The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (A Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mystery Book 4)

by Donna White Glaser

  I hadn’t walked two feet before the binding slid down and puddled on my foot. I pulled it back up and carefully retied it.

  Three feet, and it slipped again. This time I tied it tight enough to act as a tourniquet and made it all the way to the exit before it slid, eel-like, down my leg.

  I was done messing with it. I kicked the wrapping to a corner and, brandishing my scissors like a saber, headed out into the woods to find my friend.

  The whole situation felt surreal. Despite everything—Moses’s psychotic break, Rachel’s death, Justus slapping me—there was still a small part of me that kept telling me this was all just a misunderstanding. Maybe even an overreaction on my part.

  It was that pervasive, don’t-make-anyone-feel-uncomfortable voice that had been instilled in a childhood overshadowed by a drunken father and his enabling family. Lots of women have a don’t-make-waves voice just like mine. That same little lying voice tells potential rape victims to go ahead and get on the elevator, no matter what internal warning bells are shrieking at her to run away.

  Fear of being socially awkward could kill.

  A sharp breeze kicked up. I scuttled down the path at an erratic pace, my thigh burning and my arms outstretched like Frankenstein’s monster to block any stray branch from slapping me in the face. I wanted to go faster, but everyone knew that running with scissors was a good way to lose an eye. And that thought reminded me of Moses, which made me gag again.

  I’d lost track of time and distance, and occasionally even the path, when I heard a loud rustling on the trail behind me. I froze, but whatever it was kept coming. I only had the briefest of moments to envision angry villagers wielding torches and pitchforks. Or, in this case, religious fanatics with flashlights and shotguns.

  Oh, for the good ol’ days.

  But it wasn’t a mob. It was only Domino.

  Only Domino? Only the sixty-pounds-of-raw-muscles pit bull normally kept locked up all day “just in case.” Somebody had let him loose early. And here I was all bloody and smelling like a butcher shop.

  We stared at each other. My fingers tightened spasmodically on the scissors, but I knew I could never use them. He wasn’t growling. But he didn’t look especially friendly, either.

  “Hi, boy,” I rasped. My throat had closed up and I sounded like a three-pack-a-day-for-twenty-years smoker. I tried clearing it, but it was so dry I feared it would spontaneously combust if I used too much friction on it. “Hi, Domino,” I tried again.

  He stared at me.

  “Good boy, Domino. Don’t eat me, ’kay?”

  More staring. I took an experimental step backward. He didn’t blink, but neither did he lunge for my throat. I took another step.

  He turned and peered back toward Megiddo. Since he always looked like a coiled spring, I couldn’t tell if he’d grown more tense. Something down that way had snared his attention anyway.

  I took another step.

  A growl—low and mean—sprang from his chest and I almost wet myself, but his focus remained on the back trail.

  When I took another step, he swung back and charged. He jumped up, paws punching into my stomach, and I went down. The next few moments were spent flat on my back, trying not to suffocate under the onslaught of doggie kisses slathered over my face. As quickly as the lovefest began, it ceased, and Domino streaked back toward Megiddo, running silently, but with seeming purpose.

  I lay panting for several minutes, dog slobber cooling my cheeks, while my heart tried to find its way back to the recommended lub-dub, lub-dub rhythm that normally worked so well.

  As I neared the meth camp, my ears picked up a percussive thud—not my chest this time. Heavy metal music thrummed through the woods. As isolated as Maggie’s group was, I was nevertheless surprised at their apparent willingness to risk discovery. But then, if they were using the stuff, they wouldn’t be making the best judgment calls anyway.

  The odor of cat pee was the second clue. A few more feet through the bracken and I found the trailer again. I crawled behind the bushes at the edge of the clearing and scanned the area carefully. The windowless shed was quiet. Too quiet? I shivered.

  After another look around to make sure one of the meth heads wasn’t on guard or out having a smoke or something, I hunched over and ran to the back of the padlocked shed. The music was so loud I didn’t worry about being overheard, but that meant I wouldn’t be able to hear someone creeping up on me, either. I called Beth’s name twice, but no one answered. I banged on the wall. Still nothing.

