Abby heard the door slam. He was gone. She would be grateful, glad; except for one small detail. He had gone to kill Luka.
She began to struggle. She hadn't struggled. She had done exactly as he'd told her.
She remembered the hand over her mouth as she stood there unlocking her front door, feeling safe for the first time all day. A hand over her mouth, the ice-cold barrel of a gun pressed into her neck, warm breath in her hair as a voice has whispered, "Make a sound and you're dead, Nurse Lockhart. Understand?" She'd nearly fainted from the shock, but had somehow managed to keep her feet, knowing, perhaps that any sudden movement, even her body collapsing to the floor, might make him pull the trigger.
She'd managed to nod, and he'd told her that if she did exactly as she was told, if she cooperated, she wouldn't get hurt.
And then ... Abby shuddered at the memory of the events that had just ended. It had only been 20 minutes ... maybe 30 at most, but it had felt like a lifetime. He had pushed her through the door and closed it behind them ... and she'd turned to find herself looking at Brian Westlake, his eyes as cold as the metal of the gun he still held on her.
"What do you want?"
"Oh ... I think you can figure that one out, Abby."
"No ... please ..." Not that she'd really thought that begging would help, but the words had just come out.
And he'd belted her hard across the face, knocking her to the floor. "Maybe I wasn't clear, Abby. You cooperate, you don't make a fuss, and I get what I came for and leave ... with you just a little the worse for wear. You make a fuss, you give me a hard time ... and I promise you that neither one of us will be happy about it. Now ... into the bedroom." A smile. "We may as well be comfortable, right?"
After that it had just been ... horrible. Not just the physical part. She found that she could almost ... not quite, but almost ... block that part out. But he had talked to her the whole time, not only about what he was doing to her, and why ... but about what he would do after he was finished with her. What he planned to do to Luka.
When at last he had finished with her, he had taken out a roll of duct tape, bound her hands behind her and her legs together. He'd put a strip of tape over her mouth. Then he had left without another word. Gone to find Luka. To tell Luka what had just happened to her, and then to kill him.
She had to get free ... get to the phone. She had to call Luka and warn him, or call the police. Abby struggled desperately, pulling at the tape, but it didn't budge. There were too many layers and it was too strong. Her wrist throbbed with the effort; she had twisted it in her initial fall.
Abby started to cry for the first time, from pain, fear and frustration. 'Don't cry!' she told herself. If she cried, her nose would get stuffed up ... and with her mouth covered, she wouldn't be able to breathe. God ... that would be a humiliating way to die, wouldn't it? Abby almost laughed at the thought. She could see tomorrow's newspaper headline. 'Abigail Lockhart, after being raped and beaten up, died from a stuffy nose.'
Ok .. calm down ... there had to be some way out of this. If she could make a noise ... there were other people in the building. someone would hear ... come to investigate. The walls in the building were pretty thin.
Abby struggled to a sitting position and looked around. The lamp. There was a lamp beside the bed. Maybe she could knock it over. It took some time. It was hard to move. The duct tape forced her body into an awkward position, and she was sore all over. (She and Brian had obviously had different definitions of what constituted 'cooperation' and 'won't get hurt.') Finally she managed to knock into the lamp and it fell very satisfactorily ... onto the carpeted floor with a soft thud, rather than the hoped-for crash. No-one could possibly had heard it. Or, if someone did, they wouldn't think it worth investigating.
The phone was there too. If there was some way to get it off the hook .. dial ... She had to try. She had nothing to lose by trying. If she didn't succeed ... if Luka died ... at least she could know that she had tried. She couldn't talk, but if she could somehow dial 911, the computers would be able to trace the call to her address, send help. And hopefully they would get here in time for Luka.
She struggled to grab the phone, or knock the receiver off the hook. Eventually she managed to knock it to the floor, and she pushed herself off the bed after it -- hitting the floor with a thud. A much harder thud, she thought bitterly, than the lamp had made. (But still not loud enough, she knew, to attract anyone's attention.) And she quickly discovered that it was simply impossible. With her arms tied behind her, she couldn't find the right buttons with her hands. Attempts to push the buttons with her chin were even more laughable. She could hit buttons all right ... just not the right ones.
