It was going to be a party to remember.
Janet knew that. It was the first time that she was invited to an employee's party and she knew it'd be just great. At 29, Janet didn't have many chances to attend parties. She was the modern woman's ideal -- a, strong liberated San Francisco woman, daughter of a congresswoman, progressive in her ways. She's been at the leading edge of things since childhood. She always had high grades, ever since basic school. She was Class President, sat in the joint board meetings, led her school in rallies and protests alike. She had her bachelor's degree in Business and Management from UC Berkley and within three months of graduating, already sat in a San Francisco office of a large landscaping firm. Three years later, she was offered the promotion of running a field office in the foothills -- a big promotion for a 26 years old woman, no doubt. She reluctantly let go of the liberated city aura of San Francisco and took her brand new hybrid to what she personally thought of as Redneck Country. She found herself in Grass Valley, a town so alien to her lifestyle it could as well have been in another world. The people all drove big gas guzzlers, pulling large horse trailers behind them and it seemed like everyone owned a shotgun and couldn't stop talking about sports fishing and raising birds, pigs or goats. The town had no decent sushi place, the closest health food store was down in Auburn, some 15 miles away. The coffee shops were all so... unrefined.
But it was all worth it to her. She had always been on her way to the top and this promotion was just one more step on her way. She had 19 landscapers on her staff -- little more than gardeners but saying she managed "landscapers" sounded so much more artistic. They were all locals, all married and most had kids. She had nothing in common with them -- big, gruff men who talked football, baseball and war. She secretly despised them, although she'd never admit that to anyone. They were little people, with no initiative, no control over the course of their life. She, on the other hand, was always in control, always in charge. Responsibility could be heavy, challenging even, but she was always strong enough to handle whatever life had to throw on her plate.
So what if she didn't really have time to party? She didn't need parties or romance or friends to get personal satisfaction. She could always count her successes and take the pride in knowing she was on her way up... and if her employees didn't invite her to parties they held, so what?
Which was why she found it strange that she was excited about Bob's party. Perhaps it was because she never got invited to the parties. Maybe it was because of the chance to see how a local party looked like.
"Or maybe I'm just enjoying a nice Sunday afternoon," she told herself as she drove her blue hybrid into Bob's driveway. The driveway was packed with local cars -- SUVs, pickups, not a single hybrid. The only pretty car she noticed around was a perfectly restored late 60s Chevy Corvette but just the thought of how much gas that old monster must drink soured her opinion of the classic car.
There was loud country music playing in the backyard. Trace Adkins or some other redneck, she thought. They all sounded the same to her, but she knew better than to expect cultural music at this event.
She stepped out of her hybrid, straightened her burgundy dress and donned her best smile. She entered through a small gate in the ugly chickenwire fence.
"Janet," Bob smiled to her. He was a 34 years old man, descendant of Gold Rush miners and prospectors and looked the part -- large, loud, with a thick bushy beard and big callused hands.
"Bob," she said, "your house looks really nice."
"Thank you," he said, "it's good that you came. Please, make yourself at home. Something to drink?"
He showed her to a table of what appeared to be the local equivalent of bottled water -- Miller Lite. She hated beer. Fortunately, she foresaw that and was ready in advance.
"I wasn't sure what would be appropriate to bring," she smiled politely, "I hope this bottle of wine works"
He took the bottle -- a $30 bottle of Zinfandel from a good Napa Valley winery -- shrugged and said "Sure, let me get a bottle opener."
She managed not to sigh. At least she'll have good wine to drink.
Half an hour and two glasses of Zinfandel later, she was about ready to find an excuse and leave. The party was horrible. Her employees and their wives were all rednecks. They were talking on and on about the most boring of things -- Guns! Hunting! Fishing! Some were sitting around a small TV in the porch watching a baseball game! The women were just as bad -- all they could talk about was their kids and their churches. She knew little about children and cared less about religion. She was positively bored stiff. In addition, her bladder was starting to complain, reminding her of too many coffee cups since she woke up this morning.
* . * . *
She tentatively entered the house itself. She noticed the others going in and out so she figured she didn't need to ask for Bob's permission... and she definitely didn't need help finding the restroom. She passed through the living room, doing her best to ignore the three shotguns on the gun rack and the hunting trophies hanging from the wall. She turned into a corridor between the living room and the kitchen and saw a door in the end that was partly open. She went there and opened the door. It was a bedroom, she saw, darkened by the shutters on the windows. It'd probably be rude to just go in, she thought, but her bladder was insisting and she could see the door to a bathroom on the far end of the bedroom. If she went in fast, she thought, no one will see...
She went through the door and hurried to the bathroom door. Just as she got to it, she heard the bedroom door close. She stopped and turned around. It was Bob, she saw, and he looked unhappy.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I was-" she found herself stammering and stopped, reminding herself that she's a strong woman and even if she committed a small act of rudeness, that's all that was to it.
She was about to tell him that, apologize politely and ask for the restroom but stopped when his hand turned the bedroom door key, locking it.
"What are you doing?" she asked. Her voice quavered. The darkness in the room felt uncomfortable. She chided herself for acting like a scared little country woman.
He moved to the dresser next to her, opening the second drawer.
"I've been waiting for this opportunity," he said and his voice was strange, excited.
"What opportunity?" she asked, trying to turn her fear into anger. She could sack this man in an instant, she knew, she was in control.
He pulled a revolver out of the drawer. It was a dark metal thing, with a wooden grip and a smooth barrel and no forward iron sight.
"What-" she found her voice croaking, "what are you doing?"
