Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  Splashing water on my face to clear the rest of the cobwebs away, I dried my face and hands on the hand towel. I took a deep breath, placed my finger on the spray nozzle, and swung the can behind my back.

  Opening the door with my left hand, I saw Rella standing calmly in front of me with the gun trained at my head. Without a second’s hesitation, I pulled the can from behind my back and sprayed Rella’s eyes. Twisting to the left, I swept my arm down, knocking the .22 out of Rella’s hand. She screamed with pain and rage. The gun dropped as she clawed at her eyes to relieve the stinging pain. I grabbed the nearest object I could find—a clay flowerpot with some sort of greenery in it—and slammed it down hard on Rella’s back. She crumpled to the floor.

  I ran to the end table where I’d seen a landline. Snatching the receiver off the cradle, I dialed 911. Without waiting for an answer, I tossed the receiver down beside the phone and ran up the stairway. Looking both ways, I could see an exterior door through the kitchen. I sprinted for it, as much as you can sprint with one shoe on. I heard Rella coming up the stairs, screaming my name.

  I reached out to grab the door knob just as I saw his face peering in the window. Phillip House. I stumbled back and fell when the door swung open without effort. The veins in his neck pulsed, his eyes glittered with hate, and he grabbed me by the hair and yanked me to my feet. Spittle flew out of his mouth as he pulled my face inches from his.

  “I warned you once. Now you’re finished.”

  Pulling my knee up with blinding speed and gut-wrenching terror, I connected with his groin. He yelped in agony and let go of my hair, doubling over. He fell to the floor, clutching himself. I jumped over his writhing body to the landing and scampered down the steps to the fenced backyard.

  Racing for the gate, I lost my footing and tumbled forward. Clambering back up, I tripped on the too-long skirt. The heel from my remaining shoe tore completely through the cotton material, ripping a hole in it. I scraped the useless shoe off my foot, pulled the skirt off, and tossed it out of the way. I ran for the gate, but saw it was useless. Rella beat me to it and stood guarding it, arms extended forward, gun cocked and pointed at my head. Rella wouldn’t dare fire the gun outside, but escape seemed impossible.

  I swung my head around wildly, looking for another exit. Instead of an exit, I saw House gimping his way toward me, his face red with rage, his eyes bulging nearly out of their sockets.

  Of the thirty-six plans, flight is the best. A little Japanese proverb I had learned in an origami course I took with six other ladies from church, Abigail Thornbush being one of them. Abigail was actually quite good at it, which would have been fine if she could have kept her thoughts to herself, but she was Abigail, after all.

  “Why, Jamie, this is art, not paper crumpling. Everyone makes a swan. Honey, why don’t you use your imagination? Look at my butterfly, dear. Or what about Jo-Ellen’s grasshopper? It takes a little extra work, but I think you’d be happier in the long run if you gave it your all. You know, God gave you abilities, and if you don’t use them, you lose them.”

  In the midst of this desperate situation, I thought of Abigail. That couldn’t be good. Flight definitely seemed like the right course of action, but how?

  God help me!

  With an ear-splitting shriek, gauged to throw my abductors off balance, I propelled myself forward, shoulder down, ramming House’s mid-section hard. A giant whoosh escaped his lips. He fell backward onto the ground. I felt a sudden jab of pain in my right shoulder as I somersaulted past his body. No time to worry about the cracking sound.

  I jumped up and kept running, not looking back. I flew up the stairs and back into the house. The front door seemed miles away. Desperation urged me forward. Pain ricocheted through my body, but I kept moving.

  Trying to open the door with my right hand proved useless. Precious seconds wasted. I heard and felt the thunk of something heavy hitting the back of my head. An extended nooo came to mind before I fell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Blackness swirled around me, and my head throbbed with pain. I forced myself to lie still, hoping they would leave. I strained my ears for the sound of sirens. I prayed the 911 operator could pin point the location of the call I’d made. I had no way of knowing how much time had elapsed. I didn’t think I’d passed out, but I wanted them to think so. I heard voices above me.

