by J. D. Webb
Trish grunted. “I wouldn’t have guessed you for the outdoors type.”
“Don’t let my girth fool you. I’m a pretty good hunter. Let’s go inside.”
It only took a few seconds for Boston to snip the wires and jimmy the door.
The main room was decorated in Southwestern style furnishings, with chairs made of deer antlers. A huge fireplace framed in lava rock filled one side of the room.
“Yes, I could really get used to this place. Mr. Boston, why don’t you have a look around? We’ll get the fire going and scare up something to eat.” He waved his hand at the fireplace. “Mrs. Morgan, will you please?”
Boston left, and Trish loaded three logs from a wood bucket into the fireplace. She soon had a roaring fire.
Marciano motioned Trish into a chair, and then sank into a beige leather couch covered with a colorful Indian blanket. “Now tell me the layout here.”
“There are six rooms and two baths. This is the family room. Down the hall is a combined kitchen and dining room, a bath on the left and a den on the right. Upstairs is a master bedroom with a bath, and two guest rooms.”
“I noticed in the front of the house there is only one window on the first floor and none on the second.”
“The builders suggested that since the only nice view is in the back we didn’t need to waste money on front windows. They just installed one in the family room.”
“Good. Where are the weapons?”
“Weapons?”
“Guns, rifles. You said Jim was a hunter. He had to have guns in the cabin. Where are they?”
“Oh, yes. There’s a gun case in the den. That’s where he keeps some of his hunting rifles and ammunition. His best are kept at home.”
Just then Boston entered the room, as if on cue, carrying three rifles and a pistol. “Found these in the den. In good shape.”
“Put them in the trunk and take a look around outside. There may be an additional storage place. Did you find a computer?”
“Yep. I’ll look at it later. Sorted through some disks up there, but nothing like we’re looking for.”
“Okay, go ahead and stow the guns.”
Boston nodded and left.
Marciano stared at Trish for a minute and then sat forward in his chair. “Shall we find something to eat? I’m famished.”
Trish got up and headed to the kitchen. Well, I’m not famished. I wonder if there is any rat poison in the cabinets?
THIRTY-FIVE
Marciano stood in the doorway, cleaning his fingernails with a jackknife. Trish rummaged through the kitchen cabinets trying to find something to throw on a plate for Namu.
Drat, no rat poison. Hmm, I wonder what Windex would do to Marciano’s insides? Better not do that. He’s liable to make me taste the food first.
The search yielded canned ham, peaches, and a jar of olives stuffed with jalapenos. She also found a jar of peanut butter and a sealed tin of crackers. “There. Help yourself. A feast fit for a dirt bag.” She tossed them all on the kitchen table.
Marciano laughed, lifted the pull-tab and removed the lid from the peaches. “You’re not going to make me angry. Everything is going my way. All I have to do is find my financial records and I’ll be out of here.”
Trish eased toward the silverware drawer. If I could get to that butcher knife I could do a little carving of my own. If that doesn’t work, there’s always the storage safe in the den.
Boston appeared and grabbed the peanut butter. He dipped two fingers inside the jar and began shoving chunky globs into his mouth.
Marciano suddenly knocked the jar from Boston’s hand. It hit the front of the stainless steel refrigerator and fell to the floor, not losing a drop from inside. “Have some manners, you oaf. Ask before you just assume this food is for you.”
Boston stared at Marciano and smiled as he continued licking his fingers.
“Pick up the jar and place it on the table.” Marciano gritted his teeth. “Please.”
Boston retrieved the jar and banged it on the table. He placed his hands on the table and leaned down to his boss. “Good thing it’s plastic. Otherwise you wouldn’t have anything to put on your crackers.”
Marciano’s movement was so quick Trish almost couldn’t follow it. The knife the big man had used to threaten her, stabbed into the wooden tabletop. It quivered between the thumb and forefinger of Boston’s right hand. Marciano stood and stared at Boston. “If I didn’t need both your hands in working condition I’d have thrust that an inch to the right and you’d be howling like a newborn. Don’t cross me, Boston. Ever!”
Boston looked at Marciano and down at his hand. “Nice move, boss.” He smiled and with extra effort pulled out the knife and handed it back to Marciano.
Trish realized the worst thing about the altercation was that she’d been paralyzed and hadn’t taken the opportunity to grab the butcher knife. She mentally kicked herself.
“Be a good boy, Boston, and find a place we can stow Mrs. Morgan while we do our search.”
“There’s a den down the hall. No windows and a nice healthy lock on the outside of the door.”
Marciano nodded and returned to his meal.
Trish breathed a sigh of relief. First, because she would have had to clean up the blood if any had been spilled. Second, because Boston had not found the trap door in the den. Jim had shown her where it was and what was inside. He’d forced her to spend hours at target practice with several weapons. She hoped the pistol was still there. And she prayed she would be able to go through with her plan. She didn’t like shooting animals, and she darn well knew she didn’t want to shoot a human. But I seem to have no choice. And these dolts are more like animals anyway. Can I really do it? Shooting Davis was an accident. This is different.
Boston took her arm and pushed her toward the hallway. “Let’s go, lady. We have work to do.”
Trish wriggled her arm away and headed to the den.
Once inside she was shoved onto a couch, Boston pulled out another of the ever-present plastic wires for her wrists. He did the same to her feet.
Damn, I didn’t think about being tied up again. “Hey, I don’t need any plastic bracelets. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Merely a precaution. Don’t like taking chances. Even with a woman.”
