Chapter One

Prescience

"The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow,

The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow.”

--Percy Bysshe Shelley

Dorie Bendix is lost in the desert. Sand dunes stretch as far as she can see, a windstorm swirling brown against the sky, like dried blood on denim. Grit stings her eyes, the wind pushing her along the trail. Breathing evenly, she wraps her cape over her mouth. It’s then she stumbles across caravan tracks, and in the distance, ahead of the storm, she spies a column of camels and their Bedouin herders.

As the camels pass, she begs the camel drivers for help. They ignore her, trudging on ahead, muttering in some unintelligible language, flicking their sticks at the backsides of the sullen beasts.

Tears well up in her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. The sand beats against her so ferociously it knocks her down, threatening to cover her.

Out of the drifting sands, a shimmering black spot appears, the spot swelling to the shape of a striking black stallion. A beautiful young Arab in a billowing burnoose sits astride its back. The stallion prances up to her, the young Arab dismounting before the horse can come to a halt. The Arab scoops her off the ground, crushing her in his arms, smothering her with kisses. "Cara, Cara!” he murmurs. "Amor solo d’amor si pasce.”

Dorie's eyes blinked open. Why was she dreaming about Rudolph Valentino? Only she would dream about a hunk from her grandmother's generation. Must be the late movie she'd been watching. LAWRENCE OF ARABIA---she'd never seen it. Pretty stupid when she had to be up by four-thirty.

Burying her face in the pillow, she tried to ease back into the dream. The phone rang. Was it in the dream? It rang again. She reached over, grabbing the receiver. "Hunh, waddya want?" It was Marci Ventura, her producer. Dorie'd forgotten to turn on her alarm. No, the red light was on. Damn! The power had gone off, and when she'd reset the digital, she'd set it for PM. Shit. She'd only been on the job for two months, and she was late again. Browner would kill her. "I'll be right there, Marci. Sorry about this."

Dorie rolled to her left, planted her feet on the cold floor. Cedric, her one-eyed teddy bear, had fallen out of bed again and was lying face down. Cedric was almost as old as she was, with eroded fur and one eye hanging from a thread, the result of her brother Ted’s kick-boxing phase. She picked Cedric up and put him on the dresser, the bear losing a few threads in the process.

 She stumbled toward the bathroom, swept back the shower curtain, turned the knob. Oooh, that felt sooo good! About as good as the Sheik’s clinch in that dream. The dream image floated up out of the bubbles rushing down the drain. Usually she forgot her dreams as soon as she woke, but this one had been so bizarre. Probably plain old horniness. There was a serious shortage of single men in Mason City, Iowa.

Dorie shivered. Could the dream have had something to do with the stalker? Dreams were weird that way. Sometimes they meant the opposite of what you thought. She put him out of her mind; she didn’t want to think about skulking maniacs this early in the morning.

She shut the water off, wrapped herself in a red and white beach towel, and traipsed back to the bedroom, simultaneously trying to dry herself and brush her teeth, dribbling toothpaste all over the floor. It was already 5:15. Marcie was going to be seriously pissed. The girl hated it when she had to pinch hit. She had terminal stage fright, stumbled over every other word, forgot her own name. Might as well face it; she wasn’t going to get to work until 5:45 at the earliest, not enough time for prep and make-up. She looked in her bedroom mirror. A hideous specter stared back at her, its wet hair tangled and stringy, its eyes two slits embedded in swollen pouches, resembling a heavyweight fighter who’d led with his face for fifteen rounds.

Wrapping her hair in a turban, Dorie was once again reminded of the sheik. Why Rudolph Valentino? Who did she know who even remotely reminded her of an Italian silent film star? Roger, the basketball player she’d gone with for six months at St. Cloud State? He was dark. Far from a sheik though.

She wrenched open the closet door and the handle came off in her hand; no time to screw it back on. Too many things were going wrong this morning; even for her. All of her dresses and suits were at the dry cleaners again. The only suitable garment was her hated pin-stripe. The woman in black. I’ll be the woman in black, she thought. A mysterious woman in black had shown up at Valentino’s grave for years after his death. Probably some obsessed fan, even then. Rudy had died of peritonitis after a fight with a boxing expert, trying to defend his manhood after a Chicago editorial had ridiculed him for feminizing the American male. She’d done a feature story on him once, on the anniversary of his death.

Fastening the top button on her blouse–-blue, it had to be blue for television--she scanned the apartment. If she didn’t give the place a last look, she’d lock herself out, leave the gas on, or something equally klutzish.

She grasped the doorknob but was reluctant to turn the knob. She glanced over at picture of herself and her best friend Jill Jondura on top of the TV set. Still had ginger hair in those days. “Will you get moving!” she said to no one. "What the hell are you doing woolgathering when you’re late for work?” But she continued to dawdle, in a brown study over that picture of her and Jill in their graduation caps and gowns. They’d been almost inseparable growing up; she’d told Jill her deepest darkest secrets, even the one about the crush she had on her journalism teacher, Mr. Z. Why couldn’t she find a man like Charlie Zelnick? Caring, considerate, so sentimental he cried during her graduation ceremony.