  “Knock her out,” Rella ordered.

  “She’s already out,” House answered. “We gotta get out of here before someone calls the police.”

  “She already did.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry. I took care of it. Told them my kids were playing with the phone. They aren’t coming,” Rella said.

  I felt the last remnant of hope slip away.

  “Help get her to the car.”

  I forced my body to relax—to go “spaghetti arms” as Jake would say. He’d been hyperactive as a young boy. Our family pediatrician had suggested medication, but David and I wanted to use that as a last resort. So the doctor suggested that when Jake’s behavior got out-of-hand to teach him to go limp all over. It would have a calm ng effect on his muscles and slow him down.

  We made a game of it. We called it “spaghetti arms,” and Jake loved it. The minute we said the words, he would slump to the ground like he’d been shot. Not a muscle would twitch until we begged him not to be dead anymore. Hopefully, my act was as convincing as Jake’s. I didn’t want to make this easy.

  “Get her feet,” House ordered.

  I nearly screamed when House put his hands under my armpits and lifted. The pain in my collarbone was excruciating. They picked me up like a sack of grain and stutter-stepped me out to the garage where they shoved me into the trunk again. My mind kept screaming, “spaghetti arms.” If I showed any pain, they appeared not to notice.

  “Tie her up,” Rella ordered.

  “We don’t have time. Let’s just go. She’s out like a light. I hit her hard. She’ll be out for a long time.”

  “Sorry, I don’t have your confidence. Give me your tie.”

  I heard the muffled sounds of the tie sliding out of his shirt collar.

  Rella reached into the trunk and wrenched my arms backward. I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from crying out. Every twist of the tie sent a new shot of agony to my collarbone. My concentration on remaining limp was heightened each time the pain gained intensity. I would not give into these thugs. At least not this second in time—maybe in the next—but not this one.

  I don’t know how long it actually took Rella to bind my hands, but it seemed like a lifetime. The trunk finally slammed shut and I prayed, “Thank you.” I let the pent-up tears roll down my face. And for the next few minutes, I let myself cry.

  The good part about pure agony is that it keeps you alert. There were no lingering effects of the drug Rella had used in my system, and thoughts of escape raced through my head. Some were stupid, some were unrealistic, but I kept thinking anyway. I noticed some freedom of movement, although painful and awkward with my hands tied behind my back. I didn’t want to make any big movements that would alert Rella and House that I was awake. My best chance of escape was if they still believed I was unconscious.

  I prayed that the Cliffhangers had started searching for me.

  The car moved at a pretty good clip. According to my shoulder pain, the shock absorbers needed to be replaced. Being directionally challenged in the best of circumstances, I didn’t even try to figure out which way the car was turning or how many turns it made. I used all of my energy not to scream when the car bounced over bumps. To take my mind off the pain, I steered my thoughts back to escape.

  First off, I had to figure out a couple of tactical problems. I was tied up, in a dark trunk, in serious pain, and I had no idea where I was going. An hour, maybe two, passed, but I still didn’t have a serious plan in place. I felt the car slow as it turned onto a bumpier road. The tires made crunching sounds. Gravel. My heart sank. There would be little hope of r
escue now. I felt the car crunch off the rough gravel and onto pavement again. Each bump magnified the pain, but at least it kept me awake and aware. For that I was thankful.

  God, if you want me to live, show me the way and give me the strength. If you’re ready for me to come home, be with David and the boys. Protect and provide for them. Ease their grief and let them know how much I love them.

  I could feel the spunk drain out of me the longer I stayed in the trunk. I was way past tears as I prayed, resigned now to the inevitable. I would watch for any possible chance to escape, and I would fight tooth and nail for my life, but reality told me I wouldn’t make it.

  My heart was ready to meet God, but I regretted that I’d never hold a grandchild, wouldn’t get to know my youngest boys’ life mates, wouldn’t be able to snuggle in David’s arms one last time. I’d had a good life on the whole, with the only major regret being not living it more fully, and of getting comfortable with my everyday existence and forgetting to change the world. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I again remembered how certain David and I were that our love would conquer the world.

