by Terry Odell
Chapter Four
Kelli slipped the revolver into her pocket, wondering if she’d have had the nerve to shoot him if the drug hadn’t kicked in. She stood over Windsor’s inert form and took one long, last look at his face, its handsome features relaxed, water droplets shimmering in his hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought I could come back. I guess I should thank you for reminding me I can’t trust anyone.”
She found a roll of duct tape in a box in the corner. Good old MacGyver. Duct tape fixed anything. She knelt at Windsor’s feet and wrapped several layers of the gray tape around his ankles. His wrists were a little harder to manage, since he’d fallen with one arm underneath him, but she pulled it out and secured his wrists together behind his back. “Don’t worry. Someone will come for you.”
She thought about taping his mouth, but what for? He could scream all he wanted; nobody would hear. And she didn’t want to take a chance he’d get sick and choke. She wasn’t sure how the animal tranquilizer affected humans, especially when taken orally.
She’d searched the cabin while she waited for him and found nothing but innocent paperwork. Plans for the cabin, an inventory of supplies. Maybe she’d have more luck in his room.
The rain had picked up and she dashed back to the house, where she dumped the remaining drugged coffee and washed out the pot. She went into his room and shook the contents of his duffel onto the cot. Not much—shirts, a few pairs of socks, some underwear. The second cot held his dirty laundry. She pawed through it, but it was all clothes. His wallet sat on the bedside table next to a nearly-full bottle of Scotch. She found his driver’s license. Blake Windsor, it read. So, maybe he was who he said he was. But it was an Illinois license, issued two years ago. A Chicago address. Not Seattle.
He’d said he moved around a lot. Maybe he didn’t get around to changing licenses every time he took a new job.
Why was she making excuses for him? She looked some more. About three hundred dollars, mostly twenties. Probably hit an ATM before he arrived. A folded sheet of paper. She lifted it from the wallet and smoothed it out. Stockbridge’s company logo and directions to the site.
Slow down. Think. She took his wallet to her office and copied his driver’s license and social security card. She needed to be somewhere with internet access. Give her a day and she’d know everything there was to know about Blake Windsor.
She’d found Stockbridge’s fax early this morning. As soon as she’d read it, she left a message on his machine that she was leaving. Her part of the project was almost complete. There were probably half a dozen people EnviroCon could send to finish the job.
She hadn’t decided what to do about Windsor when she left the message, but Jack would take care of the project. Right now, all she wanted to do was leave. Disappear. Again. This time, she’d take everything with her. It might not be a lot, but she was not going to start from scratch. Nor was she coming back to get it.
After replacing Windsor’s wallet, she got busy packing. Her laptop sat on the desk, reminding her she needed to back up the project data and leave the files for her replacement. An hour later, she stood in the middle of her office and contemplated the stack of possessions stacked in the middle of the room. Half a dozen cartons and a couple of suitcases. Didn’t say much for her life, did it? Maybe not, but it was her life and she was going to get on with it.
In the bathroom, her fingers trembled as she worked her hair into a single braid. Her breathing was too fast, her pulse drummed. She leaned against the sink.
Deep breath. Slow down. She’d be out of here soon enough, call Jack and they’d figure this out. Heck, he’d probably have Windsor identified before she got as far as Henry’s store.
She added her toiletries to the essentials she kept in her gym bag. Outside, the wind howled. The lights flickered, went out, came back on. She set her Maglite on the desk just in case. Even though it was after noon, the storm had transformed everything to a black and white television show.
She considered grabbing a carton of yogurt, but the thought of eating turned her stomach. She picked up the phone to let Stockbridge know she was on her way. Dead. The lights flickered again. Definitely time to leave. She added her revolver to her gym bag, picked up a carton of books and headed for the Jeep parked beside the house. She froze. All four tires were slashed. The park’s troublemakers? But why would they come here for the first time, and in a storm? No, it had to be Windsor’s handiwork. No wonder he was late this morning. What else had he done?