  Dread thickened in my veins; my blood, brain, everything, shifted to slow motion.

  I knocked again. This time, opposite the rhythm of the pounding music.

  Three loud thuds, in quick succession, answered back. Then someone inside started yelling.

  “Let me outta here. Right now, you motherfu—”

  “Beth. Shut up. It’s me. I’ll get you out as soon as I can.”

  She thumped one more time as if to underscore her demand. I circled around to the front, keeping a wary eye on the trailer. The shed door’s hinges were on the exterior—a good thing—but they looked rusty and obstinate. The padlock that dangled from the metal hasp looked new, while the hasp looked as old as the hinges. I tugged on the lock, just in case one of the druggies had forgotten to snap it shut, but no luck there. It was a keyed lock too—not as easy to bust open if I had to go that route. Still…

  I smiled at a memory, and continued my circuit around the shed until I reached the spot where I had first hailed Beth.

  As if sensing my presence, Beth banged on the wall again.

  “Workin’ on it!” I assured her.

  Sort of.

  I had part of a plan, but it would be smart to know who was in the trailer and what they were doing before attempting anything. I picked my way across the littered yard, trying not to trip over the trash that still hadn’t been cleaned up. You would think a bunch of religious freaks would pay a little attention to “cleanliness is next to godliness.”

  Blankets and towels had been hung over the windows, but there were gaps. The nearest was too high up for me to get a peek inside. I circled the trailer looking for a solution and lucked out in the back. Somebody had stacked bales of straw around the bottom, probably to provide more insulation. The downside was it was probably overrun with critters that just couldn’t wait to crawl up my skirt and say howdy.

  I shuddered. Then I pulled up my big girl panties and crept over to the bales under the side window nearest the front of the trailer. Through a two-inch split in the blanket, I saw a section of the living room. There weren’t any lights on, but a bright glow from the next room over provided enough light for a clear view. And suddenly hanging out with rats didn’t seem so bad.

  I gagged. Mounds of nasty trash covered every horizontal surface in sight, including the floor. Several stacks had tipped over, creating a moldy smorgasbord of grease-stained pizza boxes, burger wrappers, and an avalanche of Mountain Dew cans.

  Across the room in the shadows, a heap shifted. One of the tweakers lay curled up on his side, facing the back of the couch, oblivious to the filth all around him. Sleeping or passed out? His butt cheeks hung precariously over the side, and for a fleeting moment, my “nice girl” voice wanted to warn him. I wasn’t certain, but I thought it might be the stocky guy who had escorted Maggie away from me at the Naming Ceremony. Nothing more to see there, so I moved down to the next window.

  I could hear someone moving around, so I peeked in a little more carefully. The kitchen was a complete contrast to the other room. Somebody, probably Maggie, given her aborted chem degree, had created her own little science lab in the deep woods. Meth lab, that is. A big one.

  None of the trainings I had gone to on methamphetamine abuse had begun to describe this kind of elaborate setup. Still, there was no denying what was going on inside. Only the sink and a grubby-looking fridge in the corner remained to tell anyone this had once been a kitchen. The upper cabinets had been torn out and the st
ove removed. Shelves made of untreated planks held bottles and jugs and other supplies. The counters had been arranged assembly-style, as a work station. A blender sat nearest one end, followed by several buckets covered with cheese cloth and then four globe-shaped flasks with aluminum bases. Card tables rimmed the walls where the cabinets ended—a continuation of the meth factory.

  Maggie was running the blender, a pile of empty boxes of cold medicine beside the whirring machine the only sign of disorganization in the immediate area. As I watched, Maggie shut the blender off, gathered the boxes, and tossed them in a trash can. Dark circles raccooned her eyes, and the sores on her face stood out in stark contrast to her sickly, pale skin.

  I raised my hand to tap on the window, then pulled back.

