Winston Patrick Mystery 2-Book Bundle. David Russell W.

forward, covering her mouth with his hand, pushing her back into the kitchen hallway. She struggled to break free, gasping for air. She could taste the salt of his hands, the oil of his skin as his fingers gripped her face. Using his foot, he slammed the door behind him and pushed his way into the kitchen, still holding Dobrila with both arms like an enormous child’s toy. He was strong, stronger than Dobrila could even fathom, dragging her along with what seemed little effort on his part. As he pulled her to the floor, his hand across her mouth slipped, momentarily giving Dobrila the freedom to yell.

      It was short-lived, for no sooner had she managed to get out the very beginnings of a shriek than the man’s hand found its way to her face, his enormous palm covering her mouth and nose until she was certain she would pass out from lack of air. This time, she tasted something different on his hands. It was blood, and she instinctively knew that it was not her own. This man was injured. Slowly, he eased the pressure on her face, lowering his mouth near her ear and whispering. “Will you scream?” he asked. “You cannot scream.”

      Dobrila shook her head, as much as his grip would allow her. Slowly her attacker raised his hand from her mouth. “Please. Do not hurt me,” she said. The man seemed to laugh.

      “You are not who I thought you would be,” he told her, slightly bemused. Dobrila’s head raced as she sought for meaning in the man’s strange words. Then she knew. Soldiers, especially officers, were frequent targets of kidnapping and torture.

      “My husband is not home,” she told him quietly. “He has gone to fight in the wars. Please. Leave me be.” Dobrila, thinking quickly, was careful not to mention her daughter in the house and prayed this new noise too would not awaken her. The man was so close to her now, she could smell the tobacco he breathed, sensed the racing of his breath.

      “Your husband?” he hissed. “Your husband is with the army? I thought I could find shelter here. I did not think I would find Serbian killers here.”

      “You haven’t,” Dobrila whimpered. “I am alone. There is no one but me. My husband, he only goes because it is his job. Please. I beg you. If you need help, I can give it to you.” He smiled at her fear, rising up and sitting on his heels to look at the woman he had come across. Dobrila looked at him too, could see that he was wounded but did not go to help him. From down the hallway, Dobrila and the man both heard a sound at the same time. He turned towards the doorway. “No!” she screamed and hurled herself in the direction of her daughter’s bedroom.

      Before she could reach the hallway, she felt his full weight upon her, pulling her to the floor. Dobrila could keep quiet no longer, screaming, kicking and struggling to free herself. “Stop it!” he ordered, hitting her hard on the back of the head as he brought her to the floor. Dobrila rolled over onto her back and kicked with all her might, connecting with her attacker’s abdomen. Even through her stocking she could feel that her foot was wet, warm and sticky with his blood. He screamed, then hit Dobrila again, this time hard in the face with such ferocity that Dobrila thought for certain she would die at his hand.

      He fell on top of her, pinning her arms to the floor and covering her mouth. He raised his head and listened for more sound from the hallway. Dobrila screamed but could do nothing to free herself from the bleeding man. He put his face next to hers again, his breathing sounding ever more laboured. “Do you know pain?” he asked. Dobrila’s eyes went wide with horror, and she screamed again, but could do nothing. He pinned her arms with one hand while reaching down with his other.

      Dobrila’s eyes filled with tears as she felt him attack her. His arm smothered her cries, and through her struggles she cried out to God to help her. But no help came, and Dobrila could only pray for her life to end quickly and that the animal on top of her would not find her daughter. The lightning flashed after an eternity, and the man sat up, letting go of her arms and looking down at her with disgust in his eyes. Dobrila could not move, only lie on the floor in their mingled blood and count the seconds until she heard the thunder of the storm moving away. The man got up, leaned against the wall and tried to catch his breath. Finally, he stood up straight, a massive man, well over six feet, Dobrila found herself noticing, and took one final look at her. He spat in her direction, then turned and walked out the door.

      As the door to her little house slammed, the insufferably unreliable power of Novi Sad returned, springing the house into light so quickly Dobrila, staring up from the floor, had to squint her eyes in pain. She knew then she would live.

      “Momma?” she heard a small voice from beside her ask. Slowly, she turned her head and saw her daughter standing at the edge of the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Why did he hurt you?” she asked.

      Dobrila lay on the floor and wept.

       One

      He was snoring. If he had just been asleep, I might have been inclined to leave him where he was, but make no mistake about it: the kid was snoring. And everyone had taken notice. At least he hadn’t passed out. The forms required to deal with that were endless.

      This was not the life I had been anticipating. This was Communications class at Sir John A. Macdonald Secondary School. For the lingo-impaired, “Communications” is a euphemism the education system uses to identify an English class where we often put those students who are, shall we say, challenged when it comes to an understanding of literature and language. They’re also often stoned.

      At the moment, I was attempting to teach a lesson on how best to prepare a resumé for the work force. Now, I’d be the first to admit my lessons aren’t always stimulating, cutting-edge brilliant, but when a student falls into a deep enough sleep that he’s actually snoring—and waking other students who are sleeping quietly—one has to take action. My action? Chalk. It always works.

      This particular piece of chalk bounced off Justin’s head and had no immediate impact. The upside was that the class laughed loudly enough that Justin was, in fact, awakened from his midday slumber.

      “What the fuck . . . ?” were the first words his limited vocabulary could muster.

      “You were snoring,” I informed him.

      “Maybe that’s because your class is boring.” What Justin lacked in written ability, he more than amply made up for with his spunk. The fact I was his teacher in no way limited his willingness to hurl insults at me. It was part of the reason I liked him.

      “I see you’re practicing your sleeping skills. That should come in handy when you’re living under the Granville Street bridge because you can’t get a job.” Justin, I had learned, also appreciated a well-timed insult tossed in his direction.

      “Yeah, well, at least society will know which teacher to blame.”

      That’s really why I got into the teaching business: the respect I get from students.

      Justin duly wakened, I returned to the task at hand, attempting to convince my students that while they may never come to appreciate great literature, the least they could do was exit my class with the ability to fill out a job application, write simple business letters and not get screwed over by “record of the month club” agreements. They weren’t really all that interested, but fear of chalk missiles kept the rest of the students from dozing off for the remainder of the period. I was beginning to understand how Gabe Kotter must have felt.

      Anyone who doesn’t think teachers earn their money on a daily basis should stand in front of twenty-four seventeen year olds—with fifty per cent of them high at any given moment—and try to instill some kind of appreciation for language. In November. In Vancouver. In the rain. Better people than I have been driven to the brink of insanity in more favourable circumstances.

      Like an audible gift from God, the bell finally rang, dismissing my class from their stupor and me from the interminable dog and pony show I used to keep them in some kind of holding pattern until the end of the period. I liked them, but they tired the hell out of me. Students might think it’s weird, but I looked forward to lunch time probably more than they did. I’d been teaching for two months.

      I had just finished sliding some papers