"Which branch of the military is your boyfriend in?"
"He's an Army Ranger." She watched the lump of the phone inch toward the top of her pocket little by little.
"Good thing I hit him hard, then."
"You're a bastard." There it was. Almost. The phone came out of her pocket, and before she could catch it, slid toward the back of the seat. "You'll never get away with this." Her fingers clumsy from the handcuffs, she searched for the phone, all the while looking at him in the rearview mirror.
"Tell me something I don't know," he answered.
"You expect to get caught?" At last, her fingers closed around the phone and she flipped it open.
"Not in this life," he said.
With her arms behind her, she couldn't see the phone's face, only feel the buttons. She wondered if Mr. Pale Eyes would hear her dial. The roar of the tires over the gravel road seemed loud to her, but was it loud enough? Her fingers roamed over it as she felt for the 1 and hoped she had pushed it only once.
Max caught her gaze in the rearview mirror.
"What happened to the hysterics?" he asked.
Though she had never felt less like crying, she willed tears into her eyes, and she let her chin quiver. "It's a little difficult to cry and plan how I'm going to kill you." Outrageous as the statement was, it was true. If he had killed Jack … an eye for an eye was sounding better and better. She pressed what she hoped was the call button. With any luck at all she had reached the emergency operator, thanks to Jack's insistence that she program in the number to a single digit.
She let her head drop forward as though she was once again overcome with tears, and she even managed to sob. All the while she was trying to read the display on the phone.
To her great relief, the "ringing" message was replaced with "connected."
"Where are you taking me?" she sobbed. She wanted to say the name of the road for whomever was listening, but darned if she could remember which one they had taken.
The "connected" light continued to be lit.
"Are you listening?" she demanded.
"I hear you," Max said.
"We're not that far from Briggsdale," she said. "There's a doctor there. Please, let's go back and get Jack."
"I couldn't care less what happens to your boyfriend."
The response angered Dahlia. She kicked at the front seat.
Max turned around and glared at her, his pale eyes as frightening as any she had ever looked into. "You keep that up, and I'll come back there and hog-tie you. You think you're uncomfortable now, it could be a lot worse."
She put her feet back on the floorboard, making sure that she shielded the phone with her body.
She looked away, then had the image of him petting her dog.
"You know my dog, don't you?"
"The easiest way to get into a house without upsetting the neighbors is to make friends with the dog. It was good of you to leave those liver-flavored treats that she likes so much on the counter."
His confession about that was somehow creepier than knowing he'd probably used the toilet while in her house.
"Where are you taking me?" she repeated, looking out the window. The Pawnee Buttes were far behind them, and they had yet to cross over any paved roads.
"Someplace safe."
"Until my sister testifies?" she asked.
"That's right."
"And then?"
She could have sworn the man's shoulders tensed. "And then we'll see."
She had no doubt he was capable of killing her—after all, she had watched him shoot Jack as though he was nothing. The thought of Jack lying beside the road, dead … or dying … again brought tears to her eyes.
* * *
Little by little the blinding pain behind Jack's eyes went away. He focused on the litter Mr. Pale Eyes left behind. Plastic dummies lying on the road like swollen, distorted corpses. A discarded blond wig of huge Dolly Parton hair.
When he realized he was still seeing the plume of dust trailing after the maroon sedan, he struggled to get up. Each movement sent shards of pain through his head. Finally he managed to sit up, and he reached for his cell phone clipped onto his belt. Thorough as Pale Eyes had been, he hadn't noticed the phone when Jack fell over. One small damn thing gone right in this disaster.
Not even sure the phone would work, Jack dialed 911 and pressed the send button. To his surprise the phone rang, and when it was answered, he asked for Officer Callahan.
As he waited for the call to be completed, he sat up, thinking about that last blow he'd taken—the one to his head. The guy could have killed him, and he hadn't. The rifle butt had glanced off the back of his head, dazing him, but not knocking him out.
"Callahan here," came a voice over the line.
"This is Jack Trahern," he said. "From last night's break-in at Dahlia Jensen's."
"I remember. What can I do for you?"
"She's been kidnapped." Jack related the circumstances, included the make, model and license plate number. He'd gotten a real good look at the last while he watched the car drive away.
While talking, Jack felt along his side. The bullet had only grazed him, an injury that wasn't serious, though it had bled a lot and stung like hell. He pressed a hand against his eyes, willing the pain to subside into something manageable.
"What about you?" Callahan asked when Jack was finished. "You okay?"
"The guy shot me and hit me over the head."
"I'm sending an ambulance," Callahan said.
"There's no need. I can drive." They had been driving well over an hour when they got the flat. Jack wasn't willing to wait that long. Remembering that the guy had thrown the keys into the field, Jack reached high under the wheel well and found the magnetic holder where he had stashed an extra key. Fortunately, it was still there.
He gave Callahan his cell phone number before hanging up.