  Stupid. I had no idea where the third guy was or if there were more than three cooks on site. I tended to think not. For an operation like this, Father would want to keep a tight grip on who knew about it. Enoch had surely known. And Gabriel, obviously, since we had seen him here. My guess was that prior to Enoch’s defection, every man in the Seven would have known. Having a secret was a great way to bond people together. Makes for a special, I’m-in-the-inner-circle feeling. Risky, though. As Father had found out.

  So it was probably just the three cooks, but too much depended on the outcome to not be absolutely certain.

  I moved from window to window, but the rest of the trailer was dead quiet. Before heading back to the shed, I picked up three discarded aluminum cans.

  Time to get Beth out.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I knew my friend wasn’t the most patient sort, so I was a bit surprised that she hadn’t chewed her way through the shed before I got back from my reconnaissance mission. Which, now that I thought about it, would have saved us a lot of time.

  I darted around the shed to get out of sight, and knelt on the cold ground, dumping my cache of pop cans in front of me. I needed to cut out three or four strips of aluminum in more or less an M-shape. Preferably without slicing a finger off.

  That done, I folded the tops of each strip down and then folded the sides up. What was left was a middle prong with a reinforced top that hopefully wouldn’t tear when I twisted it.

  Taking the strips, I peered around the corner to make sure no one had decided to come outside. The music still boomed. Doing this in broad daylight was crazy stupid, but I had the feeling it wouldn’t be too much longer before the Megiddo troops realized I was missing and Justus or Baara blabbed about my betrayal. I slid around to the door, stuck three of the macgyvered lock shims between my lips and got to work. Because it was a keyed padlock, there were two slots where the shackle—the U-shaped part of the lock—latched into the main part. On a combination lock, the ones I used to slip open in my misbegotten youth, there would only have been one slot to finagle. Two were trickier.

  I wrapped one of the strips, prong-side down around the shackle, molding the aluminum around the post, which created a graceful curve in the strip. Then I started working it down, sliding it around and around. The idea here was to glide it around between the shackle and the slotted part where the shackle hooked with the body of the clock. Had to be careful, though. The aluminum strip was fragile and a wrinkle or tear could ruin it.

  I realized I was humming softly. Years ago, my sister and I would sing a bastardized version of Mary Poppins “Chim Chim Cher-ee” while I worked at shimming open the lock of Daddy’s beer fridge. Yes, refrigerator. Cabinets were for sissies. We had a fridge in the garage that was dedicated to chilling booze. Daddy had bolted a hasp to the door but only bothered to use a combo lock to secure it. He highly underestimated his offspring. Used to be I could pop that sucker in less than thirty seconds.

  I told myself it took much longer now, because my fingers were so cold. Not only that, but whoever had installed the hasp had done so at eye level, making the blood drain from my arms as I worked. When the first strip nestled in place, I did a well-earned victory butt wiggle.

  Now for the second. I had to hold the first shim in place with my thumb while I worked the second around the shackle. I went too fast, and the shim buckled. When I pulled it out and examined it, I saw it had torn too. Not much, but if a piece tore off inside the lock, that would be the end of it.

  I tossed it aside and picked up the third strip. Before starting, I waggled my arms, trying to coax the blood back into them. I molded the shim around the cylindrical shackle and eased it into place. Working slowly, and oh, so carefully, I slid it down and around. Each twist brought it closer to the slot it needed to cover in order to release the shackle. So close.

  It tore.

  I hopped in place, swearing inside my head, which is at least eighty-five percent less satisfying than swearing outside my head. I forced myself to take several deep breaths, willing my tense muscles to relax.

  One strip left.

  This time I said a prayer before I started the process. Slowly. Gently. Working it down, around, down and around.

  The shackle shifted slightly between my fingers. I held my breath, then pulled gently. The lock popped open.

  I didn’t have time for another butt wiggle. As soon as the door opened, Beth and a second figure slid out, and I pushed them around to the back of the shed. As they stumbled around the corner, I replaced the padlock and clicked it shut, then picked up the shims. I didn’t think anyone would notice them at first, but as soon as they discovered their prisoners had escaped, they would figure it out.

