“So what is the plan?” he asks.
I tell Gloria and Brinkley about Minooka, Illinois. I have to raise my voice a bit to make sure it carries down the short stretch of hallway to Gloria, who continues to pack in the other room.
“We want to move immediately. It will be us four plus two others,” I say.
Brinkley looks like he is about to object, but Jeremiah handles it nicely.
“Yes, Brinkley? What is it?” he asks the other man. He might as well say See? I can play with others.
“I have my own guns.”
“Absolutely,” Jeremiah says. “And we have our own equipment too.”
Gloria comes into the kitchen with her duffel bag slung over her good shoulder and her sketchbook tucked under the bad, bandaged arm. I move to take it from her but she pulls back.
“Jeremiah, this is Gloria,” I say.
Jeremiah smiles and it is a sweet and genuine smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jackson. I’m very familiar with your work. You’ve done many great things.”
Gloria doesn’t quite know what to do with this gushing, so keeping one eye on Jeremiah she opens her sketchbook. She sorts through several pictures: most feature a vast field free of power lines, crops or without any signs of civilization. The primary object in the photo is a giant tree.
“I keep drawing this tree,” she says.
“Between your drawings and Jeremiah’s maps, I’m certain we will pinpoint her.”
“Yes, it’ll be so easy to find a tree,” Brinkley says. He crumples up the remains of his wrapper and tosses it into Gloria’s trash. “You can put your things in my trunk. It’s a big trunk.”
“You’re assuming Jeremiah has less gear,” I say. “And don’t forget that we will have six people.”
“I have a large SUV,” Jeremiah offers. “It should be able to accommodate all of our gear and people.”
Brinkley folds his arms over his chest but doesn’t say anything.
“Caldwell has a benefit engagement this afternoon. Live and televised,” Gloria says. “He cannot leave on a whim this evening. We should go now.”
Jeremiah and I exchange a look. Caldwell’s possible ability to leave on a whim is something we should probably discuss.
“What?” Brinkley demands.
“We’ll talk about it in the car,” I say. “Jeremiah, you can take my car to the safe house, get Nikki and load up. I’ll ride with them to my place. I need to take Winston to a friend’s while we’re gone. Then we’ll meet at the safe house.
“We do not want go up against him,” Gloria whispers. Her fingers touch the edge of her sketchbook and her eyes gloss. “Not without Jesse.”
I take Gloria’s hand. “We’ll get Jesse back first,” I say. “Then we’ll get Caldwell.”
She nods and hefts her bag up higher on her good shoulder before looking at Jeremiah.
“Go on,” I tell Jeremiah. “I’m waiting on someone.”
Jeremiah leaves the three of us in the kitchen.
“Who are you waiting for?” Brinkley asks just after the sound of the screen door slams shut behind us. I don’t answer.
Lane enters the kitchen moments later packed and ready.
“No,” Brinkley says.
“He can handle himself.”
“As well as you can.”
“No more solo missions,” I say, my anger rising. I know I’m red in the face. “Get this commando crap out of your head. It’s done. We are all together now.”
Brinkley gives me the death stare. Lane beams at me. I frankly don’t care anymore. I’m tired of everyone, including myself, being so stupid and secretive.
I remember those sad blue eyes and pouty lips and try to see what Jesse sees. Try to see why she wants those arms around her. Why she loves his face, his voice? He smells good. I’ll give him that. And he is symmetrical. But I still can’t imagine her with him forever.
Usually I cannot so much as think of him without feeling the raw edge of anger, that burning irritation making me want to poke his eyes out. Usually just his presence agitates me and the sound of his voice grates on my nerves.
But the heat of my anger is gone. I don’t like him exactly, but something has made me let go of the anger.
She chose you, he’d said. And I can’t argue. She did save my life. For all the good it’s done me.
“Don’t die,” I warn Lane. “I’m not dragging your dead body around.”
Lane smiles. “Thank you for letting me in on this. It means a lot to me.”
