There'd be Hell to pay when he got home tonight, and she was terrified. Her husband had turned violent more than once in the past week, consumed with a rage no one could possibly understand. She'd discovered there was no match against his brutal strength, fueled by drugs.

After calling the construction site, she found out he'd been fired late in the afternoon.

It was 8:15. He should have been home hours ago.

The young woman laid the baby down, kissing the child on top of her soft, downy head, then walked into the tiny kitchen to brew a pot of tea-more to keep busy than actually drink it.

She was just sitting down at the kitchen table when his old, worn-out pickup rumbled up the gravel drive.

The man stumbled through the back door, malice in every step, his hair damp with sweat and dirt; his bruised face streaked with dried blood and grime. The torn sleeve of his work shirt and bloodied knuckles gave testament to the fact he'd been in a fight.

As he approached, she backed into the far corner of the small kitchen. That was her first mistake-she knew from experience-but couldn't control her fear of him.

He sensed her terror and thrived on it. Closing the distance between them, he grabbed her, crushing her unwilling body to his massive chest and kissed her hard on the mouth. He smiled at the blood that appeared on her lips.

"Don't ... please," she begged.

"Shut up," he hissed, his breath reeking of cigarettes and alcohol.

"You'll wake the baby."

Laughing, he pushed her away, making her stumble and catch her hip on the edge of the counter.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she staggered to keep her balance.

"The baby? Not my baby, you stupid bitch," he growled, glassy eyed and crazed from the drugs and alcohol. "I knew from the minute that little bastard was born she wasn't mine. And I'm glad. Do you hear? Glad! I hate her as much as I hate her slut of a mother. Why do you think I do this?" He thrust his arm in her face.

She gazed at the needle tracks trailing up his arm and shuddered with disgust as well as fear. The broken veins showed an angry red against flesh bruised from the drugs he injected daily.

"'Cause I hate your fuckin' guts, both of you," he screamed, spraying her with spittle. He drew back his hand and swung, connecting with her jaw, sending her crashing against the kitchen wall.

Advancing toward her crumpled body, he pulled out the hunting knife strapped to his belt, promising over and over in his own crazy, whispered litany, to teach her a lesson she'd never forget.

From the other side of the room came the voice of a small child, timid and frightened. "Mommy? Daddy?" As the little girl looked at her mother lying on the floor, blood trickling down one side of her mouth, then at her father, knife in hand and murder in his eyes, she began to wail. Running to her father, she pummeled his leg with her tiny fists, crying. "Stop, stop! Mommy hurts!"

The man turned on the child, ready to kill. He raised the knife, hatred for them both burning in his insane eyes.

The woman looked up. Getting to her knees and shaking her head to clear it, she knew her child was in grave danger. Struggling to her feet, she lost her balance, but soon recovered, scanning the kitchen for a weapon of some kind. Grabbing the teakettle from atop the stove, she lurched toward the man holding her child. With all the strength left in her battered body, she swung the kettle in a high arc, landing it on his head with a loud thwack.

He fell backward, banging his head on the kitchen table as his immense frame crashed to the floor-then lay still.

"He must be dead," she muttered, cradling the sobbing child in her arms. Kneeling by her husband-a man she no longer knew at all-and placing her hand to his mouth, she felt the warmth of his breath against her palm.

He was still alive.

"Come on, honey. We have to hurry," she whispered. Clutching the child to her bosom, she ran out the back door to the old pickup truck that would get them to a safe haven.

"Oh, no. Damn!" The keys to the truck were in the kitchen, hanging on a nail above the sink.

Setting the child in the pickup, she was prepared to go back inside when she glimpsed the sparkle of something shiny reflecting in the sinking, golden summer sun. Miraculously, the keys dangled from the ignition. "Thank you, God," she muttered to the heavens. Kissing the child's tear-streaked face, she locked the door and climbed in the driver's side.

Never again would she come back here. She should have fled with her baby long ago, but feared it would have been their death if she did. Now, time was running out, and he'd almost killed them anyway-and still would when he regained consciousness.

Turning the key, her stomach lurched at the sound of the engine turning over and over again. "Please, God. Please," she chanted, glancing furtively at the back door, expecting her husband to come stumbling out at any minute with the shotgun that lay under their bed. She cursed herself for not remembering to grab it before leaving.

Taking a deep breath and holding it, she tried again. Still nothing but the incessant cranking.

"Damn! Maybe it's flooded," she told herself, looking at her beautiful little girl who was on the verge of sleep, despite all the anxiety her mother struggled with. Pressing the gas pedal all the way to the floor, she said a silent prayer and tried once more.

The old truck roared to life, black smoke billowing out the rear. Then it coughed, sputtered, and almost died.

Gunning the motor to keep it running, she slammed the pickup into gear and tore out of the driveway, gravel flying in all directions, never looking back.

They would stay with her brother, Carlos, in Chicago-a place she'd called home not so long ago. They would be safe there-for a while anyway. With pure determination, she sped down the endless black highway, homeward bound.