by Sasscer Hill
Carla’s brown eyes were solemn. “Watch your back, Nikki.” I threw her a smile, grabbed the magazine, and climbed from the car.
Weird, being in disguise. I passed a few grooms who lived in the track’s backstretch housing on my way to Clements’ barn. I knew one of them, but he stared like I was a stranger.
Jim’s stable roof rose in the distance, and closer I could see Clements’ barn arranged in that catty-cornered angle. I headed for the rear side, not wanting to get near Jim’s, thinking I’d either be recognized or unnerved. I reached the entrance, leaned against the outside wall, and leafed through the magazine. My ears strained to listen, my peripheral vision surveyed the surroundings, and some extra sense kicked in, scanning the barn for human presence. At midday the big sliding metal doors remained open. When convinced anything alive in there had either four legs or feathers, I closed the magazine and stepped into the barn like I had an appointment.
To the right a row of stalls stretched into the distance. To my left was the short end of the long rectangular barn, its dirt aisle making a quick right turn over to the barn’s opposite side, and another row of 30 stalls. Farino’s space occupied the far end, where the metal door facing his stalls provided a view of Jim’s operation.
My interest lay in this end, where three doors opened into small rooms generally used for office, tack, or feed storage. Clements’ lair occupied the middle spot. Pausing outside his door, I listened. Horses stomped, munched hay, and bumped the occasional feed bucket. A few pigeons preened and pecked for grain, but most of them remained half-asleep in the rafters. The barn’s sour odor still festered beneath the rich scent of horses.
I turned, studying the hinged metal hasp. The end securing the padlock had a slot fitting over a metal loop. The Yale lock hung from that loop, closed down tight, unbreakable. But the other end of the hasp . . . I almost laughed. The Phillips screws fastening it to the doorframe were totally accessible. Oversight or arrogance? Whatever, I took out the screwdriver and removed the little buggers, then yanked the hasp off the frame, rendering the lock useless. I turned the knob and went in.
Clements’ office was surprisingly clean and neat. Probably on account of his allergies. A row of plastic eye-drop bottles, inhalers, and prescription pills lay on a stand directly behind his wooden desk. Horse periodicals and stallion directories filled a bottom shelf. I went for his metal filing cabinet, and jerked open the top drawer. Folders labeled with horses’ names in alphabetical order stuffed the inside. My fingers flipped to “N,” found “Noble Treasure.”
My heart raced as I pulled the horse’s file. His Jockey Club papers lay between some vet records. The neck whorl description matched my memory of Whorly’s spiraling cowlick. The name, registration number, date of birth, and breeder were identical to those of the horse I called Rocket. I folded the certificate into my coat pocket, thinking they’d done a good job, the papers looked genuine.
Pigeons flew up from the dirt to my right, their wing beats loud and startling. I grabbed some air and tried to replace the first screw with nervous fingers.
Soft Spanish words drifted from the corner to my right. My heart jigged, the hand grasping the Phillips felt suddenly weak. A young man with fussy blond hair came around the corner, something about him familiar. I dropped everything and took off.
“Hey!” The guy pounded after me.
I reached the left corner and bolted to the right down the long side of the barn. Footsteps hammered behind me, swift and closing. I didn’t waste time looking over my shoulder, just ran full-out. Daylight spilled through the metal door down in Farino’s end. I sprinted toward the sunlight, almost reached its safety, when Arthur Clements rounded the far corner and blocked my path.
Surprise killed my momentum, and the blond smacked into me from behind. We crashed in the dirt, a tangle of arms and legs. I got my hands under me, struggling to rise. He clubbed the side of my head. Grabbed my shoulder, rolled me over so I faced him. Those eyes. I knew this man, but the hair was wrong.
“Hold her down.” Clements’ voice.
The blond gripped my wrist, twisting it to a painful angle. I tried to knee him in the privates, but he caught my bent leg and flipped me back into the dirt.
A heavy boot pressed against my neck. Clements. He stood over me, his face dark with some emotion. The blond straddled my legs, snatched at my arms. We struggled until Clements shifted all his weight onto my neck, cutting my air. I stopped fighting.