Shit. She’d moved Windsor’s EnviroCon pickup to a clearing behind the cabin and she’d already disabled it. Double shit. She went back into her office to retrieve the coil wire she’d removed. The lights had gone off again and she shone the flashlight into the desk drawer. While she rummaged through the jumble of paper clips, rubber bands, markers, and other desk detritus, she though she heard something—someone?—pounding on the porch. Windsor? No way. Even if he got loose, he would damn sure not be knocking. Must be the storm.
“There you are,” she muttered to the elusive coil wire. Stuffing it in her pocket, she headed for the door, yanked it open and stared at a park ranger, hunched over in a wet uniform. Doug Peterson? Good. He’d help her fix the truck and carry her gear. She raised her eyes and felt the smile melt from her face when she met the eyes of an unfamiliar ranger. Her heart thumped.
“Kelli Carpenter?” the ranger asked, shouting above the wind.
She nodded, unable to find her voice.
“Ranger Ned Decker, ma’am. Doug Peterson sent me. Are you all right?”
At that moment the lights came back on. Taking it as a sign she needed to relax, her nerves quieted a little. She’d met most of the rangers, and even the ones in law enforcement were protecting the parklands, not digging through old Mexican police files. Enough paranoia. These were the good guys. She put Decker in his early forties, curly brown hair that teased his collar, a thick brush of a mustache and permanent crinkles etched around his eyes.
“I’m fine, but did you see my Jeep? Have you had any trouble in the park?”
“I noticed, ma’am, and we had some bikers lately who got a bit unruly. Maybe they came this way.” He crossed his arms across his chest. A gust of wind spattered rain into the house.
“Come in,” she said. “You’re soaked.”
“Thanks.” Decker removed his hat, brushed water from his parka and stepped inside. “Yeah, someone had a flat.” He gestured to his wet, stained trousers. “Playing Triple A is going to cost me in cleaning bills.”
“Were their tires slashed too?”
“Nope. Normal, everyday run-of-the-mill flat. But I’ll be sure to let headquarters know about your … situation.” He pulled a pack of Doublemint gum from his pocket and extended it toward her.
She shook her head in refusal and tried to focus. Should she tell Decker about Windsor? Caught between wanting to get Decker to cart him away and wanting to pretend he never existed, she decided in favor of the latter. No need to mention Windsor. Jack knew he wasn’t a handyman. That was enough.
“Where’s Peterson?” she asked.
“Looking for some missing hikers on the north trail.”
That sounded like something Doug Peterson would do. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Have you been assigned here long?”
“Seems like it, but it’s only been a week. Things have been busy. And I don’t think I’ve adjusted to this stuff you call air, if you get my drift. Where’s the oxygen?”
She remembered her first week at four thousand feet. “Oh, it’s there. You just have to work harder to get enough of it into your blood cells.”
He laughed and the crinkles around his eyes deepened. “I like that. You a scientist? Peterson said something about environmental studies for a camp or something.”
She explained Camp Getaway, and he seemed genuinely interested in the project, unlike Doug Peterson who barely tolerated it. Kids encroaching on what he protected as his land worried him.
“Oh, not many. As a matter of fact, just one, if you get my drift.”
Before she processed his words, a loud crack and a crash resounded from outside. Kelli started, bumping into Decker’s chest when he stepped toward her.
“Sorry,” she said automatically.
He took her hands to steady her. “No problem. As a matter of fact, this works fine for me.”
Decker’s eyes squinted and his grin turned to a leer. A ball of ice formed in her gut. Visions of Robert exploded in her head. Decker tightened his grip, laughing scornfully at her attempts to kick him. “Fighting isn’t going to help, bitch. You might as well relax and enjoy yourself.” He shoved her into the bedroom, onto the bed.
Terror flooded her. She scrunched her eyes closed and squeezed into the tiniest ball possible. No. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. She told herself to fight. Heard herself whimpering instead.
