Fury and the Power by John Farris Page B

American. The road you mentioned is probably the coast highway that jogs inland for a dozen miles before meeting the coast again at, I think, Bodega Bay. So the nearest town of any size is either Bodega or. . . Coldstream Bridge. I could use a drink of water."
    "Certainly." The Assassin handed her the water bottle hooked to his belt. Betts squeezed some onto her dry tongue.
    "What did you knock me out with?" she asked him.
    "Nothing an oral surgeon wouldn't give you before a couple of difficult extractions. And later, a mild hypnotic to keep you blissfully asleep for twelve hours. By the way, what is that patch you wear under your right arm for?"
    "High blood pressure." She hesitated, then added, "I've also had a couple of TIAs—transitory ischemic attacks."
    "I see. That reminds me, with all that was going on up there at the lake; I never had the opportunity to express my condolences on the tragic loss of your husband. Was it his heart, Betts?"
    "Yes." Betts had another squirt of water, rinsed her mouth, leaned toward the ground, and spat. She'd been without cigarettes for much too long, and was mad for a smoke. But he wasn't a smoker. Disapproved of the habit. He did, however, like to eat. And Betts was hungry.
    "What's for breakfast?" she asked.
    "I've stocked up on all of the ingredients you'll need to turn out a batch of those wonderful bacon-crumble waffles. Also that commercial brand of coffee you seemed to prefer at the one breakfast we enjoyed together. But I am so hoping to convert you to a Jamaican blend I buy at this little Rastafarian grocer's in North Beach."
    "Is that where you're living these days? San Francisco?"
    He showed her as merry a grin as anyone with a partly melted face could manage.
    "Now, Betts. Never ask. Deduce ."
    "I've deduced that you don't want to kill me"—her heartbeat sprinted again—"yet. And God knows I'm not material for a sex slave."
    "That is droll, lovey. Not that I don't think you're a very attractive woman, and the new 'do you've adopted is so gray-panther retro."
    "Attractive for my age?" Bells said with a poisoned grin. "So if it isn't sex, and it's not just my cooking, what are you after?"
    The Assassin gathered the decapitated dummy under one arm. She could have done it then, kicked him in the balls from behind as he bent over. But she was still fighting the effects of Versed or a similar tranquilizer, a disconnect of a second or so between impulse and action. And he hadn't told her everything about the heavy explosives-laden collar that was chafing her neck. Only hinted at the possibilities. She couldn't remove it herself, of course, without the damn thing going off. He'd warned her about that immediately.
    "You know," he said. "I must have her, Betts."
    The beating of her heart seemed to stop as it chilled to ten below zero.
    "Go ahead and kill me, then. Because it's not gonna happen."
    "Oh, I hate that kind of talk! We are going to be together for a while, so I think we should make every effort to be civil to each other. The time passes so much more quickly."
     
    T he cottage to which he had brought her in the night was stone with a shake shingle roof, one-car garage. Sunny and open, one large bedroom and a sleeping loft. House Beautiful kitchen, cabinet doors inlaid with stained glass, copper pans hanging from a rack over the island range. A "Great Room" beside the kitchen, stone fireplace wall for those chilly fall and winter nights. Wide peg-and-groove cypress wood floors throughout. His taste in art was minimalist abstract.
    Betts had the run of the house as well as a small flagstone veranda with wisteria vines and hanging birdhouses, two rocking chairs.
    Stick to the premises and she wouldn't explode. Make a run for it, any direction, sensors would respond to her attempted flight, and bang! —No more Betts from the collarbones up.
    She wasn't sure she believed him. They were all expert at head games, even those with little formal education. Remorseless in their own