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  25

  CARRYING THE SMALL BUNDLE OF clothes she’d just taken out of the dryer, Julie padded barefoot and wet-haired through the silent living room and into the room where she’d spent a nearly sleepless night. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and judging from the sound of rushing water, she assumed Zack had also slept late and was now in the shower.

  Squinting against a dull, throbbing headache, she went listlessly through the ritual of blowing her hair dry, then she brushed it and pulled on the jeans and sweater she’d worn three days ago when she drove to Amarillo. That morning seemed like weeks ago, because it was the last time everything had been normal. Now nothing was normal anymore, least of all her feelings about herself. She’d been taken hostage by an escaped convict—an event that would have made an ordinary, decent, upstanding woman hate her captor and despise everything he represented. Any other moral, respectable twenty-six-year-old woman would have fought Zachary Benedict at every turn while simultaneously trying to foil his plans, escape from his clutches, and get him recaptured and sent to prison, where he belonged! That’s what a good, decent, God-fearing young woman would do.

  But that wasn’t what Julie Mathison had done, Julie thought with bitter self-revulsion. No indeed. Instead, she’d allowed her captor to kiss and touch her; worse, she’d reveled in it. Last night, she’d pretended to herself she only meant to comfort an unfortunate man, that she was merely being kind as she’d been taught to be, but in the harsh light of day, she knew that was a complete lie. If Zachary Benedict had been some ugly old man, she wouldn’t have flung herself into his arms and tried to kiss away his unhappiness. Nor would she have been so damned eager to believe he was innocent! The truth was that she’d believed Zachary Benedict’s ridiculous assertions of innocence because she wanted to believe him, and then she’d “comforted” him because she was disgustingly attracted to him. Instead of escaping and getting him recaptured at that rest stop yesterday morning, she’d lain in the snow and kissed him, ignoring the very viable possibility that the truck driver named Pete wouldn’t have been hurt if a struggle ensued.

  In Keaton, she’d scrupulously evaded the sexual advances of good, decent men while hypocritically congratulating herself on the high moral standards she’d acquired from her adoptive father and mother. Now, however, the truth was glaringly and painfully obvious: She’d never been sexually attracted to any one of those fine, upstanding men, and now she understood why: It was because she could only be attracted to her own kind—social outcasts like Zack Benedict. Decency and respectability didn’t turn her on; violence and danger and illicit passion obviously did.

  The nauseating reality was that on the outside Julie Mathison might appear to be a righteous, dignified, upstanding citizen, but in her heart, she was still Julie Smith, the street urchin of unknown parentage. The ethics of society hadn’t meant anything to her then; obviously, they didn’t now. Mrs. Borowski, the head of LaSalle Foster Care Facility, had been right all along. Julie gave the brush a vicious tug while in her mind she heard the woman’s acid voice and saw her face, twisted with contempt and knowledge: “A leopard can’t change its spots, and neither can you, Julie Smith. You might be able to fool that hoity-toity psychiatrist, but you can’t fool me. You’re a bad seed just like that movie we saw on television . . . . You’ll come to no good, you mark my words . . . . You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and that’s what you are—a sow’s ear: Birds of a feather flock together, that’s why you hang around with trashy street kids. They’re just like you—no good . . . . NO GOOD.”

  Julie squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the painful memories and to concentrate on the gentle man who’d adopted her. “You’re a good girl, Julie,” he whispered in her mind, just as he’d whispered to her often after she’d come to live with his family. “A fine, good, loving little girl. You’re going to grow up to be a fine young woman, too. You’ll choose a good, church-going man someday and you’ll be a wonderful wife and mother, just as you are a wonderful daughter now.”

  Ravaged by the memory of his misplaced faith in her, Julie braced her hands on the dresser and bent her head. “You were wrong . . .” she whispered brokenly. She realized the ugly truth now: She wasn’t attracted to good, church-going men, not even handsome ones like Greg Howley. Instead, she was attracted to men like Zack Benedict, who’d fascinated her from the moment she saw him in the restaurant parking lot. The revolting truth was that she’d wanted to go to bed with him last night, and he’d known it then. Like birds of a feather, he’d recognized her as his own kind. That, Julie knew, was the real reason why he’d been angry and disgusted with her when she called a halt to the lovemaking—he’d been contemptuous of her cowardice. She’d wanted to go to bed with him as soon as he began kissing and touching.

  A leopard can’t change its spots. Mrs. Borowski had been right.

  But Reverend Mathison had specifically disagreed with that, Julie suddenly remembered. When she’d repeated that proverb to him, he’d given her a little shake and said, “Animals can’t change, but people can, Julie! That’s why the Lord gave us minds and wills. If you want to be a good girl, all you have to do is be one. Just make up your mind and do it!”

  Make up your mind, Julie . . .

  Slowly, Julie lifted her face and gazed at her reflection in the mirror while a new strength, a new force, built inside of her. She hadn’t yet done anything that was completely inexcusable. Not yet.

  And before she did do something to inexorably betray herself and her upbringing, she was going to get the hell out of Zachary Benedict’s clutches! No, she corrected herself grimly, she was going to get the heck out of his clutches. Today. She had to get away today, before her weak will and fragile moral fiber crumbled in the face of his dangerous appeal. If she stayed, she would become his accomplice in fact, and when she did, she would sink beyond social and moral redemption. With an almost hysterical fervor, Julie vowed to get away from him today.

  Walking over to the bedroom window, she pulled back the draperies and peered out at the gray, ominous-looking morning. Overhead, heavy snow clouds were piled high and the wind was howling through the pines, rattling the window panes. As she stood there, mentally retracing the route they’d taken up here, the first snowflakes blew past and she grimaced. In the past two days, she’d seen enough snow to last her a lifetime! Twenty yards away, beyond the wooden deck that surrounded the house, someone had nailed a big round outdoor thermometer onto a tree at the perimeter of the woods; it showed the temperature at twenty-eight degrees, but that didn’t take into account the wind-chill factor, which Julie assumed would surely reduce the temperature to near zero.

  She lifted her head, startled by the sudden sound of a radio. The man who had caused her all this misery was obviously dressed now and in the living room, probably waiting for the news to be broadcast.

  For a minute she considered trying to barricade herself in this nice warm room until he finally left for wherever he was going, but that was implausible and impractical. She’d still have to eat, and even if she barricaded the door, she couldn’t do anything about the window. Moreover, the longer she stayed with him, the less chance she had of convincing the authorities and the citizens of Keaton that she hadn’t been a willing accomplice nor the bedmate of a convicted murderer.

  With a nervous sigh, Julie faced the fact that the only route to “freedom”—and respectability—was outdoors, across an unfamiliar snow-covered mountain, in the Blazer, if she could figure out how to hot-wire it, or else on foot. If it was going to be on foot, which seemed likely, the first requirement was warmth.

  Turning away from the window, Julie headed for the large walk-in closet, hoping to “borrow” some warmer clothes. A few moments later she uttered a little cry of glee: Near the back of it were what seemed to be one-piece snowsuits for adults. They were both navy blue with red and white trim, but one was much smaller, and when she held it up to herself, she knew she could get into it. Tossing it over her a