She shrugged. “Eh, sometimes.” Yeah, it’s called a bed when I’m too exhausted to think.
“Well, I have had enough for the day. But if you want, you can get started on this holdover. Do the maintenance tonight, and tomorrow, I’ll help you find that plastic rattle complaint. Nothing some foam tape can’t fix.”
“Right.” She looked over the repair order and collected the tagged key off the hooked board.
Scott returned to his massive tool box, grown out over the years with additional tool lockers and drawers, and locked up. “Meet you back here tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here.”
Back beside her single column of drawers, she tossed the paper on top then tucked her floppy uniform into her grease-kneed blue pants. Who needed anything else besides tools and clothes you weren’t afraid to get dirty in?
With the lock and unlock buttons on the remote, she pushed until the car sounded out its location from across the lot. So with the brake job, her hours looked decent for the day at about—her gaze drifted toward her brow as she counted—twelve and a half for the day. But she could always do more, anything to occupy her body and mind. She wanted to be beyond exhausted when she made it back home tonight so the only thing her mind focused on was fixing sore muscles, not about things she couldn’t fix, like a past that couldn’t be changed.
Reaching an Infiniti sedan, she reached for the handle. Naked metal shot sun into her eyes. A four-inch serrated knife came into focus. She froze and widened her eyes to perfect, unblinking discs. The blade’s owner, the tall, hooded figure from earlier, leaned in and asked, “How about you let me drive?”
The words came out strained. One hand stayed close to his throat.
Her heart hammered against her chest like an air gun, her lungs fighting against it for breaths. What had he said? What did he want? To drive . . . the car! He just wanted the car.
“Sure,” she croaked and then dropped the keys into his hand, abruptly turning to walk away. Get out of here. Hurry or he might—
The hand with the knife hooked its arm around her waist. The constricted voice whispered in her ear, “Uh, uh. I got a spot already picked out for you.”
The hand near his throat held the keys and remote, and he pressed a button. The trunk lid popped open.
Her heartbeat accelerated. Maybe, she thought as she fought for courage, he just wants me to check his spare.
“Get in. And be quick about it.”
He released her, pushed her on with a prick from the blade. Her feet felt heavy as they took her to the back of the luxury car. Her gaze flitting frantically, she searched the lot. No one. She was alone with this man. The security cameras had to be picking up everything. Yeah, her internal voice dripped with sarcasm, help’s just ten minutes away now.
He bumped her forward.
She shook her head. “I’m not that bad of a backseat driver.” What am I saying?
“Get in. Now.”
Blood pounded through her system. Her knee crossed up over the bumper, she ducked her head and folded her body into the storage box. Her pulse ran erratically, out of control. She couldn’t take a deep breath no matter how she tried.
“Comfy?” he asked.
“Could use a little more leg room.” Well, what else was there to say?
His arm reached for the lid. She tightened up as the trunk lid came down. The metal shocked her skin through the uniform. Air was cool in her lungs. Her eyes adjusted to reveal . . . nothing, nothing but shallow black. A gym bag under her head gave some padding. She cringed against its smell, made even stronger by the lack of sight. Maybe that fruit and cream air freshener wasn’t so bad. A little bravado tried to make an appearance.
She flinched. A car door slammed into place. Terror struck anew.
The engine turned over. He was taking her! Heat crept into her face and spread out along her body, panic prickling her flesh. She had to do something before—
The car shifted into gear and crept forward. She held her breath, focused on her senses. If they were leaving the lot then here should be the telltale bump over the diminished curb. And the shocks bounced in answer.
What would she do? What could she do? She was stuck in a trunk like she was baggage . . . or like a mechanic trying to find the cause of a noise complaint by a customer while she had another tech drive her around.
That’s right, she stopped herself. She’d been here before. She knew this! Her breathing calmed, and she focused.
What was keeping this trunk lid closed? She would go for the latch first. Her hands shot out, driven to be free and they bumped into a carpeted wall. Her fingers quested for that one plastic surface at the center. She passed over one then returned, deciding she’d found the cover for the trunk latch.
The brakes grabbed, and she slid back, bumping the rear seat.
She stilled her excited breathing and listened.
The driver’s rear door opened. It had to be her attacker, and the back seat shifted away from her. A sliver of light grew wider and admitted fresh, dry air but hardly a breath of it could squeeze through. She twisted her head and managed to get one eye closer to the light. Are those bungee cords? She worked an arm over to the rear seat and pressed against the center section. The responding push back said a heavy object was propped against the opening, strapped in by the cords. The fact it didn’t budge convinced her to keep working at the trunk latch instead.
The rear door slammed shut, and she flinched involuntarily. The front door opened again. The car shifted under his weight as he climbed in and then the door closed.
The car moved forward and merged with the hum of an automotive river. Relief supplemented her fear—because of their return to motion she could make noise.
“I know—” her attacker started, loud and yet still raspy—she pictured his hand at his throat—from the driver’s seat.