After perhaps 10 minutes of trying, Abby was exhausted. She lay on the floor and, despite her best intentions, sobbed. There was nothing she could do. She wasn't really afraid that she would die. Her injuries, she knew, weren't life threatening, and she would, eventually, be missed. Carter had said he would call. When she didn't answer, he would worry, and come to investigate. Or, at worst, he would show up tomorrow morning. He had a key. He would let himself in and find her.
But it would be too late for Luka. Luka would die and it would be all her fault. Her fault because she had been the one to piss off Brian in the first place, and he'd only been trying to protect her when he had gone after Brian last year. And her fault because she was too stupid, too exhausted, too sick to be able to figure out a way to get help for him.
Abby lay on the floor and wept, and shivered. She was cold. The apartment was chilly, and she was naked. And she was scared. And she kept seeing in her imagination, Luka lying in the street, bleeding. She could hear him moaning in pain ... and it was all her fault.
Finally the adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins for so long began to dissipate, leaving her weak and even more exhausted. Despite everything, Abby drifted into a light sleep.
A noise startled her awake. Someone was knocking on her door. "Abby! Abby, are you there?" And Abby tried desperately to make some sound, to let her visitor (it sounded like Ralene), know that she was here. Hope gave her new strength, and she managed to kick the bedframe, kick her feet on the floor, but she only succeeded in adding a few new bruises to her legs. It was, she knew well, nowhere near loud enough to be heard through the closed bedroom door, the living room and into the hall. And after a few moments, the knocking and calling stopped, and there was only silence again.
Then, the phone. Three rings, and the machine picked up, "Hi, this is Abby. I'm not here right now ..." and John's voice. "Abby, it's John. Pick up ...." He had kept his word. He had said he would call and he did. Surely he would worry when she didn't answer ... come over. He would come over soon. He had to.
It seemed like only moments, and there were sirens in the street, flashing lights through the window. 'Please ... please ... please ....' Then minutes felt like hours again as she waited ... heard voices in the hall ... someone knocking on the door ... a key in the lock.
She began to struggle. She hadn't struggled. She had done exactly as he'd told her.
She remembered the hand over her mouth as she stood there unlocking her front door, feeling safe for the first time all day. A hand over her mouth, the ice-cold barrel of a gun pressed into her neck, warm breath in her hair as a voice has whispered, "Make a sound and you're dead, Nurse Lockhart. Understand?" She'd nearly fainted from the shock, but had somehow managed to keep her feet, knowing, perhaps that any sudden movement, even her body collapsing to the floor, might make him pull the trigger.
She'd managed to nod, and he'd told her that if she did exactly as she was told, if she cooperated, she wouldn't get hurt.
And then ... Abby shuddered at the memory of the events that had just ended. It had only been 20 minutes ... maybe 30 at most, but it had felt like a lifetime. He had pushed her through the door and closed it behind them ... and she'd turned to find herself looking at Brian Westlake, his eyes as cold as the metal of the gun he still held on her.
"What do you want?"
"Oh ... I think you can figure that one out, Abby."
"No ... please ..." Not that she'd really thought that begging would help, but the words had just come out.
And he'd belted her hard across the face, knocking her to the floor. "Maybe I wasn't clear, Abby. You cooperate, you don't make a fuss, and I get what I came for and leave ... with you just a little the worse for wear. You make a fuss, you give me a hard time ... and I promise you that neither one of us will be happy about it. Now ... into the bedroom." A smile. "We may as well be comfortable, right?"
After that it had just been ... horrible. Not just the physical part. She found that she could almost ... not quite, but almost ... block that part out. But he had talked to her the whole time, not only about what he was doing to her, and why ... but about what he would do after he was finished with her. What he planned to do to Luka.
When at last he had finished with her, he had taken out a roll of duct tape, bound her hands behind her and her legs together. He'd put a strip of tape over her mouth. Then he had left without another word. Gone to find Luka. To tell Luka what had just happened to her, and then to kill him.