“We need the extra hands.” I exhale slowly, releasing the tension in my chest. “And this might get you killed. So hold the applause until the end.”
Jesse
If the gas killed me that was my 86th death. If it didn’t, then I’ve only died 85 times, the last when Caldwell shot me through the heart. I can’t be sure if I died in the gas or not, but I do know for certain that I’ll die in this coffin.
And coffin is a fitting enough term for this wooden box. It isn’t nearly as fancy as one of Kirk’s coffins with satin lining and polished wood. This is just a wooden box, nailed together planks to seal out the dirt. And it is a bit bigger than a coffin. Because I am such a small person, I have at least a foot above and below my head. And the space between my face and the top of the box isn’t enough for me to sit up, but it is enough for me to turn on my side and curl into a ball.
And that’s what I do until the oxygen is gone and I’m gasping for air. Scared out of my mind, my body is forced to die this way. And again. And again. And again.
I quickly lose count. I try to scratch little tick marks in the soft part of the wood so I can count the rough grooves each time and know where I am, but it isn’t a very accurate system. Sometimes the times between deaths are so quick I can’t scratch a complete mark. Or I am too weak to scratch anything, becoming conscious only to realize I am wheezing for air.
But most of the time I am alive between deaths for the couple of hours it takes to deplete the air supply in my box. Someone must be opening the coffin and letting air in because the nails move. They jut down at new angles as if they have been pried up only to be shoved in again.
And dirt makes its way into the coffin.
Little granules stick to my tear-stained cheeks and dried lips. I try to keep calm despite my shaking, shivering and sore body—and the fact that I am laying in my own shit. Even the scent of fresh damp earth can’t mask the stink in this chilly underground.
And all I can do is lie here. Talk about uncomfortable.
I talk to myself and try to explain the importance of not going crazy in a box underground. And the more I realize that is exactly what is happening, the more I bang on the wood, kicking and screaming and trying to claw my way out. Except I have to give this up too, once I realize I’m just depleting my oxygen faster by raving and sobbing.
Gabriel speaks to me in the darkness. It doesn’t have to be this way.
“Please, please,” I beg. “Let me out of here.”
I can do that for you, I can do anything for you. You just have to let me in, Jesse. Just let me in.
Ally
We turn off of I-55 onto a smaller Route 6 at Gloria’s urging.
“I recognize this place,” she says.
I don’t know how. It looks like any other country road surrounded by flat farmland on all sides. Because it is almost October and harvesting season, the stalks of corn stand tall.
“Turn here,” Gloria says and we maneuver the large SUV onto a still smaller unmarked road, with one side cornfield, the other side a dense tree line.
“Stop the car,” she says. She pulls herself erect in the backseat, looking behind her and forward. “You need to park here. Now!”
Brinkley manages to maneuver the SUV to the shoulder but not completely. Suddenly the SUV turns off, coasts silently toward the ditch without power but still in drive, the ignition key still turned forward.
“Damn it,” Brinkley says.
“What�
��s happened?” Jeremiah asks calmly from the passenger seat. He has one hand, white-knuckled braced on the dash but otherwise, he’s the picture of composure. I was surprised when he agreed to let Brinkley drive at Brinkley’s insistence. And overall he’s done a pretty good job of hiding his horror. But he isn’t the only one who looks worried. Nikki is holding my hand tightly but she doesn’t say anything. Lane is looking behind us as if he expects a car to rear-end us.
I appear to be the only one looking forward. “Brake!” I yell.
Brinkley slams on the brake and stops the car from coasting off of the road into the trees along the ditch.
He yanks the emergency brake up and eases his foot off the pedal slowly. The SUV remains poised at the lip of the ditch, tilting forward slightly but otherwise unmoving.
“We’ll have to walk from here.” Gloria flips through her sketchbook. She stops on a page. “It’s almost a mile.”
“That’s consistent with the map,” Jeremiah says from the front seat before opening his door and letting in a cool draft before he closes the door behind him and passes by our dark windows.