She stopped her movements, waiting, barely breathing.
“—our time is limited. What is your name?”
My name? “What?” Immediate irritation rose up in her at such a frivolous question. “You mean you missed it on my uniform?”
The car jerked to the side and her hip met a CD changer. The corner point dug deep. She winced. “Ow! Amanda!”
“Last?”
“Hudson! Satisfied?” Each minute that she let pass meant being closer to where he wanted her to be. Her heartbeat quickened. You can get out of here. She returned to the latch.
“Age?”
No response. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she squirmed around to find her pocket.
“I have the wheel, girl, don’t make me use it.”
“Twenty.” She grunted off at the end as she raised her hip.
“Where did you grow up?”
“Who cares?” she hollered back, rolling her head on a shoe. She found it easy to be difficult when she was protected by a physical barrier. Got it! Her hand met then grasped her folding multi-tool.
The brakes grabbed, and her body slid again, rolling over from the force. She met the rear seat hands and face first.
She pushed back. “What?”
“Where,” he said through gritted teeth, “did you grow up?”
“Bayfield.” The word passed her lips and called up images that blinded her in the blackness—crumpled metal, blown airbags. Stop it! Focus.
“What?” The tight voice called back.
“Turn down the radio then maybe you could hear me.” She flipped out the screw driver attachment.
“Keep it up. There’s a sharp turn ahead.”
She perked up as she found the first screw and it turned under her hand. When she started to slide and registered his threat about a turn, she called out “I said Bay . . . Field!”
“Good. We’re getting somewhere.”
; The screw hit the carpet. Yes we are. Her heart raced.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
She located the next screw, using the crack of light to aim her tool. “I’ll say. Next time, I’ll remember to push the alarm button on the remote.”
“Son of a—”
She stopped her prying, hoping to get some revelation from his muffled cursing, but he regained his composure and asked the question she feared most.
“—do you regret what you did five years ago that forced you to flee your hometown?”
Her eyes widened and then she crushed their lids together. How could he know, how could anyone know? She resolved to see how long he’d tolerate her playing dumb. “You’re seriously confused, buddy, blinded by that hood of yours, because I have no idea what you mean. Maybe you don’t have the right girl.”
“Of course! Twenty-year-old Amanda Hudsons from Bayfield are all over this city.” She heard the horn and a curse. “Move your bubble, you hatchback!” His voice had changed, possessed the ability to bring distant memories into the forefront. She needed to hear more.
“Well,” she said, “it sounds to me like there’s more than one Amanda Hudson.”
He pressed on. “I have the right girl. Is this some game to you? Don’t you realize the pain you’re causing others by keeping yourself hidden?”
“Listen, whoever you are.” The words rolled out clearest of all. “You’re crazy. You have no idea what you’re talking about!”
Under her hand, the trunk sprang open. The hot air gusted over her; dry enough for it to un-stick her wet uniform and cool the excited hairs on her skin. She jerked back from the light-searing sun.
“Not so fast,” he warned.
When her eyes adjusted, she considered the pavement as it surged forward. She braced herself against the opening, countering his acceleration.
“Be careful. I don’t think much of you, but to some, you’re worth keeping alive.”
He eased onto the brakes and she took what could be a final opportunity. She let go of the car and met the asphalt. Her momentum rolled her against the road’s gritty surface.
She came to a stop and on hands and knees, breathing heavily, she watched him drive away, and out of the driver’s door window, he yelled, “You’ll answer for what you’ve done.”
She crawled first, her scraped hands pushing against the heated black asphalt. When she picked herself up, she stumbled as far as the nearest sidewalk. Her long-sleeved uniform had kept her skin from tearing open, but the knobby street had carved into her muscles.
She concentrated on standing as her chest heaved and sucked in new air. Her eyes searched about and swallowed her location. A shattered laugh fell from her. She was on the wrong side of the street. She worked at the dealership on the other side.
Sobs took over. She fell to her hands and knees, her body shaking. How did that guy know? Who else knows!
Jogging feet approached. Hands grasped her under each arm. She had to be misjudging this. He hated her because of something else, anything else. He’s intimidated by female technicians.
The hands gripping her arms, supporting most of her weight, guided her across the street. Her feet stepped over the curb as directed. Then the mysterious bodies led her inside a building.
When settled into an office chair, someone wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and another slipped a cup between her hands. She stared at the thin black liquid.
Her eyes closed, exhausted at the possibilities stretching out before her, fear . . . revenge.
Chapter 4
“Amanda.”
Amanda pushed the sound away. She needed to think. The black liquid in the cup seeped warmth into her hands. Her eyes looked to, but never focused on, the short carpet rug. She crinkled her brow. How was she going to—?
“Amanda!”