She had to get free ... get to the phone. She had to call Luka and warn him, or call the police. Abby struggled desperately, pulling at the tape, but it didn't budge. There were too many layers and it was too strong. Her wrist throbbed with the effort; she had twisted it in her initial fall.
Abby started to cry for the first time, from pain, fear and frustration. 'Don't cry!' she told herself. If she cried, her nose would get stuffed up ... and with her mouth covered, she wouldn't be able to breathe. God ... that would be a humiliating way to die, wouldn't it? Abby almost laughed at the thought. She could see tomorrow's newspaper headline. 'Abigail Lockhart, after being raped and beaten up, died from a stuffy nose.'
Ok .. calm down ... there had to be some way out of this. If she could make a noise ... there were other people in the building. someone would hear ... come to investigate. The walls in the building were pretty thin.
Abby struggled to a sitting position and looked around. The lamp. There was a lamp beside the bed. Maybe she could knock it over. It took some time. It was hard to move. The duct tape forced her body into an awkward position, and she was sore all over. (She and Brian had obviously had different definitions of what constituted 'cooperation' and 'won't get hurt.') Finally she managed to knock into the lamp and it fell very satisfactorily ... onto the carpeted floor with a soft thud, rather than the hoped-for crash. No-one could possibly had heard it. Or, if someone did, they wouldn't think it worth investigating.
The phone was there too. If there was some way to get it off the hook .. dial ... She had to try. She had nothing to lose by trying. If she didn't succeed ... if Luka died ... at least she could know that she had tried. She couldn't talk, but if she could somehow dial 911, the computers would be able to trace the call to her address, send help. And hopefully they would get here in time for Luka.
She struggled to grab the phone, or knock the receiver off the hook. Eventually she managed to knock it to the floor, and she pushed herself off the bed after it -- hitting the floor with a thud. A much harder thud, she thought bitterly, than the lamp had made. (But still not loud enough, she knew, to attract anyone's attention.) And she quickly discovered that it was simply impossible. With her arms tied behind her, she couldn't find the right buttons with her hands. Attempts to push the buttons with her chin were even more laughable. She could hit buttons all right ... just not the right ones.
After perhaps 10 minutes of trying, Abby was exhausted. She lay on the floor and, despite her best intentions, sobbed. There was nothing she could do. She wasn't really afraid that she would die. Her injuries, she knew, weren't life threatening, and she would, eventually, be missed. Carter had said he would call. When she didn't answer, he would worry, and come to investigate. Or, at worst, he would show up tomorrow morning. He had a key. He would let himself in and find her.
But it would be too late for Luka. Luka would die and it would be all her fault. Her fault because she had been the one to piss off Brian in the first place, and he'd only been trying to protect her when he had gone after Brian last year. And her fault because she was too stupid, too exhausted, too sick to be able to figure out a way to get help for him.
Abby lay on the floor and wept, and shivered. She was cold. The apartment was chilly, and she was naked. And she was scared. And she kept seeing in her imagination, Luka lying in the street, bleeding. She could hear him moaning in pain ... and it was all her fault.
Finally the adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins for so long began to dissipate, leaving her weak and even more exhausted. Despite everything, Abby drifted into a light sleep.
A noise startled her awake. Someone was knocking on her door. "Abby! Abby, are you there?" And Abby tried desperately to make some sound, to let her visitor (it sounded like Ralene), know that she was here. Hope gave her new strength, and she managed to kick the bedframe, kick her feet on the floor, but she only succeeded in adding a few new bruises to her legs. It was, she knew well, nowhere near loud enough to be heard through the closed bedroom door, the living room and into the hall. And after a few moments, the knocking and calling stopped, and there was only silence again.
Then, the phone. Three rings, and the machine picked up, "Hi, this is Abby. I'm not here right now ..." and John's voice. "Abby, it's John. Pick up ...." He had kept his word. He had said he would call and he did. Surely he would worry when she didn't answer ... come over. He would come over soon. He had to.
It seemed like only moments, and there were sirens in the street, flashing lights through the window. 'Please ... please ... please ....' Then minutes felt like hours again as she waited ... heard voices in the hall ... someone knocking on the door ... a key in the lock.