  I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, and I have kept the faith. The thought scuttled across my mind from somewhere deep inside. And with it came a bit of adrenaline. Maybe not much, but enough to get me moving. I groped around the floor of the trunk to feel something sharp enough to use as a weapon. I winced as the pain rolled merrily across the ridge of my shoulder. The pain made me mad. More determined. No time to give into fear. There was a fight to finish, a race to win, and faith to keep.

  I crab-rolled inch-by-inch to every corner of the trunk. My hands fumbled onto a flat object with bristles on one end and a flat, sharper metal edge on the other end—an ice scraper. Maybe with a little effort, I could cut the tie that bound my hands.

  Maneuvering the handle so the metal scraper was touching the tie, I seesawed the scraper back and forth, pressing down as sharp pain shot through my broken collarbone. I almost became numb to the pain with the rhythmic motion. Finally, I was rewarded with a snap of material as the tie ripped apart. Sapped of energy from the effort of freeing my hands, I lay still for a moment. Gently, painfully, I rubbed my arms. As the numbness in my arms decreased, my confidence in an escape increased.

  Taking stock, I numbered my advantages. I was conscious, my hands were free, I had an ice scraper, my eyes had adjusted to the dark, and I had an immense desire to see my family again.

  And that wasn’t all. I had prayer, the element of surprise, and my head. Mom always said the Waymires were a hardheaded folk. Think. Think. Use your head as a weapon. My right arm and hand weren’t of much use with a broken collarbone, but I still had my left arm. My legs were cramped, but otherwise unhurt. I could run like crazy if I had to.

  Now to take stock of my disadvantages. No one, other than House and Rella, knew where I was, so there wasn’t much hope of the Cliffhanger cavalry arriving on time. I had a broken collarbone; I was outnumbered two to one; I didn’t have a sensible weapon; and I had no idea when the car would stop. My abductors had the advantage since I was lying in the trunk. Plus they had a burning desire not to get caught and nothing to lose by killing me. What’s one more body in a long list of bodies?

  Not the best odds, but not the worst either. I wasn’t dead yet.

  I don’t know how much longer it was before the car started to slow down. I had no idea if I was still in Indiana, or if they’d crossed the state line. I felt the vehicle roll to a stop and wondered if this would be my chance of escape. My pulse quickened. I could hear my heartbeat. The smell of gasoline reduced my anxiety level. This was probably just a refueling stop, but I stayed alert and ready to bolt.

  A wave of fatigue rolled through my bones like the tide rushing onto the beach. The car was in motion again, so I closed my eyes. I’d read somewhere that rest was as good a weapon as a gun or a knife. I didn’t know about that, but I knew I needed to sleep if I was going to be able to have a chance of survival. I let myself relax and drift off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Sunday

  I awoke with a start. Something was wrong. The car was no longer moving. I scuttled as far back into the trunk as possible and strained my ears for voices but heard none. Odd. Even with the engine and road noise, I’d heard the two of them talking. Their words had been muffled so I couldn’t hear the actual words of the conversation, but I knew they were talking. Now? Nothing.

  With pain and difficulty, I forced my arms behind me. Time to put my escape plan into action. I braced my back against the rear of the trunk, and pulled my knees tight to my chest. I was as ready as I was going to be.

  Slam your foot into his nose like he’s a punching bag. No mercy. Hit hard. Hit fast. Make him bleed. Make his eyes water. Fight the good fight. Steady your back against the rear of the trunk. My mind swirled with the mantra, repeating it over and over again.

  The trunk opened, and my eyes immediately responded to the light. Although not bright, it was better than total darkness. I tried to look through my eyelashes without obvious squinting. I could see House standing outside the trunk. No Rella in my line of sight. House aimed a pistol—two-handed—at my chest. I didn’t move a muscle.

  “Get out.”

  I stayed still. My heart hammered against my ribs.

  “I said get out . . . now! ”

  I didn’t reply, didn’t move. Please God, help.