“Maybe I’ll give the stalker a chance?” she said, finally snatching the door open. The freak had been sending her presents for the past six months, calling her on the phone at odd hours, and she’d thought she’d seen him once or twice in the park. What the hell, how crazy could he be? No nuttier than some of the squirrels she’d dated.

She juggled her hair dryer and her purse. Could the stalker be the reason she was having such a hard time getting going this morning? That dream meant something! Rudy V. had an obsessed fan, the woman in black. Dorie was a celebrity (yeah, sure), and she had an obsessed fan. Was the dream telling her to stay home?

Now she’d scared herself. She didn’t want to go out into that parking lot. Maybe if she called the station they’d send somebody for her. Nah, they’d think she was a wuss. If that sucker ever tried anything, she’d kick his ass good. She’d been taking tae kwon do lessons. Only two so far, but she’d learned quite a bit already.

"You know what you should do, Dorie?” she said to herself. "You should pitch this stalker thing to the station manager. Turn a lemon into lemonade. Browner might even forget about your being late.”

                           #

As Dorie stepped out onto the sidewalk, a blast of frigid air slapped her fully awake. This was two-pairs-of-long-johns weather and all she had on was a thin cloth coat. To make matters worse, her still wet hair began to freeze.

She skated across the parking lot, her hair dryer and purse under each arm, her car keys clutched in one hand, heading for her little red car. Up in the sky the moon shown cold and blue, its human face smudged by haze. Somewhere out there a door slammed, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

When she reached the Mazda, she set her purse on the ground and tucked the hair dryer under one arm. Unable to fit the key in the door with her gloves on, she dropped them on the ground. As she knelt to pick them up, a voice said, “Did you l-like the flowers, Dorie?”

Her knees went to jello and her stomach did crazy somersaults; the hair dryer clattered to the pavement. He was standing a good ten yards away, pointing a gun at her. He wore a blue, padded coat with a hood and a ski mask. And he was short, shorter than she was, and she was only 5’ 2”. Some Rudolph Valentino. Stupid dream.

“P-put this over your eyes,” he said. He threw her a long piece of cloth, a scarf or a muffler.

She tried to scream, but there was gravel in her throat. The best she could do was “eh, eh.”

Taking a deep breath--feeling returning to her legs, the nausea clearing somewhat--she sidled toward him. If she could get close enough, she could kick the gun out of his hand. She’d started taking those tae kwon do lessons right after the first couple phone calls. But she’d never believed the day would actually come when she had to face him, especially at five in the morning, in the middle of the parking lot with the weather hovering around freezing. No fair, God!

He was gloveless, the moonlight glinting off of an unusual ring. Square-shaped, black onyx, maybe. She’d have to remember everything for when this nut went to trial.

Why couldn’t she scream? Men couldn’t handle a woman’s

scream--their hearing was more sensitive maybe, kind of like a dog’s. Chances were this nut was more scared than she was. Maybe it wasn’t even a real gun. Yeah, sure, and chocolate is good for your hips.

Remain calm, she told herself. Move really slow, see everything in slow motion. She remembered doing a story like this once for Mr. Z., an exercise for his creative writing class. He’d gotten the idea from this TV movie entitled "Buried Alive,” about a girl who’d been kidnapped and hidden underground with an oxygen-pumping device keeping her alive. Mr. Z. told them to imagine what they would have done in a similar circumstance. She’d written about the importance of staying alert if he got her in the car and took her someplace, on the lookout for an opportunity to escape.

He put up a hand, gesturing for her to stop.

A light went on in one of the third floor apartment windows across the street. Someone getting up to pee. Look out here, you damn blockhead! Her voice croaked again when she tried to scream. He noticed the light, appeared flustered for a moment. Was he thinking about chucking it all and making a run for it? A face, like a some kind of freak-show performer, with orange curly hair and white make-up, appeared in the window. Dorie waved. She tried to point at the little fuck with the gun, but the freak face disappeared, and the light went out.

“G-go on now, Dorie, put the blindfold on.” She reached up and tied the muffler over her eyes. And then he was behind her, snapping a handcuff around one wrist, pulling her arms behind her back. He led her across the parking lot to what apparently was a truck of some sort since it had a running board.

“Look, you can’t get away with this. I’m late for work. I’m never late for work. They’ve probably sent someone to check on me already. You’ll get caught; you can get thirty years for kidnapping.” He tightened his grip on her arm, his fingers thick and calloused.

"You d-don’t want me to use the gag, Dorie. I’m not going to h-hurt you. There, the door is open. Scoot on up there n-now, like a good girl. I’ve got your purse.”

As the truck pulled away, she started counting. She remembered from Mr. Z’s assignment that she needed to gauge how far away from her apartment he was taking her. He made a right turn out of the apartment building lot. It was surprisingly easy to know where she was. He made a left and then, two blocks or so down, he made a right. It suddenly got brighter; they were on the main drag heading north.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. "If you don’t let me, I’m going to get your truck all dirty.” She’d already counted to fifty, but maybe that wasn’t necessary; she’d be able to tell if they drove into the country. It would get really dark. She kept counting anyway, in case he was stupid enough to keep her in the city.

