She couldn’t outdistance him for long. She had to get out of the alley, find someone who’d be able to help. But there wasn’t anyone around.
Her decision had to be a split-second one. Should she dart toward a major street and try to stop traffic? Or attempt to reach her own car?
Her car was closer, and she wouldn’t risk getting run over. But neither would she have much chance of being rescued if he caught her.
When she rounded the corner, she glanced off a Dumpster that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Hoping her pursuer would do the same, only hit it squarely, she managed to keep running. But he must’ve made a wider arc because he missed it entirely. She could hear him catching up with her. She could also feel his absolute determination.
I’ll kill you for this, bitch! echoed through her brain as if he screamed it at her.
By the time she made it to the parking lot, Jasmine’s throat burned and her lungs felt like bursting. She had only a few yards to go, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to unlock the car before he was upon her. If he caught her while she was trying to get in, it’d be all too easy to drag her out and—
She couldn’t let herself think of what came after “and.” It weakened her, allowed fear to confuse her judgment.
Block out the impressions. Think! She had to do something to slow him down, to buy the few seconds she needed to get away. But what? She was out of options, out of energy, out of breath—
And then she saw it. A sharp stick, lying in the dim yellow circle provided by the floodlight that illuminated the Parking $2.75/hour or $35/day sign. Bending to grab it, she whirled and threw it in his face.
She wouldn’t have hurt him very badly if he’d been farther away. But he was close, and he hadn’t expected the blow.
He cried out when she hit him, and staggered back as she pressed the button on her key ring that unlocked the driver’s side door. She thought she might’ve blinded him because he shook his head as if he couldn’t clear his vision. But she didn’t wait around to find out. She got in her car and nearly slammed his hand in the door when he tried to stop her.
“Oh, God.” She was shaking so badly she could barely insert the key in the ignition.
He pounded on the window—hard enough to break it. He was trying to break it. But she managed to start the engine. Then she popped the transmission into Reverse and squealed out of the parking space, leaving him in a cloud of exhaust.
Jasmine sped west on I-10. She told herself she was getting out of town where she could regroup and decide what to do next, but she didn’t have enough gas to drive anywhere without a specific purpose. She was going to the bayou, to Romain Fornier. Her father was another option, but he lived in the opposite direction, and she wasn’t about to show up at his place battered and bruised on Christmas Eve.
Especially since she’d been investigating Kimberly’s disappearance….
Strange, perhaps, but Romain’s felt safer. And yet going to him was a gamble, as well. She had only enough fuel to get to Portsville and no way to fill her tank for the return trip. If he refused to help her, she didn’t know what she’d do.
He’d help her, she told herself. Or someone else would. Forty dollars for gas would do it. That wasn’t a lot. She’d deal with returning to New Orleans tomorrow.
Right now she couldn’t concentrate on anything except finding somewhere safe, taking a bath, closing her eyes.
But Romain’s house was dark when Jasmine reached it—at barely nine o’clock. Had he gone to Mamou to spend Christmas with his folks? She hadn’t seen his motorcycle as she came through town, but she knew he had another car or truck.
She sat in his drive, chewing her lip as she let her engine idle. She supposed she could go back to town and try to find him, but if he wasn’t there it wouldn’t do her any good to have invested the time—and the gas. And she was already so tired.
She had to go in the house—to get in somehow, even if the door was locked.
She couldn’t stay out in the car without so much as a blanket. She’d freeze to death.
But going inside meant braving the bayou, and she was still leery of the creatures that inhabited the swamp. She was accustomed to wide-open spaces, dry land, domesticated animals….
Leaving her headlights on to discourage anything from eating her before she could clamber onto the porch, she scoured the ground for signs of movement while she ran to the door.
“Romain?” she called as she knocked. “Romain? Are you home?”
A cacophony of noise surrounded her—chirping, clicking, splashing and rustling—but there was no answer from the house. Please come to the door. Let me in. I need food, sleep, money, reassurance….
“Romain?”
Again, no response. But the door was unlocked, and a flashlight sat on a ledge to her right.
With a final frightened glance at the dark trees that seemed to hold the swamp at bay, she crossed the threshold and locked the door behind her. Then she breathed deeply, taking in the reassuring scent of the man whose voice had created such desire on the phone last night, a scent she found oddly comforting. He didn’t have electric lights and she didn’t know how to deal with any other kind, so she used the flashlight to locate his bedroom, which was as neat as she’d expected and not completely devoid of personal mementos. On his dresser, she saw a framed photograph of him, his wife and his daughter. They were at the beach, running from a large wave.
Romain had Adele on his shoulders and was laughing as he held Pam’s hand and pulled her along.
“God, they look happy.” Jasmine moved the flashlight closer. The tiny inset photograph she’d seen of Pam in the papers didn’t do the woman justice. Romain’s wife had been beautiful, tall with long blond hair and the same golden skin he possessed.
Envying the relationship they seemed to have had, she lowered the light. At least he’d once loved someone with his whole heart. Jasmine had never met anyone who’d stirred that kind of passion or commitment in her. “So what’s the truth? Is it better to have loved and lost or never to have loved at all?” she murmured to herself.
She wondered what Romain would say about that as she stripped off her filthy clothes and did the best she could to wash up. The only water was freezing and came out of a big metal can in the bathroom, but she felt calmer when she’d wiped away the dirt and mud and cleaned her cuts and abrasions.
She’d made it. She’d gotten out of the cellar and out of the alley. She was fine; she was safe.