“You stupid bitch,” he said. “Couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
A memory raced through my brain. Clements shouting at Dennis that he talked too much. Panic churned my gut.
“This chica, she think she know everything. I know girls had same problem.” He grinned and pulled a knife from his belt.
Vipe’s knife? My eyes found the prison teardrop, faint under some kind of greasepaint. Recognition froze me like a wave of ice.
“You like my disguise? Is good, no? Yours, not so good.” With an odd giggle, Vipe snatched the cap from my head, ripping hairs as Carla’s pins gave way.
“Put that back on,” snapped Clements. “I don’t want anyone recognizing her. We gotta get her outta here.”
Vipe pushed the tip of his knife against my cheek. My eyes slid shut. “I want to play with her. You no let me play with her?”
“Stop it, Vipe. You’ve already got her hairs all over the dirt. You think I want her blood?”
“Okay, man. Chill.” The knife eased away.
“Get some baling twine, tie her hands and ankles. Do it!” Clements’ angry shout almost sounded tinged with fear.
Vipe trussed me up like a Christmas goose and sealed my mouth with duct tape. Clements removed the crushing leather boot. I coughed, trying not to gag behind the tape. Clements pulled Vipe aside, whispering.
The Latino’s laugh made my skin crawl. “You wait for me there, chica.” He grinned like he’d made a joke. “I hurry back with something you like.”
I twisted, searching Clements’ face. His expression was like a door slamming shut.
Outside I heard a truck’s diesel engine clank by. I tried to make noise through the tape but Clements slid his boot back onto my neck and I gave it up. Vipe reappeared with a small plastic grocery bag. He knelt next to me, rustled in the bag and withdrew a small glass bottle and a syringe.
I exploded. Clements dropped to the ground, shoving one hand on my neck, pinning my left arm with the other. Vipe sat on my thighs, pressing the inside of my right forearm until the vein popped. He held up the needle, stared at it lovingly, then drove it into my arm.
I could feel their anticipation. The bastards were enjoying it. In seconds a warm, hot rush coursed through me. My head wanted to explode, then I sunk into an unseeing daze. I sensed them untying me, felt a sharp sting as they ripped off the duct tape. They must have half-carried, half-walked me out the door. I remember my arm over Vipe’s shoulder, him kissing me and laughing at someone, saying something about me liking to get drunk early. Then I was in Clements’ truck, wedged between them, incapacitated, slipping away.
Chapter 35
I surfaced from somewhere deep, aware of engine vibration, the motion of a car. Dirt, or maybe chips or gravel, dug into my cheek. I lay on my left side, listening to the sounds of the highway, some instinct whispering for me to stay still.
Thirst dried my tongue. I needed more air, because something covered my lips, and I realized I couldn’t move my hands. Memory rushed back, causing a wild hammering of heart. I slit one eye open. Metal parts, rubber flooring, the kind of trash that collects under a car seat. Clements’ truck.
I’d been folded into the fetal position, head shoved against the passenger door, wrists handcuffed against my abdomen. My bent knees blocked sight of my ankles, but I could feel something gripping them together. The odor of horse manure, dirt, and oil rose from the rubber mat beneath my face.
A wheezing cough brought both my eyes open. Clements’ legs, I recognized the brown bo
ot on the gas pedal. Partial relief flooded me. Vipe wasn’t in the cab. It didn’t last. I was bound, gagged, woozy, and pretty sure Clements’ would kill me if he could.
The light outside the overhead windows slowly faded as I lay there motionless. Did he plan to dump my body in some dark, lonely place? Oddly, a mental image of Hellish bloomed, then faded.
The truck slowed, turning onto a bumpier road. My fingers scratched at the fleece vest I’d put on that morning. Something hard pressed into my side. I crept my fingers to it, recognizing the small object I’d felt in Carla’s car. Something from Dimsboro . . . something about Hellish. Memory flashed . . . the unused syringe of Acepromazine. Hellish had come around so well, we’d gone to the track that morning without the drug. She’d behaved like a pro, allowing me to dream. Tears stung my eyes. Not now, not with tape over my mouth. Clements flipped a turn indicator. It dinked as the truck slowed and swung onto a gravel surface. He switched on the radio to a pop station, cranked the volume up, and stopped the truck. I could smell fuel, but the radio blast locked away any sounds from outside.
