“Shut up, willya?” he said, his tone plaintive. She thrashed about, barked her shin on the potting bench and knocked over the garden tools; they clattered to the cement floor. She tensed to scream again, but he put one rough, smelly hand over her mouth, muffling her effectively; all her struggling accomplished was that he pinned her arms behind her with one strong arm while keeping her silent. “Stop it!” he grunted. “Stop struggling!” Had she made enough noise to attract attention? Oh, how she hoped now for one of those sick, murder-obsessed thrill seekers to be lingering. Even Kathy Cooper’s husband could be her savior! She seriously considered biting the man’s hand, but couldn’t bear to put her mouth around his smelly digits. “I’ll stop if you promise not to shoot me,” she mumbled, her voice stifled and shaking so much it was unrecognizable, even to herself. “I don’t have a gun,”
