If this was what morality and celibacy did for you, I was glad I had done such a good job of avoiding them both.

Frankenstein let out a loud moan, then he was still. After a few moments, he calmly stood up, his frenzy over.

“You’ve had your chance to pray,” he told me. “Now it’s time to go to the devil. God doesn’t want you.” He returned to the less than sterile-looking curette. “I must save the children.”

“You’re a madman,” I yelled at him. “A lone psychotic. Do you really think you can change anything?”

“Yes. I’ll save lives.”

“You’ll save lives by killing me?”

“I’m not alone,” he continued, ignoring my rather important question.

“Uh-huh, I see that little green man over there.”

“No, others help me. I help them. God has led us to each other.”

“God? Or the devil? So you have a lunatic or two to follow you?”

“I am not a leader, only a follower. God has given us a wiser man than I to guide me.”

“Who? Who are you following?” In the unlikely event that I got out of here, that would be a useful bit of information.

“A wise man given to us by the gift of God. He will lead us in our most important work. Soon, very soon.”

“What is that?”

Frankenstein looked at me as if remembering who he was talking to. “You’ll never know,” he answered and turned his back to me.

I jerked against my bonds, more in fury than in any real hope that they would come undone. He calmly ignored my struggling. Even if I got loose, I wasn’t likely to get past him to freedom.

He moved something that looked sharp and unpleasant, then laid it down and started putting on surgical gloves. That’s right, Frankie, baby, don’t risk any nasty diseases while murdering us.

“I’m not pregnant,” I shouted, furious at my helplessness. “The police will know I didn’t need an abortion. The last girl wasn’t pregnant. The fifteen-year-old.”

He looked at me in surprise, then just as quickly looked away and finished putting on his gloves. There was no room for doubt in his mind.

“The back lot or the basement? Don’t you think it’ll raise a lot of questions when I show up conveniently dead of a botched abortion?”

“You won’t be found. Not for a while,” he calmly replied. “By then, who’ll know?”

I jerked and pulled at the ropes holding me, unable to stay still and let the horror of my death sink in.

“You fucking butcher!” I yelled. He didn’t react. I wondered where we were that he could be so calm at my noise. The windows were open. If anyone was in the area, they would have to hear. I would make sure of that. Becoming the grisly thing Victoria Williams had been terrified me. “A lot of people will know.” I seized irrationally on a scrap of truth. “I don’t sleep with men. A lot of people know that, and they’ll know I was murdered.”

He paid no more attention than he had before.

“Help! Someone help me!” I screamed. “Fire! Help, there’s a fire!”

“There’s no one to hear you,” he said. “Scream as much as you like.” He turned his back to me again.

“No!” I shouted. I threw myself at my ropes once more, jerking the chair off the floor in my frenzy. It landed back down with a hollow thud, the noise useless to save me. But still I struggled. Then I realized if I could get one of the loops holding my feet off the bottom of the chair leg, I could get my legs free. That it would be of little use against my hands and torso being tied and being in the middle of nowhere with this monster didn’t stop me. Better to think of getting my feet free than of my bloated body lying in the woods. I thrust myself up again. And again, trying to lift the chair and pull down with my feet at the same time.

Frankenstein glanced over at me a few times, but my frenzy had no effect on him. He continued with his preparations for my death.

The rope finally slipped off and I kicked my feet free.

“It’ll do you no good,” he calmly stated. “You can’t outwit God’s will.”

I could try. I looked around the room, searching for any possibilities. Behind and to my left was a long table covered with a sheet. I noticed an old bloodstain in one corner. I quickly glanced away. There were four windows and a screen door leading out to a stairway landing. We were on the second floor.

Nothing could be worse than what he had planned for me. Nothing. Jumping out the window and breaking my neck would be preferable.

I watched the chill methodicalness with which he prepared to kill me, the stolid expression on his face as he adjusted the restraints. Would he really not use anesthesia?

Then I knew what I had to do. What my one chance would be. I slid off my shoes. I couldn’t risk tripping on those high heels.

I wondered what Cordelia was…thinking. She had probably given up on me and gone to sleep. I hoped she wasn’t lying awake imagining anything like what was really happening.

Frankenstein moved, again turning his back to me, making one last preparation. Then he would come for me.

I ran at him, aiming my shoulder for the small of his back.

He started to turn, but I hit him, throwing him off balance and into the screen door. It groaned and splintered under our combined weight, breaking to let us fall out onto the small landing. Frankenstein fell heavily, crashing into an overflowing rain barrel.

I deliberately spun around, hurling myself backward down the stairs. I couldn’t outrun him tied to the chair. My only hope was to smash it against the stairs in my very ungentle descent.

I heard the sharp crack of snapping wood, then a shot of pain in the shoulder and arm I had landed on. I slipped and tumbled down the wet stairs, landing in a heap of splintered wood and tangled rope at the bottom. I jumped up, yanking and jerking the debris of the chair away from me.

I didn’t see the blue Chevy or any other car. I wondered if he had hidden it. Or did an accomplice drop him off here? Had Betty Peterson decided to play God after all? Would she have helped him to kill me?