I raised my head a bit, darted a glance and saw Clements going at it with his eyedrops. I lowered my head, and, above the wailing of some American Idol drama queen, I heard him blowing his nose.
A rush of cold air and the rocking of the cab told me he was getting out. For gas? He slammed the door closed and something fell on my knee and bounced near my hands. The damned eyedrops.
The idea hit fast. I closed my fingers around those drops, unscrewed the top and squirted the bottle dry. Set it down, then went for the pocket with Hellish’s syringe. Hard to reach in there with cuffed hands. My fingers fumbled and dug, racing against Clements’ inevitable return.
A dim thunking sound and vibration suggested Clements had shoved a gas nozzle into the truck’s tank. Would he sit in the truck while it filled? Please God, let him need the bathroom. I waited a few precious moments then scrabbled for the hypo. The radio song crescendoed into a shriek, then a man reported weather for the Chesapeake Bay area. I was still in Maryland. My fingers touched plastic, curled around the cylindrical shape, prying it out. I pulled it clear, gripped the plunger between one thumb and index finger, and removed the plastic needle guard. Slid the thin steel into the allergy sprayer’s opening and shoved the plunger. And just like that Clements’ eyedrops were loaded with three cc’s of Acepromazine.
I withdrew the needle, screwed the top on the bottle, tossing it over my bent knees, hoping it would land someplace he’d find it. Shoved the hypo in my pocket.
Not two minutes later another thump, chilly air, and that bouncing motion as Clements climbed into the truck. He cranked the engine, turned off the radio, and drove out. I waited, willing his eyes to itch, anything to make him reach for that medication. Waited a lifetime. Had Carla called for help?
A hand groped along the bench seat. “Where’d it go?” he muttered. He swung the truck to the right and stopped. Through my lashes I could see him bent over, reaching, grabbing for his drops. He set them on the seat. Didn’t use them. His next action startled me. He leaned over me toward the glove box, and I had to fight the urge to shrink from him. He grabbed something from the box.
A hard object jabbed my right hip. Impossible not to jerk and stare up.
“Knew you were awake. Not for long.” His pale eyes frightened me. The waning light reflected a metallic glint from the gun in his hand. He tapped my hip with it and smiled when I flinched. “You got any more snooping to do, you can do it under the ground.”
My reaction amused him. No. He wouldn’t shoot me in the truck. He’d take me somewhere, get me outside first.
Clements set the gun in his lap, made a gasping sound and sneezed. He rubbed the knuckles of one hand into his eyes, then groped for the eyedrops, squirting a dose in one eye, frowning.
Fear nipped at me. Would he know what I’d done? I held my breath. He dosed the other eye. I’d gotten drops of the stuff on my hands before. It wasn’t oily, and I didn’t think it would sting. I took a breath, watching. Damn if he didn’t double-dose, squirting the stuff in each eye again. Irritation heated his face.
“The fuck you looking at, bitch?”
The venom in his voice made me cringe, snap my eyes shut. He pulled the truck onto the road, accelerating.
No choice but to lay on a mat that felt more and more like a rubber coffin. Time stretched and shrunk, stretched and shrunk.
He slowed to a crawl and bounced over what felt like a curb. Sudden bumps and dips, the sound of the tires told me we were off-road. I stole a glance at him. His eyes drooped, he looked dopey. A silent prayer whispered through my brain.
His head nodded. The truck rolled down what felt like a slope, gaining momentum. I reached my hands under the seat, grasping a metal rod, bracing myself. The rolling grew wild, the truck lurching and rocking until we smashed into something unyielding.
The crash threw me under the dash, then whipped me back into the seat. My grip on the rod lessened the violent contact to my forehead. I may have been stunned for a few moments. I remember a warm trickle down one side of my face. Blood. I had to get out of there.