  The bear hug Beth gave me would have snapped my ribs if it hadn’t been one-armed.

  “Are you hurt?” I whispered. I pushed her sleeve back; bruises were already blossoming.

  “Just banged it up a little,” she said. “It’s not broken.”

  A figure moved next to Beth, coming to her side. Priella. Her body odor made my eyes water.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” I said. “How long have you been in there?”

  “She doesn’t know,” Beth answered for her. “Probably since she first left. Or rather, since they first hauled her over here. She’s not in good shape, either. I think she’s in shock.”

  “Could be,” I said. “Isolation does horrible things to a person’s psyche.” I turned to Priella. “We’re going to get you out of here, honey. Okay?”

  I waited til I saw her head bob once. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body, but even though it was a chilly November afternoon, I guessed it was for comfort rather than warmth.

  “Are you going to be okay, Priella? We may have to walk a long w—”

  “Walk?” Beth interrupted. “I don’t think she can. I really don’t. She’s weak, Letty. They forgot to feed her sometimes.

  Priella sank to the ground with a soft thud.

  “Whoa. Are you okay?” I asked.

  She nodded, but kept staring at the ground; I looked at Beth. She shrugged.

  It was obvious we weren’t walking out. “Maybe we could get the key to the truck,” I said. “Do you know if Justus has been here yet?”

  Beth was already shaking her head. “He and Luke got into a huge argument right in front of the trailer. They didn’t want to give up the keys to their only vehicle. Luke was yelling about running low on supplies. Especially with another prisoner, he said. Justus told them it was just for tonight. Father’s going to decide what to do with us by tomorrow.”

  “So now what?” I felt like joining Priella sitting in the dirt. “Even if I go back to Megiddo, I don’t think I can break into Father’s house without getting caught, and I have no idea where to look anyway. For all I know, Baara or Justus has sounded the alert. The whole church is probably looking for me.”

  “Baara wouldn’t do that,” Beth said.

  “Yes,” I said. “She sure as hell would.”

  “Baara killed Enoch.”

  I squeaked a little when my thoughts materialized out of thin air, and then I realized it was Priella who had spoken.

  “No way,” Beth said as Priella struggled back to her feet.
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  “She did,” Priella said in a voice that sounded like cobwebs had grown over her vocal cords. “I knew Enoch wouldn’t leave without me. Not for good. When he left the church the first time, he was just going to get us set up and then come back for me. And he did. If we had just gotten in the car and gone, we would have been free. But Enoch wanted to talk to Father. He felt he owed Father that much. And then he just… disappeared.”

  Beth reached over and took Priella’s hand. “Disappeared?”

  “He never came back to the room to get me. I was all packed. After it got dark, I snuck out and tried to look around, but his car was gone and there was no sign of him. I thought…”

  “You thought he left you behind,” I said.

  She nodded, tears streaming down her face. “But then a day or so after you came, I overheard Maliah talking to Gabriel, and it sounded like he was telling her she was officially a widow. He said you found something in the woods. That bitch never even shed a tear. I wanted to ask you what it was you found, but by then I was afraid they were watching me. And to be honest, I was never really sure I could trust you. I didn’t know why they assigned you to my room. When I heard Enoch was dead, I really freaked out. I didn’t know if he told Father I was leaving with him or not. When Father ordered me shunned, I knew I was in danger.”

  “I wondered about the room assignment too,” I said. “With everything going on, they must have just screwed up.”

  “But why do you think Baara had anything to do with it?” Beth asked.

  “I had to meet with Father. Baara was kneeling at his feet the whole time, smiling this really weird… Father told me if I’d been as obedient as Baara, he could have overlooked many things. As it stood, he didn’t know if I had just allowed Enoch to taint my thoughts or if I had an evil spirit indwelling me too. That’s why they put me in there.” Priella nodded at the shed and shuddered. “To sweat the devil out.”

  “It’s worse than that,” I added. “Baara admitted killing Enoch, right before she did this.” I raised my skirt up. “She stabbed me with a baling hook.”