I ran as fast as I could, flinging the last remains of the chair behind me. The rain rapidly soaked me, but I didn’t care, listening instead to the cadence of my feet hitting the wet asphalt and demanding that they go faster.

I hit patches of gravel, feeling the sharp sting of the stones through my useless hose.

Be glad you’re alive and able to feel pain. I couldn’t slow down.

I chanced a look back. I didn’t see him. But all he had to do was get a car and he could easily overtake me. The road was bordered by desolate farmland. Sugar cane on one side, cotton on the other, no place to hide.

I pounded on, letting terror drive me, forcing myself to remember the wicked looking curette. Jocasta, I thought. Run, or you’ll be an unwilling Jocasta.

Then up ahead of me I saw a beat-up, old truck pulling out of a dirt driveway. I yelled and waved, but the truck didn’t halt. Either the driver didn’t see me, or barefoot women doing marathons in short red dresses are a common sight out here.

The truck was going slowly, loaded with chickens and hay. I sprinted, desperate to catch it before it picked up speed.

I got a hand on the tailgate just as it started to speed up. I jumped, jackknifing myself over it, annoying the chickens as I fumbled onto some of their cages. I lay on top of those squawking chickens, panting and gasping for breath, and wondered how many world records I had broken. The red dress dash.

The chickens calmed down when they realized that I was keeping the rain off them. The truck drove on, the driver oblivious to my panicked presence. I glanced at my watch. Seven thirty on a rainy Sunday morning.

And I was still alive. I suddenly started crying, the fear I couldn’t let myself feel earlier hitting me. The chickens ruffled their feathers as my tears fell on them.

The truck finally slowed as we came to an intersection. One with an honest-to-goodness stoplight. Civilization. There was a small cluster of stores, all locked up tight. But tucked in one corner of the parking lot was a pay phone, complete with Superman-type booth. Not that I had anything to change into, but I could do with getting out of the rain.

I hopped off the truck as it came to a stop.

“Thanks for the ride,” I called to the driver. He didn’t hear, but the chickens squawked their fond farewell.

I impatiently punched in the numbers for my phone card, then Joanne’s number. Her phone rang. And rang. Finally her machine picked up. “Joanne? Joanne are you there?” I demanded. Then realized, no, of course not. She’d spent the night at Alex’s.

What was Alex’s number? I couldn’t remember. The operator informed me that there were five listings for “A. Sayers” in New Orleans, none of them at her address. No Alexandra. I hung up in frustration.

I thought about O’Connor, but I didn’t know his number either. Nor did I want him to catch sight of me in this dress.

I dialed Danny’s number. No answer. They were either out or, more likely, had turned the phone off.

Cordelia came to mind, but I had no idea where I was, and she, unlike my law enforcement pals, had no way of finding me.

Then I knew who to call. Someone who carried a gun and was actually bigger than Frankenstein.

“Hi, Hutch,” I answered to his sleepy hello. “This is Micky Knight. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve been kidnapped and someone just tried to kill me.”

“Where are you?” He was awake now.

“I don’t know. Somewhere. Shit, I could be anywhere. Mississippi, Arkansas, Texas even.”

“Okay. Stay on the line. I’m going to get a trace.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Unless…” A blue Chevy drives by.

“If you have to run, do it,” he instructed me. “Protect yourself. But try and drop the phone.”

“I will.”

I waited, peering through the foggy plastic, waiting for the blue Chevy. Then Hutch was back on the line.

“I’m on my way. Have you called the local police?”

“Local? I don’t have the number.”

“Try 911,” he suggested.

“Oh, yeah. I’m sorry, I’m really out of it,” I mumbled.

“It’s okay. I’m on my way,” he repeated.

“Thanks, Hutch.”

“Take care of yourself, Micky.” He hung up.

I stood staring stupidly at the buzzing receiver for a few minutes. Wake up, Micky, I demanded. Watch for blue cars. I shook myself, then dialed 911. It took six rings before someone answered.

“Where y’all located?” a sleepy voice drawled.

“I don’t know.”

A silence, then the woman said, “This line is not for playin’ around with. Now, do ya’ll have an emergency or not?”

“Well, I’m not sure.”

“Is there a fire? Or a wreck?” The woman sounded exasperated.

“No,” I replied, trying to get my brain moving.

“Then why are you calling 911?”

“Someone tried to kill me. Is that an emergency?”

“Someone did, huh?” she sounded skeptical. “How did he try to kill you?”

“With a botched abortion.”

Another silence.

“If y’all tell me where y’all located, I’ll send a patrol car.”

“I don’t know where I am.” Now I was exasperated.

“Then I can’t send a patrol car.”

“Goddamn it!” I yelled. “You live here. I don’t. I don’t know where I am.”

The Bible Belt, it turned out. After the lecture on not taking God’s name in vain and the lecture on how to use 911, she finally narrowed my possible location down to three places. I almost expressed incredulity that this burg had three different clusters of stores equipped with pay phones, but decided I didn’t want whatever lecture that would bring.

Hutch arrived before the local police. It had taken him less than an hour to get out here. The flashing red light stuck on the top of his car gave a clue to his speed.