Watchers

muzzle of the revolver deeper into her side, until it hurt.
    She thought of the baby growing within her. “All right, okay, obviously you know about the dog, so there’s no point playing games.”
    “No point.” He spoke so quietly that she could hardly hear him above the roar of the rain that drummed on the roof of the cab and snapped against the windshield.
    He reached over and pulled down the hood of her jacket, opened the zipper, and slid his hand down her breasts, over her belly. For a moment she was terrified that he was, after all, intent on rape.
    Instead, he said, “This Weingold is a gynecologist-obstetrician. So what’s your problem? You have some damn social disease or are you pregnant?” He almost spit out the words “social disease,” as if merely pronouncing those syllables made him sick with disgust.
    “You’re no government agent.” She spoke entirely from instinct.
    “I asked you a question, bitch,” he said in a voice barely louder than a whisper. He leaned close, digging the gun into her side again. The air in the truck was humid. The all-enveloping sound of rain combined with the stuffiness to create a claustrophobic atmosphere that was nearly intolerable. He said, “Which is it? You got herpes, syphilis, clap, some other crotch rot? Or are you pregnant?”
    Thinking that pregnancy might gain her a dispensation from the violence of which he seemed so capable, she said, “I’m going to have a baby. I’m three months pregnant.”
    Something happened in his eyes. A shifting. Like movement in a subtle kaleidoscopic pattern that was composed of bits of glass all the same shade of green.
    Nora knew that admitting pregnancy was the worst thing she could have done, but she did not know why.
    She thought about the .38 pistol in the glove compartment. She could not possibly open the glove box, grab the gun, and shoot him before he pulled the trigger of the revolver. Still, she’d have to remain constantly on the lookout for an opportunity, for a laxness on his part, that would give her a chance to go for her own weapon.
    Suddenly he was climbing on top of her, and again she thought he was going to rape her in broad daylight, in the veiling curtains of rain but still daylight. Then she realized he was just changing places with her, urging her
    behind the wheel while he moved into the passenger’s seat, keeping the muzzle of the revolver on her the whole time.
    “Drive,” he said.
    “Where?”
    “Back to your place.”
    “But—”
    “Keep your mouth shut and drive.”
    Now she was at the opposite side of the cab from the glove box. To get to it, she would have to reach in front of him. He would never be that lax.
    Determined to keep a rein on her galloping fear, she now found that she had to rein in despair as well.
    She started the truck, drove out of the parking lot, and turned right in the street.
    The windshield wipers thumped nearly as loud as her heart. She wasn’t sure how much of the oppressive sound was made by the impacting rain and how much of it was the roar of her own blood in her ears.
    Block by block, Nora searched for a cop—although she had no idea what she should do if she saw one. She never had to figure it out because no cops were anywhere to be seen.
    Until they were out of Carmel and on the Pacific Coast Highway, the blustering wind not only drove rain against the windshield but also flung bristling bits of cypress and pine needles from the huge old trees that sheltered the town’s streets. South along the coast, as they headed into steadily less populated areas, no trees overhung the road, but the wind off the ocean hit the pickup full force. Nora frequently felt it pulling at the wheel. And the rain, slashing straight at them from the sea, seemed to pummel the truck hard enough to leave dents in the sheet metal.
    After at least five minutes of silence, which seemed like an hour, she could no longer obey his order to keep her mouth shut. “How did you find us?”
    “Been watching your place for more than a day,” he said in that cool, quiet voice that matched his placid face. “When you left this morning, I followed you, hoping you’d give me an opening.”
    “No, I mean, how did you know where we lived?”
    He smiled. “Van Dyne.”
    “That double-crossing creep.”
    “Special circumstances,” he assured her. “The Big Man in San Francisco Owed me a favor, so he put pressure on Van Dyne.”
    “Big man?”
    “Tetragna.”
    “Who’s