Paradise Valley (Highway Quartet #4)

“Are you the only people up here?” he asked. “I didn’t see any cars. I thought all the houses were under construction.”

“Oh, there’s a few people around,” she lied. She had the urge to run, but she hadn’t actually run in years. And even then she wasn’t very fast.

“I was maybe thinking of buying a place up here,” he said to her. “So I was looking around.”

So he was telling her why he was up there after all.

She thought he was lying. She wanted to run, but it would be embarrassing and absolutely not polite. She was from Deer River, Minnesota, where a house was a “hOWse” and you said “yah, yah” while someone spoke and “you betcha” when you agreed with them. If you disagreed, you said nothing at all. She’d grown up polite.

“Are you looking for a place to run your dogs?” she asked, inching away but not trying to look like she was. “I see you’ve got an electronic training thingy around your neck. My brother is a bird hunter and that’s how he trains his dogs. With those electric dog collars, ya know.”

The man reached up and grasped the transmitter and looked at it like he was seeing it for the first time. He said, “You saw that, then.”

“It’s around your danged neck,” she said, forcing a smile that she hoped wasn’t maniacal. She had to raise her voice over the sirens down in town. “Well, good luck,” she said, backing away. “I hope you find something up here that suits you. Some of the lots have some real big yards that’d be good for dogs. It’s a good neighborhood and all the people here are real friendly. I’m in a group of ladies who go down to the range and shoot our pistols together since we all have them concealed carry permits. They’re probably looking out their windows at us right now just wonderin’ what we’re jabberin’ about.”

Too much, she thought. Amanda wished that she was capable of not talking so much when she was nervous or scared. But she wasn’t wired that way.

She looked from the column of smoke to the man next to her and suddenly asked, “Did you have something to do with that?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, that thingy you have around your neck … never mind,” she said quickly. “Just never mind me. My husband always says I don’t have a governor. Things that come into my head come out my mouth.”

He said, “Now you’re forcing me to make a decision about you.”

She pretended she didn’t hear what he said and turned toward her house. It was a long distance away and she began to power walk toward it.

*

WHEN HE RUSHED HER FROM behind and threw a strap over her head Amanda thought: Yes, dang it, he’s going to choke me to death. I knew it.

It tightened around her throat and she heard the sound of a buckle and she braced herself … and he let go.

She staggered a few feet and reached up. There was a thick vinyl collar of some kind cinched tight in between folds of fat on her neck. Amanda was still touching it when she turned around.

He was backing up away from her with the transmitter in his hand.

Why was he backing up?

“What’d you do?” she asked. Her voice was thin because the strap was so tight. “What did you put on me? Don’t tell me it’s one of those dog collars.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you.”

“Please, mister, this isn’t funny at all.”

He said, “Now would be the time to pull that pistol you hinted about.”

She didn’t move.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” he said.

He brandished the transmitter.

“There are three signals on it. The first one does this,” he said as he pressed a button with his thumb.

She closed her eyes tight, anticipating the shock. But instead of an electric jolt there was a sharp vibration. It jiggled the flesh of her neck and didn’t hurt like she thought it would.

“That’s a warning signal,” he said. “It vibrates to tell you that the next signal will hurt if you make me push the button.”

He paused for a beat. She didn’t run. She didn’t know what to do.

Amanda ran her fingers along the strap on her neck until she found the buckle. It wouldn’t be that hard to undo it, she thought …

Electricity coursed through her and the charge weakened her legs and she collapsed to her knees.

He said, “Now don’t try to take that off. I see that I need to lock it. I’m still working on the design.”

“You hurt me,” she said.

“That was just a nick at low power,” he said. He seemed pleased with himself. “It was at level forty-five. I can go up to one-forty.”

To demonstrate, he twisted a knob on the top of his transmitter. She flinched, but he didn’t press the button again.

“So don’t try to take off that collar again,” he said. “Because if you do, I won’t even mess with higher voltage. I’ll go straight to button number three.”

While he talked she felt around the receiver on her neck to find a second oblong container right next to it. It was smooth and hard on the outside.

“Inside that little box is C-4. Do you know what C-4 is?”

She shook her head.

“It’s plastic explosive. It looks just like the modeling clay you used when you were in school. But when there’s a detonator stuck into it and I push the third button an electric charge will ignite the detonator and it’ll blow up. I don’t know if it’ll take your head clean off or what. I’ve only tried it on a goat and believe me the results weren’t pretty. The collar is still kind of a work in progress, like I said. If you want to, you can get up and run for your house. That way, I can find out if button number three really works.”

The man seemed genuinely curious and it seemed like he expected her to be curious as well.

“Go ahead and run if you want,” he urged.

“Not if you’re going to kill me.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Amanda. Amanda Lee Hackl.”

“I’m Ron,” he said. “Now Amanda, do you think it’s the Christmas season?”

“No, why?”

“Your sweater.”

“I just wear it to feel happy,” she confessed.

“Do you cook?”

“Cook?”

“I’m sure you know what ‘cook’ means. Do you make meals for your husband Harold?”

She nodded. Tears flooded her eyes. She didn’t like being on her knees, being seen by him on her knees.

“Does Harold complain about your cooking?” Ron asked.

Her voice trembled when she said, “Sometimes.”

“Often?”

“Not very often.”

“Are you one of those fancy cooks or do you make good old-fashioned American food?”

“You mean like meat loaf?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Yeah, I make a good meat loaf,” she said.

“No arugula or crap like that?”

“No.”

“Can you make a peach pie?”

“Maybe not from scratch, but I can do it.”

Ron seemed to be studying her. Making up his mind about something. She wanted to get up, but she didn’t dare run.

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