Programmed for Peril

Trish.”
    “I’m not being difficult.” She leaned closer. “How much longer do you think it’ll be until I’m buried alive instead of Samantha Swords? If not that, then something like it. Don’t you see what Carson’s doing? He’s escalating—that awful word.”
    “How can you be sure what that... madman will do?”
    “If it takes my blood flowing for him to have his way, then he’ll wound me. Count on it!”
    Foster made a face. “I have no idea how to protect you. Isn’t that a job for the police?”
    “No! It’s a job for you. I need you.” She knew she was being unfair. She couldn’t help it. It was her nerves. It was Carson. It was everything! Most of all it was her relationship with Foster slowly unraveling under the picking finger of Carson’s devilish genius. When Foster looked at her now he saw not who she had grown to be but who she had been when the loathsome videotape had been made. Her disappointment over his failure of perception was deepened by his single effort to physically degrade her in turn. Her defeat of his attempt to pursue Carson’s skewed erotic ghost had staked out her fiancé’s limitations like a mining claim.
    The discussion of her plea for protection somehow drifted toward an argument. They had disagreed so seldom before! From her side, the pressure of Carson’s determination had tattered her nerves. From Foster’s? In time it came to her.
    He was afraid.
    With his fear came a need he didn’t fully grasp—to distance himself from her. That way he might avoid Carson’s terrifying attentions. In her present emotional condition she couldn’t trust herself not to speak her mind. She broke off their budding dispute, using Melody’s schedule as an excuse.
    From the kennel driveway she spotted Foster in the rental car’s rearview. She watched his figure recede in the distance and wondered if he was receding as well from his central point in her life to some dim, distant promontory.
    Grandma and Stoneman Gore were taking Melody shopping that evening. Better they than Trish, who hated stores and always grew impatient. After shopping expeditions Marylou always served milk shakes and demanded a performance on one or more of her granddaughter’s instruments. Melody the ham was more than happy to cooperate and then sleep over. She, at least, was going to have a good evening.
    Trish had to spend hers at PC-Pros. She was so far behind in her work that she could make no decisions about her company’s future until she gathered data and ran some spread sheets. Then she had to look at invoices to figure out whom to pay or stall. She had never enjoyed being in the building at night alone, and with all that had been happening, tonight it was worse. Every click or rap of metal cooling after a late July day’s heat made her repeatedly start and jerk her head up from the PC screen.
    She used Michelle’s work station. The area had no windows. She’d rather no one saw her from the street. She had been working for better than a hour when she heard a muted clatter from the lab. Probably a tool falling to the floor. She tried to convince herself it was nothing, but she needed to check just the same.
    She went through the open doorway leading to the cubicles. A touch of the light switch illuminated the deserted area. Through waist-high windows in the far wall she saw the laboratory, heavily shadowed at 10:30 P.M. Its door was open. A sweep of cool air swirled down from the overhead vent. The unit’s kicking in had probably started a draft that had rolled a tool to the floor. She moved ahead, paused momentarily at the doorway, then went in, hand groping for the light switch. She flicked it.
    The lights didn’t go on.
    She turned back to the cubicle area.
    All the lights winked off.
    There was someone there!
    Panic lunged up like a grizzly. Her cry was muffled, choked. The lab’s emergency door opened directly outdoors. She wouldn’t leave the way she had come. No way! She was getting out of there—now! She ran full speed for the door.
    She never saw what was thrust out between her pumping legs. She tripped, sprawled, screaming. They were in here, too! Strong hands jammed cloth into her mouth. In seconds her hands were taped behind her. Then her ankles. Two men! She thought of Samantha buried alive. Was it her turn now? She bleated into the gag and heaved wildly. She trembled with fear. For an instant she thought she might lose control of herself, as Samantha had done.
    A