“What the hell is she doing out here?” I ask. “What did they do? Lock her in an outhouse?”
“She is in the ground,” Gloria says, her face pinches in pain.
“They buried her?” Lane asks. He kicks his door
open and jumps down onto the street.
“Now I know why you brought the damn shovel,” Brinkley grumbles to Gloria as they both climb out. “But she’s not—I mean if she’s pulsing, she’s not really—” I hear a distant voice say and realize it is mine.
“No,” Gloria says. “We still have time.”
Everyone is out of the SUV but me and Nikki. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail and her clothes are all black. I flash a tentative smile and turn to climb out myself, but she grabs my arm and holds me back.
“You okay?” she asks. She leans toward me.
And to her credit it’s a moment for intimacy, something sweet like a good luck kiss. Until the back hatch pops open and everyone is staring at us. Jeremiah and Brinkley lock eyes with us first and then Lane. Lane has almost an amused expression on his face.
“I’ll be better when we find her,” I say, and break my gaze with the others.
She releases me so I can slip out of the high seat onto the pavement. As everyone stands at the back of the SUV, retrieving what they think they need for the hike to find Jesse, I’d feel more self-conscious about the guns in clear view, if the road wasn’t absolutely dead in all directions.
I slip my bright yellow backpack on over my red coat. I’d packed more for Jesse than myself. Clothes and toiletries that she might want to freshen up with and snacks in case she is starving. Two bottles of water, a wash cloth and a blanket.
I admit, with the exception of a pocket knife, I left the survival stuff to the others.
I point at the huge gun in Brinkley’s hand. “You can’t just walk around with a rifle.”
“A single-barreled shotgun you mean,” he says. “And yes I can. This is deer country and it is hunting season. Here, take this.”
He offers me a gun.
“I don’t do guns,” I say. So he offers the same gun to Lane who takes it. Jeremiah has his own and to my surprise, so does Nikki. From the way she loads it, it’s clear she is no stranger to guns. Though I can’t ever recall her using one on the other search and rescue missions we’ve completed in the last year.
“Do you mind?” she asks when she catches me staring.
“No,” I say, face flushing. I look away. “I just didn’t know.”
Lane is watching us again and I think I see another hint of a smile on his face before Brinkley shoves a hideously orange cap onto my head.
“Wear this so we don’t get shot,” he says. “We need to hurry,” Gloria says. “We won’t find her in the dark.”
I don’t like the way Gloria stares through the trees. It makes my skin crawl. Then again, anything could do that, now that I have traded the warmth of the car for a chilly afternoon. The sun dips lower toward the horizon and I know we don’t have much time.
We abandon the car and trek through the fallen leaves. It’s almost impossible to do so quietly. Still, we take long steps through the darkening trees, careful not to drag our feet as we navigate the landscape. I strain my hearing over the crunch of leaves, for signs of danger.
When we break through the second clearing, I can hear water. We all stop, listening to it.
Gloria whispers. “I heard water in many of the drawings.”
We only take a couple of steps before Brinkley throws his hand up. “Shhh, shhh.”
No one moves, straining over the quiet to hear what Brinkley hears in the trees around us.
“There!” Gloria says and the sudden explosion of her voice makes me jump. Everyone’s guns come up a little higher. Then I see what Gloria is pointing at. The tree. A monstrous oak, its branches spread wide like stretching arms, and grasping hands. “She’s right there.”
I have a horrible feeling Micah has set another trap just before Gloria takes off across the field. I reach to grab her and stop her from rushing out into the open but my fingers slip off the back of her jacket.
“Jackson, hold!” Brinkley shouts.
Jeremiah and Nikki both aim their guns but I don’t see anything.
“What is it?” I whisper to Nikki, just as Gloria stops.
Then she goes down.
I’m about to run and Brinkley grabs me, forces me down. I hit the dirt with an umph, little particles of dry grass and leaves entering my mouth in my surprised inhale. Then I realize it isn’t Brinkley covering me, it is Lane.
