Blind Pursuit Read Online Free PDF Page B

she knew or guessed about her abductor.
    It was clear that he had carefully planned both her kidnapping and her confinement. Detailed preparation was inconsistent with schizophrenia or other acute psychosis. The person whose thoughts were a tissue of illogical associative leaps was largely incapable of orderly, methodical reasoning.
    From their brief dialogue she gathered that he was relatively calm, not manic, not desperate, in control of the situation and of himself. That was good. He was less likely to do something impulsive if he was somewhat relaxed.
    His speaking voice, in fact, was reassuringly normal in most respects. She had detected no hint of the pure sociopath’s affectless monotone or the would-be suicide’s listlessness and despair.
    She didn’t want him to be suicidal. The line between suicide and murder was easily crossed.
    He seemed intelligent, articulate, fairly knowledgeable; not only had he noticed that her pulse was fast, he’d estimated the rate. And the kidnapping had been skillfully executed, by no means the work of an incompetent.
    She wondered just how smart he was. Smart enough to outthink her? To counter any strategy she could devise?
    Hope not, she thought grimly. If so, I’m in major trouble.
    As if she wasn’t, anyway.
    She finished examining the things he’d brought from her home. The oddest items were a bundle of envelopes and a sheaf of writing paper, both from her desk drawer. She had no idea what he would want with those.
    The only other object in the room was a large, lidless cardboard box. She inventoried its contents also.
    Canned goods, bananas and apples, dried fruit, loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter.
    Picnic plates, paper cups, plastic utensils. Paper napkins and towels. Manual can opener. Pail, sponge, washcloth.
    Roll of toilet paper, sealed in plastic shrink-wrap. Empty milk jugs and coffee cans—for bathroom purposes, she realized.
    Two last things. A ballpoint pen and a manila folder stuffed with what appeared to be yellowed newspaper clippings.
    Frowning, she reached for the folder.
    “Not yet, Doc.”
    His voice again, from the other side of the door. She caught her breath, startled.
    “You can look at that stuff later,” he added. “You’ll have plenty of opportunity. You’ll be spending a good deal of time in this room. All your time from now on, in fact.”
    She turned toward the lens in the door. It glinted at her like a single, unblinking eye.
    “How long can I expect my stay to last?” she asked, trying to keep the question safely neutral.
    “As long as required.”
    “I’m not sure I understand.” Keep it light, not challenging, not defiant.
    “Everything will be explained shortly. First, you’ve got a job to do. You see the pen I’ve provided, the writing paper and envelopes in your suitcase?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re going to write a letter—a very brief letter—to your sister.”
    Annie. She must be okay, then. He wouldn’t want a message sent to her if she’d been kidnapped, too.
    “All right,” Erin said casually. “What should the letter say?”
    In the momentary silence that preceded his reply, she considered the most probable scenarios.
    Ransom demand. That would almost be a relief, an indication of a comprehensible motive.
    General complaint against the psychological profession. Perhaps he’d been hospitalized against his will sometime earlier in his life and had developed a hatred of all mental-health practitioners.
    Personal complaint against her. It was possible she’d treated him briefly at some early point in her internship, perhaps for only one or two sessions, and he held some kind of grudge.
    The last would be the most dangerous development, and perhaps the most likely. It was not uncommon for a disgruntled patient to set out to destroy his therapist’s reputation and career. Many frivolous malpractice suits were prompted by nothing more than personal animus.
    Of course, shocking your shrink into unconsciousness and