Jack looked at the naked axle and decided he needed to finish changing the tire before he tried to get up. Who knew whether his knee would hold out after he stood. Cursing everything about the situation and his own stupidity in particular, he finished changing the tire. And through it, he worried about Dahlia.
To use her as leverage, they needed her alive. Depending on when her sister testified, that might buy a few hours or a few days. How to find her—that was the real problem. He didn't know how, but find her he would.
Before standing up, he dragged the flat tire closer to him and stood it on its side so it would be easier to pick up. Four punctures across the tread were clearly visible.
He swore and glanced back the way they had come. Somehow, the bastard had known exactly where they were going, and he'd ensured the vehicle stopped right where he wanted—in a dip where they couldn't see more than a few hundred yards. Mr. Pale Eyes hadn't shown up until Jack had the tire off the axle. Unlike the thugs who had broken into the house last night, this guy was smart.
When Jack stood, he knew he was in trouble. No way in hell was his knee going to support him. Sweating, he leaned against the side of the car and he finally managed to get himself upright. Then he dragged himself to the rear of the vehicle.
Boo leaped across the back seat and scrambled over the items in the back of the car, whining and wagging her tail.
"It's okay," he crooned, the lie making him shudder. Thinking about what might be happening to Dahlia made him crazy. He petted the dog with one hand and rummaged through his belongings.
God knew what instinct had made him put in the brace he'd worn while his knee was recovering from surgery, but there it was. His buddy Ian had always accused him of over packing. Jack had always maintained he was merely being prepared. He strapped on the brace, gritting his teeth against the pain.
He tested his weight and knew that he wouldn't he able to walk any distance, but at least he could stand up.
On the off chance that the maroon sedan was still within view, Jack picked up the binoculars Dahlia had been using. The landscape was deserted—not so m
uch as even a farm truck was in sight on any of the adjoining roads.
Jack got in the car and started the engine, praying the guy was headed back to town and that the cops would find him. Boo sat down on the passenger seat, her paws against the arm rest and her nose sniffing the air at the top of the window.
When his phone rang a few minutes later, he hoped that it was Callahan with news.
"Trahern," he said.
Instead of a response, he heard nothing but static. Wondering if the connection had been broken, he looked at the phone. The display indicated he was still connected, so he put the receiver back to his ear.
"Where are you taking me?" It was Dahlia's voice on the line, and she sounded mad as a hornet. "I can't believe what you've done. At least call and send him some help. It's not that far to Briggsdale."
The mention of a town had Jack opening a map and looking to see where the town was located. They'd have to continue east to get there. Was she communicating his location or hers?
"What would it cost you to call 911 and get him some help?"
He didn't know how she had managed to make a call on her phone, but one thing he was sure of. She was sending the clues needed to find her. All he had to do was listen.
She continued to talk, sometimes sounding near tears, sometimes sounding like her forthright self, sometimes angry. "County Road JM. Oh, God, we're headed toward Nebraska. Where are we going?"
Jack found the road she mentioned, one of the county roads that intersected the one he was on and no more than fifteen miles east of where he was. Jack put the car into gear and headed east, committing to memory each crossroad that she continued to mention with her tirade.
He was so proud of her and so scared for her. What if the kidnapper figured out she was transmitting their route? Jack wanted to have help, and yet he didn't dare break the connection to Dahlia, because he knew he would never get it back. So he followed the route she laid out for him, which went farther and farther east.
Ahead of him a huge storm billowed into the sky and cast ominous shadows across the gently undulating land of the prairie. The sparsely placed farms became even more sparse.
Finally he reached a crossroad that he knew Pale Eyes had turned onto. Question was, had they gone north or south? Dahlia hadn't indicated that. In fact, she hadn't said nearly as much during the last half hour. He double-checked his phone, worried that his battery had worn down. The connected light still blinked.
"I hope you like storms because this one is going to be huge," came Dahlia's voice again. "And, we're right smack in the middle of its path."
Jack turned north, in the direction of the storm.
* * *
About an hour after leaving Jack, Max guided the car up a slight incline to an old farm house. It was surrounded by cottonwoods, and to the north there was a thick windbreak that had taken years to grow up. A dilapidated barn stood fifty yards from the house, and part of its roof had fallen in. The two-story house wasn't in much better shape. Many of its windows were broken. The house might have been white once, its paint a distant memory.
Max parked near a shed, killed the engine and got out of the car. Dahlia glanced back at the road, realizing the vehicle would be visible from there only if you were looking for it.
This was her one chance to let the operator on the other end know where she was—assuming that someone really was listening. "We've just pulled up to a deserted farm house on a rise about a quarter mile west of the county road. There's a windbreak to the north and a cottonwood trunk that has been struck by lightning smack in the middle of the front yard."
Dahlia slid the phone under the stuffed dog and hoped that she had not disconnected it.
"I didn't hear a word you just said," Max said when he opened the door. He pulled her from the car. "What were you saying?"
"My prayers," she retorted.
"You may need them. Come on." He pushed her up a path that was mostly overgrown with weeds.