“Did she get shot?” My voice is a pitiful excuse for a whisper. “What’s happening?”
Jeremiah pushes the intercom pinned to his shoulder, much like a police walkie-talkie, and whispers. “Hostiles in trees.” If the person says anything in response, it’s directly into Jeremiah’s earpiece. I didn’t ask who he was talking to, Parish maybe or someone like him, monitoring us from a remote location.
Brinkley starts to crawl toward Gloria and Lane and I imitate his elbow crawl toward her collapsed body.
Nikki and Jeremiah hang back. When we reach
Gloria, it takes both Lane and I to roll her over from this awkward position while Brinkley keeps his gun pointed into the woods.
The first thing I do is check for a pulse, looking for a wound or blood. But there is no wound, only a small dart protruding from the side of her neck perched between my fingers and her carotid artery. I pull at the tiny object and Gloria’s skin puckers.
“What is this?” I ask. I hold the dart up to Brinkley between two fingers. He looks but only for a second before focusing on the trees again, searching them for movement. “A sedative. Military grade.”
“Why would they sedate us if they want us dead?” I ask. “Apart from torture, maybe?”
“They didn’t want her dead but I’m not willing to bet they feel the same way about me,” Brinkley says. “I’d say their last message was pretty clear.” And they did nearly stab him to death, so he has a point.
Brinkley quits searching the trees and lays flat on the ground by me and Lane. “They can only have two options once they see we won’t get up and expose ourselves.”
Lane slaps Gloria lightly on the cheeks to wake her until I grab his hand.
“I’m listening,” I say because Brinkley still hasn’t completed his thought. And listening isn’t all I am doing. I’m also looking for signs of movement. Nikki and Jeremiah are crouched low, still covered by the tree-line.
Brinkley gets to the point. “They can wait until Caldwell comes. Or they can rush us.”
“Do you have a plan either way?” Lane asks.
“If they rush us, they will have to show themselves. If they show themselves, it will come down to guns and hand-to-hand.”
“I’m no Sylvester Stallone,” Lane says.
“But if they wai
t, we’ll have to do something,” Brinkley says. “Before we run out of time.”
“The dart was in the right side of her neck,” I say. “So the shooter must be on that side, in those trees.”
“I don’t think Caldwell would guard her with just one person. We have trees on all sides, so we have to assume shooters are on all sides. Mr. Right just shot first.”
“So what is the plan again?” Lane asks.
“I have a way to draw them out,” he says. “But it puts you both in a dangerous position.”
“Danger, ha! I laugh in the face of danger ha, ha, ha!” I laugh out loud.
Brinkley grins. “Psychological warfare.”
“Lion King, actually,” I say.
He grins wider and hands me his gun. When I start to object he shoves it into my hands hard, scraping my half-open knuckles against the cold metal. “Just hold on to it for a minute. Keep your eyes open and if you see anything, point and shoot.”
I don’t look at Brinkley, keeping my focus instead on the trees, until he stops rolling around in the field and motions for his shotgun. I give it back as he hands me a gas mask and a small pistol.
“Put this on,” he says.
“What was all that—?” Lane asks. “You looked like a damn gymnast.”
“I threw a tear gas canister. Put on the masks!”
Lane is already pulling his mask down over his face. I do the same as I turn back to look at Nikki and Jeremiah.
“What about Jeremiah and Nikki?” I jab a finger behind us. “You forgot about them!”
“What are those?” Lane asks pointing at the cylinders Brinkley pulls from his backpack.
“More tear gas canisters,” he says. “I’m going to throw one in each direction and draw them out. Have the gun up and ready. When I say run, you take off toward Jesse’s tree. Don’t stop for anything.”
“But what about Jeremiah and Nikki?” My voice echoes in my mask. “And what about Gloria?”
“She’ll be safe here,” he says. He puts a mask over Gloria’s face, checking the nozzle for the sound of her breath. “If they wanted her dead they would’ve shot her, not sedated her.’’
Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) Page 23