She needed to do something. He was setting the tripod up five feet directly in front of her, just as he had done with each of his victims.
“Yes, you really did have us all fooled,” she told him, hoping to get the attention of his overworked ego while she scanned the surroundings. Her gun lay against the opposite wall, about ten feet away. Too far away. With her hands in front—well, one good hand—she could grab something, anything and use it as a weapon. Her eyes searched. A lamp to her left. In the messy pile of clothing, a belt with a buckle. On the coffee table, some kind of African pottery.
Garrison snapped a new roll of film into the camera. Not much time. Damn it! She needed to concentrate. Needed to think. Needed to ignore the throbbing in her shoulder and the blood that continued to trickle down her sleeve. The camera was loaded. He began attaching it to the tripod and then unwinding some sort of cable, plugging one end in to the camera. A trip-cable, a release cable—that’s what it was—so he could snap the picture from several feet away. He didn’t need to be behind the camera, he didn’t need to even touch the camera. He could be strangling her into unconsciousness while he shot the picture.
She shifted her back closer to the wall. How long would it take to bend her knees? To shove against the wall and get to her feet? Even with them tied together, she could do it. But how long would it take?
He was checking the camera’s sight, tilting the tripod’s platform to adjust the camera’s angle. Maggie tried to ignore his preparations, his ritual, trying not to be alarmed by his calculating calm, by his steady and intent hands. Instead, her mind raced. Her eyes darted. Her damn arm throbbed and so did her heart, filling her ears with the constant thump, threatening to dismantle her thought process.
“I’ll go down in history for sure,” Garrison mumbled, adjusting shutter speed, assessing, then twisting the camera’s lens. Focusing, making another change. Readjusting the aperture. Checking again, preparing.
Maggie edged her knees up toward her chest, quietly, slowly. Garrison was too involved to notice, at times his back to her, blocking her view of the camera. He seemed lost in his process. He was quickly becoming the invisible cameraman.
“No one has attempted this. A self-portrait along with a fleeting soul caught on film…all in the timing.” His voice continued, his words becoming a sort of mantra of encouragement to himself. “And the angle,” he said. “It’s definitely the timing and the angle. Oh, yes, I’ll be famous. That’s for sure. Beyond my wildest dreams. Beyond my mother’s dreams.” He was caught up in the process, forgetting his victim, or rather reducing her to just another subject, waiting—hopelessly waiting to become a part of his bizarre process.
But Maggie wasn’t waiting. She scooted her feet up, straining to be quiet, straining to pull them up as close as possible. Just a little more. Close enough. Yes, she could reach the clothesline. But not the knot. She shifted her weight and a pain shot through her arm, stopping her, almost bringing her to tears. Damn it!
She checked on Garrison. He was unwinding the cable, untangling it as he marched back to the counter. Jesus! He was almost ready. She tried for the knot again, her fingers reaching, her wrists scraping against the metal of the handcuffs. If she could get her feet free she might have some defense when he came at her, ready to strangle her. With the pain throbbing in her arm, she knew consciousness would be difficult to hang on to. She couldn’t let him get that far. She couldn’t let the clothesline even get around her neck, or else—or else she would be gone.
He stood at the counter, the air bulb of the release cable in one hand. Maggie watched him pick up the gun in his other hand. Her entire body froze. He wasn’t going to use the clothesline. Was he actually considering the gun, instead?
He turned to face her. Her knees stayed at her chest. Her fingers stopped at the knot. It didn’t matter that he noticed. It was too late. He was ready. And suddenly the rest of her body had become as paralyzed as her right arm. Even her mind came screeching to a halt.
Without a word he walked toward her, carefully dragging the