  “I am not going to mess up this trunk with you. Now get out.” The barked words were impatient, angry, and full of hate.

  I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Sweat trickled down my neck.

  Exasperation, frustration, and impatience caused Philip House to make his first mistake. He set the revolver on the fender and leaned as far as he could into the trunk. He reached for a handful of my hair, prepared to drag me out if I wouldn’t come willingly.

  Thunk. The sound of my feet meeting his nose was a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. Blood exploded out of his face. He reeled back screaming. I lunged forward, and with my good arm grabbed the gun off the fender. House staggered and fell to his knees.

  I glanced at the surroundings, keeping the gun pointed at House. My arm was shaking, but I don’t think House noticed with all the blood in his eyes. As far as I could tell, we were in a wooded area with no human population. There was a Forest Service Porta-Potty about a hundred yards away. I guessed Rella was taking care of business.

  I slithered out of the trunk, gun held firmly in hand, my right arm now virtually useless. House was on his knees, holding a white hankie up to his face, swaying back and forth. His second mistake. He should have recovered quicker. Running the three steps to his position, I raised the gun, and holding the barrel brought the butt down on the back of his head with every bit of force I had. He slumped to the ground, his bloody nose forgotten.

  I backed to the car, keeping my eyes on the Porta-Potty and House. I was breathing hard and wanted to throw up. I looked in the front driver’s door window for keys. None. Rella must have taken them with her to the privy.

  For half a second, I considered the possibility of ambushing Rella when she came out of the bathroom. Dumb idea. I’d gotten lucky with House, but Rella was the seasoned killer of the two. House had only killed one person. Rella had killed many—in a variety of ways, all brilliant. All with the express purpose of keeping Craig lonely. Rella was insane, and insanity was far more dangerous than anything I’d run up against. No, flight was still the best option and I didn’t have time to waste.

  I dropped to the ground and snaked my way into the woods. It was early morning, I guessed. House must have stopped here off the beaten path for Rella to use the facilities. Or maybe this was where he was going to kill me, and the bathroom was just an added bonus. The sun hadn’t come up yet, but I was careful to stay in the underbrush. I couldn’t risk making noise. Rella would be out of the bathroom in seconds. Watching the ground for twigs, leaves, and other noisemakers, I crept slowly between
brush and trees.

  I heard the Porta-Potty door slam shut. An angry roar broke the stillness. Rella had found the empty trunk and the unconscious House.

  Hunkering down behind a tall pine, I held my breath.

  Expletives flew thick and fast in the air. The trunk slammed shut.

  Something dropped on my neck. A pine beetle? Spider? I couldn’t risk brushing it off. It inched its way slowly into my hair.

  Muffled sounds emanated from the direction of the car.

  I slowly brought the gun level to my chest, my arm resting on my knee for support. The index finger of my left hand touched the trigger. Not sure I could hit anything, I waited, prepared to do what I needed to do.

  Silence.

  It was unfortunate that it was my right collarbone that was broken. The gun was too heavy to hold with my disabled right hand. I doubted I would hit the broad side of a barn with my left, but hopefully, Rella wouldn’t figure that out. I inspected the gun. It was not the gun Rella had poked in my face earlier tonight—not the one she’d used on Tim. Must not be a .22 caliber.

  Zeb, the gun expert in our family, had schooled me on every type of rifle, shotgun, and pistol there was. I hadn’t been particularly interested in guns. I’d listened, though, because I was interested in everything my kids loved. I’d learned all sorts of interesting tidbits that added together didn’t mean much, but on various occasions, I was able to surprise people with my trivia knowledge. For instance, I knew a .22 caliber was lightweight and deadly close up, but didn’t have the heft or thick barrel this gun had. I might be holding a .44 or .38 caliber.

  I wasn’t sure and didn’t care. I didn’t want to have to use the gun, but I would do what it took to finish well. It would be important to David and the boys to know I fought to the finish.

  I heard an engine roar to life. Hope returned.

  Maybe Rella thought I would take the open road to escape. That would be stupid. No, she must be taking House to the hospital or at least to civilization.