His boots clumped across the floor above the pounding in her ears. He snorted. “Scared, bitch?” He stomped on the floor. She cringed each time the floor vibrated. She didn’t care. Didn’t feel. He crouched beside her. She smelled his minty breath. His hands pulled her arms away, stroked her cheek.
* * * * *
Blake groaned at the pounding in his head. Who let the drum corps into his room? He opened his eyes. Things blurred and spun, moved back and forth. He tried to rub his eyes and panicked that his arms were gone. Adrenaline rushed through his system and his head cleared a little. He remembered the gun. But the pain in his head told him he was alive.
Slowly, he assessed his body. He could wiggle his feet but couldn’t move his legs. His stomach hurt where his belt buckle pressed into it. Okay, he was on his belly. Had to sit up. His brain sent messages down the line, but they seemed to get waylaid before they reached his limbs. Christ, she’d put something in the coffee. It beat being shot, he guessed. He took a deep breath, coughing as he inhaled sawdust from the cabin floor. The coughing banged his chin on the floor. That didn’t help his head.
With supreme effort, he rolled over. Great. Now he was lying on his hands. A wave of nausea washed over him. Everything whirled again, got bright, then dark.
The next time he opened his eyes, the room had stopped spinning. The snare drums had left the corps, but the basses still pulsed. His shoulders ached and his hands were numb. He managed to squirm onto his side before another dizzy spell hit.
Please, don’t let me be sick. The thought of lying in a pool of his own vomit gave him the strength to work himself into a sitting position. Bands of duct tape secured his ankles. From the feel of it, he assumed his wrists were bound the same way. Another MacGyver fan? He inched himself across the room until, bathed in sweat, he leaned against the cabin wall. Panting from the effort, he waited until his breathing evened and his head cleared some more.
Where had Kelli gone? He recalled her face, her eyes empty, robotic. He knew the look. Hopeless despair.
Shit, why was he wasting sympathy on her? She had problems. So did everyone. He struggled against the tape, trying to stretch it enough to work his hands free, but Kelli had wrapped too many layers.
If only he could get his hands in front of him to see what he was doing. Short of dislocating his shoulder, he couldn’t get his hips through his arms. Half an inch more. Might as well be a yard.
He inched backward to the corner where his tools lay spread on the floor. He closed his eyes, visualizing the location of each tool. Again, his father’s voice broke in.
A place for everything, son. Time’s too precious to waste in the looking.
His fingers located the utility knife. He’d be as likely to slit his wrists as the duct tape binding them. Stop. Think. He managed to extend the blade and work the handle into the back pocket of his jeans. Slowly, carefully, he edged the tape against the blade. Patience. Little cuts. Test the tape. More cuts. Try again.
The sound of the tape ripping came a split second before his hands flew apart. He grabbed the knife and slit the tape around his ankles. He pulled himself to his feet and stepped outside. A glance at his watch told him he’d been out for nearly two hours. And, apparently Kelli had taken his truck. He set out for the house. The storm had lightened to a gentle shower, refreshing him as he wobbled along the path. A scream pierced the air and he broke into a staggering run.
He slowed when he reached the foot of the stairs. He strained his ears, trying to pick up sounds from inside the house. After that one scream, there had been silence. For a fleeting moment, he debated ignoring it. After all, she’d drugged his coffee and pointed a gun at him. Trussed him like a turkey. Stolen his truck.
He made a quick circuit of the house, listening at windows, trying to stay out of sight. And trying to ignore the pain in his head and the way the world kept going out of focus. A throaty laugh—a man’s throaty laugh—came from her bedroom. He rushed to the front porch. His head throbbed as he climbed the stairs. The front door was ajar. Her bedroom door was closed. He tiptoed over, tested the knob. Unlocked. The male voice growled from inside. And a female voice, whimpering. The sound sent bile to his throat. Much as he wanted to pay Kelli back for what she’d done to him, this was not what he would wish on her.
He pressed his fingertips to the door and it creaked open a few inches. He held his breath and peered inside. A man, hands at his hips, hovered above the bed, his back to the door. Blake leaned aside enough to reveal what the man’s body blocked from view.
