the front seat began to laugh, a loud, carnival-ride laughter that rolled over Genevieve’s screams; the laughter eventually silenced them and they saw his eyes in the rearview mirror and he said, “You won’t get out. I made sure of that. I know all about doors without handles.”
    That was the first time they’d heard his voice, and the girls shrank back from it. Andi swayed to her feet, crouched under the low roof, realized that she’d lost her shoes—and her purse. Her purse was there on the passenger seat, in front. How had it gotten there? She tried to steady herself by clinging to the mesh screen, and kicked at the side window. Her heel connected and the glass cracked.
    The van swerved to the side, braking, and the man in front turned, violent anger in his voice, and held up a black .45 and said, “You break my fuckin’ window and I’ll kill the fuckin’ kids.”
    She