The renewed, forceful tone broke into her plan-making. The rug grew in detail. She spotted the dealership’s ribbon symbol stitched into it. Desk feet held down the far edge. She lifted her eyes above the burnt-brown oak panels to a computer. There was the water globe with the large golf ball that forever tried to rest on a small tee. This was Charlie’s office. So it must have been her manager who had said her name.
It was his place of business. He was bound to get involved. She shrugged, finding her shoulders weighted down by something. Glancing at them, she found a blanket. Its softness surprised her. The cherry red color said they’d put a fender cover over her. She sat straighter, rolling it off. It was a little too stuffy, a little too . . . confined. The brush of the cloth loosened the odors on her clothes, and she recalled how a gym bag had once propped her head and sweat had stuck to her skin from the choking air inside that box.
She fought against the memory. You’re out of there. Back on familiar ground, with familiar people. Like . . .
A body stood to her left. He kept his hands in front of him, one hand clasping the lean forearm of the other. She moved further up and found his blue uniform with badge instead of name tag.
Like the security guard who was on duty when I was forced into a trunk and—she cut herself off, hardly worth dwelling on right now. If only everyone would stop reminding her. She looked up to about a height of five-foot-eight in order to examine the face. Adam. Wasn’t it? She recognized the dark chocolate of his eyes, and his not-so-thin lips. Those warm eyes scanned her face and then eyelids crowded to narrow them into slits.
Someone dropped a light touch on her right knee. “Amanda?”
She looked down and to her right and met someone’s—had to be another receptionist—wide, green eyes.
Laura, her name tag read, had asked from her crouching position. Her primness kept her curve-hugging skirt in place underneath her loose blouse. “Oh, honey, are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
Amanda shook her head then looked away and gathered details as if this was her first time in the room, anything to dam up the questions barraging her brain in that restricted masculine voice.
On a high, back shelf, her eyes fell upon a model car, a black Bentley. Without conscious effort, her eyes found its trunk.
“Amanda.”
She dropped her eyes and met Charlie’s face. How’d she miss that he was behind his desk?
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, a pen twisting between his hands. “Listen, the police are on their way. Can you tell us what happened?”
“Well,” she started as her eyes dropped to the top of his desk. She widened her gaze, taking in the photographs near Charlie’s right elbow, meant for the body shop department.
Metal, twisted and burnt, dragged her under, deep inside herself, far from the minor damage in the photos on the desk.
Oh, please let her be okay, her fifteen-year-old-self had begged. I didn’t mean it like that, she added after seeing the wreckage. Oh, Dad, what will we do?
Back in the present, her breath grew shallow. She frantically searched the room for something to bring her back, to pull her out of the rushing memories.
Adam placed a hand on the back of her chair as he leaned in and searched her face, those chocolate eyes melting with worry. “Amanda?”
She stared at his well-muscled arm with its live pulse under the skin. His was a welcome heat, like a sun’s heat filling the bark on a cedar trunk. Cedar? She smelled the wood on his skin. If only she could let herself . . . She forced denial on herself and returned to Charlie who had let go of his pen.
She coughed. “Well, I was, kidnapped.” Her brows gathered. And then she’d been interrogated. He—my past—knew everything. “Then I escaped.”
“Oh you poor dear.” Laura patted her hand. “You must have been terrified.”
What was that? Pity in Laura’s voice froze her lethargy and rebuilt her resolve. She pulled her hand from the rece
ptionist’s pair and eyed the woman’s black high heels. Shrugging, she said, “Could have been worse. I’m here, aren’t I?”
Laura smiled. “Yes you are. And don’t worry. We called your roommate. She’s on her way. And your father—”
“—my father! You called my father? Why!” Amanda shot up and reached for the phone on the desk. She raced through the number sequence on the keypad.
“Hey . . . Dad?”
“Amanda! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” She hated hearing that tight anxiety in his gruff voice.
You people put it there. She eyed Laura and Charlie. She said through a forced smile, “I’m just fine, Daddy. Still in one piece.”
“I’m headed out to you now.”
“What? No!” She sweetened her voice. “You don’t need to drive all the way in for this silly thing.”
“But, you need a—”
“—Dad. All I need is a bed. I’ll get a ride home. Rebbie is picking me up. I’ll be asleep by the time you get here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Besides, I’ll be seeing you this weekend.”
“You know, maybe I should—”
“Oh, Dad, please.” Blue and red lights spread out against the glass adjoining the office. “Look, the police just got here. You’d think it’s something as big as a car accident by the way they’re all behaving. Anyway, I gotta go.”
“Okay . . . You sure you’re all right?”
She rolled her eyes but held onto the smile and said, “Stop worrying, Daddy. After a good night’s sleep, I’ll be good as new.”
“All right. I love you, princess. Be careful.”
“Right. Love you, Dad. ‘Bye.”
She returned the handset with a look at Charlie and another at Laura. She wanted to say: Next time, unless I’m bleeding profusely and am on the way to the hospital, do NOT call my father.
A Running Heart Page 4