He lets out a heavy grunt. Sounds like his heart is about to break. Oh, I can only wish.
“Oleg,” I say, “how about, free my hands?”
He lets the baton hang idly by his side, and his eyes start filling with menace. “No vay.”
“Oh well.” I shrug. “You can’t blame me for asking.”
Finally, the shoes are on. I straighten, then rub my eyes, trying to keep the rope from itching my nose. Despite the shadows, I recognize this place. Pointe Dume. Near the top of the bluffs, the path passes right along the edge, skirting a sharp drop-off. Seen from here, the ocean should be sparkling in the distance—but on this moonless night, it looks dim.
I remember how lovely this beach looked from this very spot a month ago, how it greeted Michael and me with a beautiful sunset as we clung to each other, kissing.
Clouds were brushing the horizon copper, their fiery edges sketched in reflection across the vast surface of swirling water. An abundance of wildflowers burst over the shoulder of the bluff, painting it mustard yellow. Tickseed flowers shook their toothed-tip petals, their scent sweetening the salty breeze.
The breeze is just as bitter now—but the fragrance has been lost.
His clammy hand paws at my waist, which startles me into the present. It’s not where I want to be.
“I vill not hurt you,” Oleg tells me, “if you do vat I want.”
I know what he wants to hear, what would turn him on—but I’m in no hurry to say it, because of what would inevitably come next.
Drooling, he hisses in my ear, “Say you vant me.”
And just as I take a fluttering breath, not even sure what would fly out of my mouth, something unexpected happens. A buzz. It vibrates noisily from his pocket. It’s my cellphone, which he’s snatched away from me.
Oleg now has three things to juggle: the cellphone, the baton, and me. He does his best. First, he uses his right hand to lean me against the van. With his left, he sticks the baton under his armpit, grabs the cellphone out of his shirt pocket—maybe he mistakes it for his own—then barks, impulsively, “Vat?”
I hear Rita’s voice, bright and cheery. “Hi!”
His hold on me is somewhat looser than before, perhaps because he’s distracted. The baton keeps slipping from his armpit every time he raises the cellphone to his ear. “Hi,” he says, in apparent confusion.
“Who is this?”
“Vat number you call? Zis is mistake.”
I don’t stick around to hear the rest. Instead, I jerk my elbow sharply out of his hated clasp. And on impulse, I leap off the trail, my body rolling down, bumping over the steep, rocky slope—unfortunately, without the benefit of using my arms for balance.
Oleg is coming for me—his bellow, way up above, is deafening—but at this point, despite getting banged every which way, I feel simply ecstatic. A chill sings around me in the night air. I am free.
For now.
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