Prologue

 

It was strange, Maureen thought, how experiencing extreme trauma seems to dramatically slow down the progression of time. She realized that it also somehow concurrently fires one’s memory cells, allowing us to recall select details stored in the deeper recesses of our minds.

Maureen reflected about there being a definite ebb and flow to life, punctuated by the celebration of the good times: her grade school puppy love, graduation from college, becoming a well known author, and a stable, joy-filled marriage. She contemplated that she also somehow had endured the bad times, her first failure in school, the death of both of her parents, her recent almost fatal auto accident and now, at this very moment, her impending death.

The Bible states that we will never be certain about the year or the hour of our death—that precious information is held in strict confidence by God alone. But Maureen knew that at most she had no more than a couple of minutes of life remaining. Maureen’s judgment was rarely wrong; and on this occasion she was certain that she was correct.

Maureen retreated backward. The knife’s sharp blade had already cut deeply into her right arm. Blood was gushing out, dampening her light blue dress. Now it was starting to accumulate on the motel’s newly tiled floor beneath her feet. She knew that the human body held about five liters of blood and death occurs quickly after the loss of 40% of that. She wondered how much she had already lost –she was sure it was significant. She instinctively pressed hard against her bleeding arm with her left hand, but it did little to stem the blood’s flow.

As she continued to retreat, her adversary brought the knife over her head seeking to end the dance of death with one final savage blow directed to the center of Maureen’s chest.

Maureen continued to move backward until her back was firmly pressed against the motel’s outer wall. As she was retreating, she momentarily glanced at the large digital clock on the nightstand. It was exactly 6 p.m. Fred had said he would meet her at promptly 8 p.m. Airlines are rarely on time and never, in Maureen’s experience, two hours early. Besides, their agreed upon meeting place was ten miles distant at the local airport. She would not be saved; her heart and mind were uniform in that judgment.

Maureen was limited to one last feeble defensive action which might be somewhat effective against an inept killer; but she knew this was a dedicated killer relentlessly advancing toward her holding the knife. Nevertheless, Maureen employed her last defense—she screamed; she screamed as loud as she could.

In her last seconds of remaining life, Maureen’s mind floated backward to when the nightmare first began.