“You w-wouldn’t do that; you’re t-too much of a lady,” he said. "Are those cuffs too tight? I can m-maybe loosen them if you promise to be good.”

She decided not to talk to him. The silent treatment always worked on her boyfriends.

“My n-name is Marv. It’s my real n-name. It shouldn’t hurt for you to know my n-name since we’re going to be together a l-long time.”

She kicked off a shoe, feeling around for more evidence. There was dirt on the mat. Was this guy some kind of farmer? There was a differential in the middle of the floor. Gardeners usually tooled around in old trucks. She shifted her weight. There was a hole in the seat; she could feel the stuffing coming out of it and a coil of wire.

Damn it, all the speculation had caused her to lose count. But it was getting dark. Yes, they were heading out into the country. She’d start over.

When she got to a hundred, he made a right. They were headed east. She took another deep breath, and let it out. “Do you live on a farm, Marv?” she said. “There’s dirt on the floor.”

“Used to be a farm,” he said.

She needed to get him off guard. "What do you mean used to be?” she said. She wasn’t going to wind up like those other girls, meekly cooperating until it came time for the hideous oral sex. She’d rather die fighting.

“I j-just rent the place.”

“Really? How much do you pay?”

The wheels began to jounce, as they hit a stretch of rutted road.

“Just a h-hundred a month,” he said. “Can’t b-beat--”

She lashed out with her bare foot, aiming for the sound of his voice. The truck careened sideways for what seemed like forever, then bumped into the ditch, rocked sideways, and came to a shuddering stop.

“You crazy bitch! If my oil pan is punctured . . .”

This time he handcuffed her to the arm rest, popped the cubby hole, then clamped a rag over her mouth and nose. Smelled like ether, tasted like ground up leaves and grass. She tried not to breathe, but eventually her nose went numb, her eyelids fluttered, and she conked out.

She woke to the sound of squealing brakes as the truck came to a stop in what must have been his driveway. A dog was barking.

“S-shut up, Rex. Lay down now. This is your n-new mama.”

New mama? Was there another girl around here somewhere?

Marv led her through what must have been the kitchen. She could hear the refrigerator hum; she smelled floor wax mixed with Lysol.

A radio was playing country western music, the Statler Brothers. The floor was bare and kind of slippery; she tried to wander out of his grasp and bump into things, but he reeled her back in.

They went down a rickety staircase, scuffed across a cement floor. She’d lost a shoe in the truck. He opened a door, stood her up against a wall, and unlocked the cuffs.

It took a while for her eyes to adjust and for her to overcome her wooziness from the drug. The paneled room resembled something out of a Sears catalogue. A queen-sized bed with a red comforter stood kitty-corner from a black leather sofa. A stereo system was stacked in the corner, and there was a TV set. Curtains on a high, hatch-like window matched the bedspread.

“I’ll g-get your breakfast.” He was still holding the gun as he backed his way out of the room.

She could hear the key rattle after he closed the door. All right, Dorie, now’s your chance, she thought. Wait for the sucker to open the door, then slam him over the head with a chair.

No such luck. When he returned, he wouldn’t open the door until she moved away. He could see her through this peephole in the door. What the hell, she’d get him sooner or later. That is unless he put something in the food. She decided she wasn’t that hungry. He set the eggs, toast, and juice on a table, keeping his eye on her as he moved toward the door.

He stood with one hand on the knob. He’d taken off his ski mask, although he had it rolled up on his head, like the watch caps sailors wore. He had one of those little mustaches that guys who can’t grow one have–-wispy writers called them--and his face was scarred with acne.

“Aren’t you g-going to eat your food? Oh, you think I p-put something in it. No w-way would I do that. I w-wouldn’t hurt you for the w-world. You made me use that drug. No? Well, if you like, you can m-make your own. The refrigerator is well stocked. There’s a toaster on the c-counter. If you want anything, just let me k-know when I come down again.” He shut the door and the lock clicked once again.

Despite the rather pleasant appearance of the place, she felt as if he’d locked her in a broom closet. Marv seemed the nervous type. Maybe a little marathon screaming session would rattle the little bastard. But how long could she keep it up? Especially if this place was out in the middle of nowhere.

A truck was making an awful racket outside; it sounded like a big one, something with a diesel engine. Maybe screaming wasn’t such a bad idea.

She wondered if she could break down the door, maybe kick it down. They hadn’t gotten that far in her tae kwon do class. What she couldn’t understand was how he’d built up a fantasy about her of all people. She wasn’t sexy. Bad hair. Bad teeth. No tits. No clothes. Maybe he was settling for second best, or third or fourth or even fifth best. Wouldn’t have the guts to try for Connie Chung or Diane Sawyer.

Exhausted from the trauma and the drugging, Dorie lay down on the queen-sized bed and went to sleep.