Blake thought the fear on Kelli’s face would be forever etched in his mind. She was on the bed, cowering, her eyes glued to her captor. The man shoved Kelli onto her back. Why wasn’t she fighting? Resigned to her fate? Afraid he’d hurt her more if she fought back? Even her whimpering had stopped. The man reached for Kelli’s waist.
Had she passed out? Blake inched the door open wide enough to admit his body and took half a step into the room. The man’s boots and parka were by the bed. His hands dropped to his waist. He heard a belt being unbuckled, a zipper released.
“Let her go, you scumbag!” Blake barreled across the room, caught the man by the shoulders, dragged him away from Kelli. Scumbag, tangled in his dropped trousers, stumbled and fell backward, bringing them both down. Blake ignored the pain that shot through his shoulder when he hit the floor.
He tried to subdue the creep with a forearm to his throat. The man squirmed away, kicking and flailing and managed to reverse their positions. Blake’s head crashed back onto the floor and stars shot across his field of vision. He shook his head to clear it, realizing immediately it was a stupid idea. When he focused, Scumbag had shaken free of his pants and was leaning over him. The guy was wearing boxers with yellow happy faces. Blake was not going down to a man who wore smilies on his shorts.
He scissored his legs, caught Scumbag around an ankle with one, and kicked out with the other. While the man struggled to regain his balance, Blake flipped over to his knees. The room spun. Before he could rise, he suffered a powerful kick to his back and went down again. He rolled, brought his legs over Scumbag’s. Both men tumbled on the floor, exchanging blows with elbows, knees and fists. Blake stopped keeping track of where Scumbag’s blows were landing and concentrated on connecting with his own. Something sliced across his ribs. Pain built on pain. His reflexes were off and he searched for Scumbag’s weaknesses. At the moment, all the weakness seemed to be on Blake’s side. Dazed, he gasped for breath. Scumbag hovered over him, an evil grin on his face, a knife in his hand.
“Time for you later,” Scumbag said. “After I finish with the girl, if you get my drift. You get to watch.” Blake heard a dull thunk, saw Scumbag’s eyes widen. The man’s mouth hung open and he crumpled.
Blake got to his knees, taking a moment to suck air, fighting the pain. Then he looked up and saw Kelli standing behind Scu
mbag’s inert form, clutching a Maglite.
“Good night,” she said. “If you get my drift.” Then she collapsed. He caught her right before she hit the floor.
“Kelli?” He supported her across his knees, stroked her face. “It’s okay.”
Eyes wide with terror, she looked down at herself then back up at him. Pulling away, she dropped, hands raised as if to ward off a blow.
“Hey. It’s over. I won’t hurt you. Promise.” He kept his voice soothing, but Kelli’s eyes stared past him into nothingness. He’d kept Scumbag from raping her—hadn’t he? Crap, he didn’t know how long he’d been out, or how long the creep had been there. Had he interrupted a second—or third—attack? “Kelli. Come back. Please?”
One hand clutching the waistband of her jeans, she scooted backward on her bottom until she leaned against the bed. His adrenaline was wearing off and he fought a wave of nausea. Already, his shoulder talked to him and a burning sensation built in his belly.
He sat with his head on his knees. His ragged gasps were the only sound. He dreamed of a long sauna followed by an eon in a Jacuzzi. Half-dazed, he heard his father’s words.
The pains of a job well done are part of the reward, son. Take some pride that you’ve put your whole self into the work.
His mind drifted to the time his father had pulled him and his older brother out of school to help meet a deadline. The three of them had worked until after dark, his father shrugging off all their whines and complaints. Few words were spoken until they got home and had cleaned and put away every blasted tool to the old man’s satisfaction.
Good work, boys. You were true men today.
And then he’d sent them in to take a long hot bath and had rubbed the knots out of their aching muscles until they’d fallen asleep.
Regret and remorse at never thanking his old man layered themselves above the aches and pains and some of the fog lifted.