Someone had once planted flowers. Thin undernourished tulips bloomed here and there along with the occasional scraggly daffodil. A stupid thing to notice when the man had all but assured her the worst was yet to come.
Overhead, storm clouds had gathered, and Dahlia could smell the ozone in the air, though she hadn't yet heard any thunder. It was only a matter of time before the sky opened up and poured.
The door hung on one hinge, reminding Dahlia of her own broken door. She went inside and found herself in the living room. It was empty except for a broken chair that didn't have a seat. Steep stairs along the exterior wall led the way to the second floor.
Max seemed content to let her look, so she walked toward the back of the house, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon, looking for any way of escaping.
Two rooms led off the living room, a bedroom and an old-fashioned kitchen. Except for an old-fashioned refrigerator that was missing its door, the room was equally bare, equally dirty.
"Sit down, Dr. Jensen."
Her glance fell to the filthy floor. "Where?"
"Wherever you'd like."
"I think I'll stand," she said.
"You'll sit," he said, catching her across the knees.
She lost her balance and fell.
"And since I don't trust you…" Before she could get up, he wrapped a length of rope around her legs a couple of times and tied them together.
She glared at him. Outside, the storm began making its presence known with the first crack of thunder.
Without looking at her at all, he went toward the back of the house. Dahlia somehow managed to sit up. She scooted across the floor until she could brace her back against the wall. She found that when she bent her legs and rested her head against her knees that most of the pressure was taken off her arms.
She sat like that for a long time, listening for Max, who was pacing in the other room. Evidently he was trying to reach someone on his cell phone, because she heard him talking. Every now and then, she was aware of him looking at her through the doorway. She sat there, weighing her options and trying to imagine what Jack's advice would be if he were here.
Stay alert, she decided. Find something, anything you can use to your advantage.
If the movies were to be believed, Max would kill her rather than let her identify him—something you always heard about with kidnappings. She shuddered. She was not going to die today.
The interior of the house became much darker. She looked outside. The storm clouds were lowering, and the sky was very black. In the distance she could see the rain falling, and she could smell the dust as the first drops hit the ground.
Again her thoughts returned to Jack, alone and unconscious and bleeding. There had to be something she could do other than just sit here and wait for the inevitable. Getting untied was the first step.
"Max," she called.
He came to the doorway.
"I have to go to the bathroom."
"That is your problem."
"And if I stink up the place because you wouldn't pay any attention, it will be yours." She let her eyes fill with tears. "Please don't humiliate me this way."
"One more damn reason why kidnapping is a stupid idea." He came toward her with the key in one hand and his gun in the other. She turned her back toward him, and a second later felt the latch come undone around one of the cuffs.
When her hands dropped to her sides, they felt on fire, and the tingle in them was excruciating. She shook her arms out.
"You can untie your legs yourself." He held the weapon on her as though he expected she really was capable of doing something more than wish for the blood to begin flowing through her legs again.
Her fingers were clumsy, but somehow she finally untied the rope.
Outside, the rumble of the thunder came closer, echoing through the storm. From the sound, she knew the storm was a large, severe one. Based on the gusts she felt coming through the broken windows of the house, it wouldn't be long before the storm was upon them. She didn't
know how, but that, too, had to be to her advantage.
Max pointed with the gun. "Upstairs."
She went up, and he followed her, the stairs creaking badly enough she wondered if they really would hold her weight.
At the top she peeked into the nearest room—the bathroom, as it turned out. There was no water in the toilet and no door. Max stood outside the door watching, waiting.
"I've been able to do this on my own since I was about three," she said, raising an eyebrow.
Finally he stepped away from the door. Knowing he could look back at any moment, she sat down, ostensibly to do what she claimed she had to do. All the while, she was looking around for anything that she could use as a weapon.
There was nothing.
"Hurry up," he commanded from the hallway.
She stood up and put her clothes back in place.
He appeared at the door. "Hands behind your back."
She shook her head. "Have you ever been handcuffed?" she asked. "It hurts like fire."
"Not my—"
"Problem. I know." Stubbornly she held his gaze, convinced that she was tempting fate and that at any moment he'd do to her exactly what he'd done to Jack. Without warning he grabbed her hands and snapped the dangling cuff back on her wrist, her hands in front of her.
She wasn't free, but at least her hands were no longer behind her back.
A cell phone rang, the tone shrill.
Max urged her back down the stairs, putting the barrel of the gun into her shoulder.
"Yeah," he said into the phone.
She walked down the stairs, listening intently to his conversation and again looking for a weapon. The old chair was the only thing that came close.
* * *
"That's right, I've got her," Max said. He followed the woman down the stairs, frustrated and angry with everything about the situation. Every passing moment with her made her more of a person, more difficult to think of her as an expendable thing.
"At last, something you've done right," came the voice over the line. "Did you kill the boyfriend?"
"You didn't pay me for that particular service."
"You're getting old and soft, Max. Just to be sure that you really have her, put her on the phone."
FRIEND, LOVER, PROTECTOR Page 19