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handle. She levered it up and threw her shoulder against the door and started to tumble out, but her head jerked back with searing pain as if the hair were being torn from her scalp. Her head twisted. Her cheekbone struck the steering wheel. A hand clasped the top of her head. Another clutched her chin. And he rammed the side of her face again and again on the wheel.
    When she opened her eyes, her head was on the man’s lap. She felt his hand kneading her breast. The car was moving fast. From the engine noise and the hiss of the tires on the pavement, she guessed they were on the Interstate. The highway lights cast a faint, silvery glow on the man’s face. He looked down at her and smiled.
    The police artist sketch didn’t have him quite right. It had the crewcut right, and the weird crazy eyes, but his nose was a little larger, his lips a lot thicker.
    Jean started to lift her head.
    “Lie still,” he warned. “Move a muscle, I’ll pound your brains out.” He laughed. “How about your boyfriend’s brains? Did you see how they hit that tree?”
    Jean didn’t answer.
    He pinched her.
    She gritted her teeth.
    “I asked you a question.”
    “I saw,” she said.
    “Cool, huh?”
    “No.”
    “How about his eyes? I’ve never seen anything like that. Just goes to show what a twelve-gauge can do to a fellow. You know, I’ve never killed a guy before. Just sweet young things like you.”
    Like me.
    It came as no surprise, no shock. She’d seen him murder Paul, and he planned to murder her too—the same as he’d murdered the others.
    Maybe he doesn’t kill them all, she thought. Only one body had been found. Everyone talked as if the Reaper had killed the other six, but really they were only missing .
    Maybe he takes them someplace and keeps them.
    But he just now said he kills sweet young things: Plural. He killed them all. But maybe not. Maybe he just wants to keep me and fool with me and not kill me and I’ll figure a way out.
    “Where are you taking me?” she asked.
    “A nice, private place in the hills where nobody will hear you scream.”
    The words made a chill crawl over her.
    “Oooh, goosebumps. I like that.” His hand glided over her skin like a cold breeze. Jean was tempted to grab his hand and bite it.
    If she did that, he would hurt her again.
    There’ll be a world of hurt later, she thought. He plans to make me scream.
    But that was later. Maybe she could get away from him before it came to that. The best thing, for now, was to give him no trouble. Don’t fight him. Act docile. Then maybe he’ll let his guard down.
    “Do you know who I am?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Tell me.”
    “The Reaper.”
    “Very good. And I know who you are, too.”
    He knows me? How could he? Maybe followed me around on campus, asked someone my name.
    “You’re Number Eight,” he said. “Just think about that. You’re going to be famous. You’ll be in all the newspapers, they’ll talk about you on television, you’ll even end up being a chapter in a book someday. Have you read any books like that? They’ll have a nice little biography of you, quotes from your parents and friends. The bittersweet story of your brief but passionate relationship with that guy. What was his name?”
    “Paul,” she murmured.
    “Paul. He’ll get a good write-up, himself, since he’s the first guy to die at the hands of the Reaper. Of course, they’ll realize that he was incidental. You were the intended victim, Paul simply an unlucky jerk who got in the way. He got lucky, then he got unlucky. Good one, huh? Maybe I’ll write the book myself. He got off and got offed. Or did he? Which came first? Did he go out with a bang?”
    “Why don’t you shut up?”
    “Because I don’t want to,” he said, and raked a path up her belly with a single fingernail.
    Jean cringed. Air hissed in through her teeth.
    “You should be nice to me,” he said. “After all, I’m the one making you famous. Of course, some of the