Programmed for Peril

Norrington’s office, introduced herself as Carole Sieber, and spoke with his nurse. She explained how the tests were conducted and how much they cost. “Of course, we have to have a tissue sample from the child and the two men involved.” Trish groaned. Ron was more than three years in his grave.
    Over weeks Carson’s broodings extended themselves. As they did his control over her eased. She came and went more freely, using Melody as an excuse for one errand or another. It was during this time that she revisited Dr. Norrington’s office. In three envelopes she carried hair: Melody’s, Carson’s, and, from the deepest recesses of her memory trunk, the lock snipped from Ron’s head as a souvenir of love. The nurse looked carefully at the three samples. “I’m betting on the redhead,” she said cheerily. When tears leaked down Trish’s cheeks the woman apologized, blushing.
    Two weeks later Trish personally got the test results— guaranteed accurate. Her dream came true. Ron was Melody’s father! The hair? “Recessive genes on both sides, maybe,” the nurse said. “Happens sometimes.”
    She walked out of the office, half liberated. Nothing held her to Carson now but the bonds woven by domination. She Would break them cold turkey. First, though, she had to escape her master.
    She began to execute a plan for a clean getaway. Her intuition suggested more violent changes would soon occur m Carson’s personality. He was already turning his newfound hostility against those with whom he did business Jethro DuMont, the check-bearer, became a target. During his last visit the two had argued loudly, spurred by Carson’s intransigence.
    She felt she didn’t have much time.
    She phoned a distant travel agency and requested all their material on Alaska. When it arrived in the mail she hid it in a niche inside an A/C outlet. She mail-ordered an auburn wig, stashed it beside the brochures. That was the easy part. The rest would be more difficult. With cotton jammed between gums and cheeks, wig in place above sunglasses, she cruised neighboring communities. At last she made a friend at a mall supermarket thirty-five miles from Castle Carson. Eileen, a black-haired part-time checkout girl, was Trish’s height. Without her thick glasses she might well... do.
    Trish worked hard to develop the friendship, found Eileen to be perfect—a free spirit fond of travel but short of money. When they met occasionally Eileen was always happy when her auburn-haired friend Carole picked up the check. At the right moment Trish explained how Eileen could be a big help to her. Understand, Eileen, I’m married to a man whose five stepchildren I’m raising. He beats me. I have a lover who just left the area to make a new start. When he calls I have to be ready to go—right then! This is how you can help me, and this is what’s in it for you....
    She had to wait, then, for Carson’s deteriorating personality to lead to a crisis. The next visit of Jethro DuMont provided it. She huddled in hearing distance as their quarrel climbed to the shouting level. Carson began to howl long and low like an enraged animal. She tensed and clenched her teeth. Doors slammed. DuMont’s voice rose still higher. Carson’s pistol snapped like a whip. Trish whimpered. Jethro’s meaty shout was followed by his heavy running footsteps.
    This was her chance. She flew to her hiding niche. She donned the wig and sunglasses, inserted the cotton pads under her cheeks. She pulled out the cache of Alaska materials and hid it in one of her closets, where Carson would eventually find it. On the floor sat the getaway sack purse she had carefully filled in preparation for just this moment. She snatched it up. That left her other arm free to wrap around Melody’s waist. She slipped out into the carport, got behind the wheel of the convertible. She saw the flash of Carson’s pistol off to the right. She started the engine and flew out of the carport in reverse. She spun the wheel and shot up the drive. The house was between her and the two men. In minutes she was on the road, the only sounds those of the engine and a sleepy daughter’s questions. She sped to a pay phone and dialed Eileen’s number. “Now. Tonight! Yeah, at the L.A. airport. Meet you where we decided.”
    At the airport she paid cash for four tickets. One-way on the next flight to Fairbanks for Patricia Morley, who would be Eileen. An open-ended return for Eileen, real name. Enjoy! It was