One Cold Night

of cold that didn’t come from weather.
    The footsteps got louder, then stopped. Lisa heard a rattling of keys. One slid into the trunk lock and turned. Metal popped.
    A horizontal thread of light broadened into a band, dragging open a bright, blinding space. He was all silhouette, all shadow swallowed by light, standing in front of her with one hand high on the trunk door. The fast light hurt her eyes, but she wouldn’t cover them, because she had a feeling he wanted her to. She had a feeling he craved her fear. She wished she knew karate, or how to dematerialize, or could fly, because then she could zip right past him and get away.
    Behind him a cloud passed over the sun and she saw him. In the daylight he looked older than last night in the dark, with pasty skin sagging around droopy blue eyes. His thinning blond hair covered a shiny bald spot.
    When he reached into the trunk, she flinched, but his fingertips on her face felt soft. Up close she noticed his nails were dirty. There was a trace of yellow paint embedded in the lines of his forefinger’s skin.
    “Hello, baby,” he said to her in a voice dry and grainy as sand.
    I’m not a baby, Dickwad, in case you didn’t notice.
    She said nothing.
    “Let’s get you out of there.”
    He gripped her arm and tugged her out. She had figured he would come at her with the gun or an ax or something right away and her adrenaline would be pumping and she’d fight like hell, but it seemed this was going to be a different kind of battle.
    “I hope you weren’t too uncomfortable in there, honey.”
    Oh, boy, he was nuts.
    “Not too bad,” she answered sweetly.
    They were somewhere in the deep countryside, at the end of a dirt road that emerged from woods into a clearing of grass. Set back on the lawn was a medium house with a wraparound veranda and a wicker swing. It looked like a commercial: perfect, welcoming and white.
    He kept a tight grip on her arm. As he walked her toward the house, she thought about bolting. Then she thought of the rusty gun. It was so quiet here; they seemed to be all alone. If there was somewhere to run, she couldn’t see it through the trees. But shouldn’t shedo it anyway? Did it matter where she went, or even if she was shot, so long as she got away from him before he got her into that house? She realized that she had no idea what to do and would have to improvise.
    “What a pretty place,” she said.
    “Do you like it?” He stopped pulling her and they stood still, looking at the house. It probably was a nice house, but all she saw was a house she didn’t want to enter.
    “Is it yours?”
    He didn’t say anything, and Lisa wished she had answered differently, something simple like, “Yes, I like it,” instead of answering a question with a question. It was one of her many bad habits. Her best friend, Glory, had once told her that she had a tactless habit of blurting out whatever was on her mind and asking too many personal questions.
    “I like it,” she corrected herself.
    “It’s nice inside, too.” He began to tug her along again, closer to the front steps of the house.
    Lisa began to cough violently. “I have allergies,” she said. She buckled over at the waist, hacking like she’d been around a high-dander cat — that was her only allergy; trees had never bothered her — but he still held tightly to her arm. Immediately she wondered why she had chosen allergies when she might have used something contagious, like the flu, or better yet, HIV. Something that would have made him feel disgusted and afraid; something to give her a little power.
    “I have allergies, too!” The coincidence seemed to please him. “Allergies, eczema, the works — I’m a mess. I have an inhaler in the house; you can use it.”
    She began to feel nauseated. The house sat to their left, the car to their right, and behind them — woods.She wasn’t sure if running into the woods would be a good or bad idea, but she had to go somewhere.
    “I’m feeling a little better.” She demonstrated with a deep breath. “Sometimes it comes and goes, just like that.”
    “I’m glad it passed,” he said. “Mine usually last longer.”
    “Could we stay outside? The fresh air helps a lot.”
    Ignoring her request, he gently laid his free hand on her shoulder, still gripping her tightly with the other hand. “Lisa.” His voice was pliable as licorice; sweet and twisted, the black kind. “Lisa, I have to ask you something.”
    How did he know