I wiggled body parts, relieved things moved without much pain. Snuck a glance at Clements. His face pressed against the steering wheel. The dash lights were still on. Something dripped onto his legs. A cold gleam near my knees, the gun’s snout protruding from beneath the truck seat. I inched my fingers to it, closed them over the metal, aiming the barrel away from me as I dragged the thing closer. The revolver was heavy with bullets, the ends of their copper casings glowing dimly in the dash lights from the gun’s cylinder.
Clements moaned, started moving. I scrambled to my knees. Shuffled forward. Still clutching the gun, I got my hands on the door handle. Pushed it down. The door flew open, flinging me into the dark.
Chapter 36
Pain shot through my hands and knees. I pushed through it, rolling into a sitting position, eyes searching and finding the gun nearby. I stretched my arms and fingers, reaching for whatever bound my ankles. Bailing twine. My kingdom for a knife, but fingernails would have to do. Pick, pull, pick. The handcuffs hindered me, sending waves of frustration. The knot loosened. Flying fingers forced the twine apart, while my ears listened for Clements.
Standing, I kicked the gun under the truck, ripped the tape from my mouth, sucked in fresh cold air. The scent of salt water and pine permeated the area. Evergreens, darker than the night sky, climbed toward the stars. One headlight still shone, highlighting a tall pine embracing the truck’s hood. I searched for other sources of electric light. Only the natural glow of a clear night appeared around me.
I heard Clements trying to open his door. It sounded jammed, which might give me a few seconds head start. The incline we’d raced down seemed the logical path, and I worked my way up it, picking my steps, trying to hurry, praying the crash and Ace would shred Clements’ ability to hunt me. At the top of the slope I could see farther. A distant glow of manmade light drew me like a beacon. I walked as fast as I dared, relieved to see a streetlight illuminating a small road and the curb I assumed Clements had driven over. Drawing closer, I made out some kind of entranceway with a closed gate and a sign.
The longer I moved through the crisp night, the clearer my head became, and by the time I got to the lights and sign, I was jogging. I stopped to listen for sounds of pursuit. Didn’t hear anything. The nearby sign read “Sandy Bay State Park. Closed until March 15.” Must be close to the bay, not far from Annapolis. Studying the dark horizon, I made out a glow of suburban light to my left. I stepped onto the pavement and made tracks down the road, hugging the shoulder so I could disappear into the pines if I heard Clements.
I crept along the road, fighting head pain and a longing to lie down and close my eyes. They’d taken my watch, and unmeasurable time crawled down the road with me as the pavement wound and curved through a pine forest. I heard a car approaching, saw its lights through the trees around a bend. Instinct and fe
ar scuttled me off the road, into the trees and onto the ground where I remained motionless. The car swept past with a distinct rattle, as if the muffler were loose, leaving me to wonder if I’d been cautious or foolish to hide. My eyes were so heavy, the pine carpet so soft.
I don’t know how long I slept, but I awakened when a car with the same rattle returned, rushing past me in the opposite direction. My head felt better for the sleep, and once the car’s engine faded to silence, I moved back onto the road. Small night sounds surrounded me, a snapping twig, a rustle in the leaves shed by the deciduous trees among the evergreens.
Around another bend a small gravel road opened to my right. The chrome and waxed paint from a big SUV shone in the ambient light. The driver had backed the vehicle into the trees, as if hiding. The windows appeared foggy and music drifted out. The shadows of the road edge concealed me, where I remained motionless. Soft moans of a woman’s voice mingled with the music. Oh boy. I relaxed, recognizing the sounds of pleasure. These were not bad guys, more likely a couple out looking for love on a lonely road.
Hated to interrupt. . . .
I stepped from the shadows. “Help!” I called. Don’t think they heard me. “Help!” I yelled. Heard a small shriek, voices, rustling from within. Their headlights swept over me where I stood on the gravel, clothes torn, face bloody, shackled by handcuffs. A young guy rolled his window down, but only halfway.
“No,” he said, as I started toward them. “Stay where you are. You in some kind of trouble?”
“Yeah, I need help. Man’s after me.”
He gave me a weird look. After all, I was the one wearing handcuffs. He grabbed a cell phone.
“I’ll call 911.” He sounded irritated. Then he was talking to someone, giving a location. “They’re coming,” he said and took off, leaving me to hide in the pines.