Strangers

me go."
        "Wish I could." His face defined remorse. "Take off your coat."
        Buying time while she arrived at a course of action, Ginger slowly unbuttoned the coat. Her hands were shaking, but she exaggerated those genuine tremors and fumbled with the buttons. At last she shrugged out of the coat and let it drop to the floor.
        He stepped closer. The pistol was only inches from her chest. He was more relaxed, holding the gun less rigidly than before, thrusting it forward less aggressively, though he was by no means lax with it.
        "Please don't hurt me." She continued to beg because, if he thought she was nearly paralyzed with abject fear, he might slip up and give her an opportunity for escape.
        "I don't want to hurt you," he said, as if deeply offended by the implication that he had any choice in the matter. "Didn't want to hurt him, either. That old fool was responsible for this. Not me. Listen, I'll make it as painless as I can. I promise you that."
        Still holding the gun in his right hand, he used his left hand to touch her breasts through her sweater. She endured his fondling because he might become careless as he grew aroused. In spite of his claims that his empathy would render him impotent, Ginger was certain he'd have no difficulty raping her. Beneath his regret and sympathy, beneath the sensitivity he wished to project more for his own benefit than for hers, he was taking an unconscious savage pleasure in what he had done and would do. In spite of his gentle voice, violence burned in every word he spoke; he stank of violence.
        He said, "Very pretty. Petite yet so nicely built." He slipped his hand under her sweater, gripped her bra, gave it a hard yank that broke it. As elastic snapped, the bra straps dug painfully into her shoulders; the metal clasp at her back bit the skin. He grimaced as if her pain was transmitted to him. "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you? I didn't mean it. I'll be more careful." He pushed aside the ruined brassiere and put his cool, clammy hand on her bare breasts.
        Filled equally with terror and revulsion, Ginger pressed back even harder against the bookshelves, which jabbed painfully into her back. The gunman was less than an arm's length away from her now, but he kept the pistol between them. The muzzle was pressed coldly against her bare midriff, leaving her no room to maneuver. If she tried to twist free of him, she would be gut-shot for her temerity.
        Fondling her, he continued to speak softly and to express great sadness at the necessity of raping and killing her, as though she simply must understand, as though it would be unthinkably cruel of her not to bestow upon him full absolution for the sin of taking her life.
        With nowhere to run, with his monotonous self-justifications washing over her in numbing waves of words, subjected to his groping hand, Ginger was gripped by a claustrophobia so intense she felt the urge to claw at him and force him to pull the trigger, just to end it. His Certs-scented breath had a cloying minty aroma that, by its pervasiveness, gave her the feeling she was closed up in a bell-jar with him. She whimpered, pleaded with wordless sounds, turned her head from side to side as if trying to deny the reality of the assault. The picture of demoralization and terror that she presented could not have been more convincing if she'd had days to practice, but there was unfortunately little calculation in it.
        Further inflamed by her distress, he pawed at her more roughly than before. "I think I can do it, baby. I think I can do it to you. Feel me, baby. Just feel me." He pressed his body to hers and ground his pelvis against her. Incredibly, he seemed to think that, under such stressful and tragic circumstances, his rampant tumescence was a tribute to her erotic appeal and that somehow she ought to be flattered.
        Her reaction could only have been a disappointment for him.
        When he pressed and rubbed himself against her, he was obliged to stop jamming the gun into her belly. Swept away by his own excitement, convinced that Ginger was weak and helpless, he did not even keep the weapon pointed at her but held it to one side with the muzzle aimed at the floor. Ginger's terror was exceeded by her loathing and anger, and the moment the pistol swung away from her, she translated those pent-up emotions into action. Turning her head to the side, she slumped against him as if about