You wait, buster. You’ll think just a woman.
He turned around and unplugged the computer tower. Two trips cleared the desk of terminal and tower. He gave Trish a little wave before he closed and locked the door.
I need to get out of these shackles. The hardwood floors converted small noises to giant ones, so she removed her shoes, got up and hobbled over to the door. Placing her ear against the surface she listened to the voices in the kitchen. Good, they’re both in there. She hopped over to the desk. The drawers yielded nothing useful. Then she spotted what she needed. Resting in the pencil holder was a letter opener commemorating their credit union’s 35th anniversary.
Trish held the tool between her middle finger and her palm to push the strip through. It took a couple of minutes of sawing, but it worked. She snipped the thin plastic wire from her wrists and then her feet. She stepped to the door again and listened. Muted voices still emanated from the kitchen.
She crept to the desk. I sure hope some weapons are here. Trish grabbed the front of the desk and pulled slowly. Thank God Jim put rubber wheels on this thing. The desk moved. Carefully she tugged it to the center of the room. Underneath the desk an oriental rug covered the trap door. It was more like a safe in the floor complete with a combination lock.
Crap. What was the combination? Think, Trish, think. She tried Jim’s birthday, her birthday, and his mother’s birthday. Nothing. I know it was a date. But what date? Wait a minute. I don’t suppose he’d use that, would he? She turned the tumblers. Three, seventeen, ninety-eight. A satisfying click sounded as she turned to the last number. Our wedding date. Who’d have thought?
The lid creaked as she opened it. Trish cringed. No t
ime to worry about that now. What’s in here? Her heart sank. No gun. All those hours of practice, and Jim didn’t even keep a pistol. Damn it, Jim. Couldn’t you do this right? All that talk about my safety and how this would be our fallback if something was to happen. All you left was a bow and arrows?
She got up and checked at the door again, listening for any indication her captors would come make sure she was still tied up. Only distant footsteps on the wood floor in the kitchen. She took a shuddering breath and returned to the safe. Trish knelt down and pulled out the case. Inside was her Mathews bow. This’ll have to do.
THIRTY-SIX
“You’ll see. This will be fun. You and me out in the woods. The thrill of the hunt.”
That had been three years ago when Jim set up the target and scurried around unpacking the equipment. Then two new metal carrying cases lay open in the grass behind the cabin. A his-and-hers set of Mathews bows sparkled in the sunlight. A Switchback for Jim and a Mustang for Trish.
She shivered in spite of the warm summer breeze. She pushed back strands of blowing hair and stared as Jim assembled the bow. Her bow. She barely heard the instructions at first. Talk of a perimeter-weighted cam, Harmonic dampers, string suppressors and roller guard was all Greek to her. No amount of pleading, crying or resistance, had swayed Jim from forcing her to be here.
“Jim, I really don’t understand this. I will not shoot a defenseless deer.”
Jim laughed. “Honey, think of it like this. We are helping control the deer population. They need to be thinned so they won’t starve in the winter.” He continued setting up. “You don’t want that, do you?”
Crap. He’s actually whistling.
Too soon she was in a stance in front of the target. “Pull steady.” He told her. “Ease back the arrow. Take a breath and release.”
Her arms were on fire. She couldn’t hold any longer. The strain was so great she felt as if her shoulder would pop out of its socket. Her right arm began to shake, and she had to let go. The arrow shot up in the air and landed in the river.
Jim shook his head. He slowly walked to the target and moved it so it was not facing the river. With giant steps he paced off the distance back to her, he smiled. “We can’t afford to lose arrows. They aren’t cheap, you know. Now let’s try again.”
They had spent hours practicing. Trish’s shoulders hurt so much she couldn’t lift a skillet to cook supper that night. Since that time, Trish had become a very good archer. She could hit a bull’s-eye three out of five times from over one hundred yards.
The dreaded day came when Jim said she was ready for the hunt. Again she told him she could not do it. She couldn’t hurt a wild animal. But she also didn’t dare to do anything but follow Jim’s commands.
He had smiled and said, “Once you’re out there and see the deer you’ll be fine. It’s the only way to get venison steaks. Wait till you taste one of those. Oh wow. Just like the hunters of old, bagging game and feasting on the spoils.”
A three-hour wait secured to a tree had her close to tears. She needed to go to the bathroom. Jim told her to shut up. He whispered and it drove her nuts. Then a deer came stepping slowly toward their position. Jim nudged her. She pulled back on the bow as he’d preached. The deer came to a perfect position. She zeroed down the sight and those big, sorrowful eyes peered directly into her brain. Its ear twitched. She still didn’t know why but she let the arrow fly. Time stood still. She was almost riding on top of the arrow as it thudded into the unsuspecting beast. It staggered, then turned and leaped over a clump of brush. All she saw was that wisp of tail bounding off into the trees.
“Oh, what a great shot, Trish. A bulls-eye. Keep an eye on her. Watch where she goes.” He hugged her. While her teeth chattered she used his strength to remain standing. She stood stiff and sick, and trembled inwardly.
They waited for about ten minutes, then climbed down from their perch. As soon as Trish hit the ground she threw up. Her stomach was roiling and she doubled over to ease the pain. Jim was oblivious. He was so enthralled with the kill that he almost left Trish to get the deer.
He grabbed her arm. “Come on, we’ve got to find your trophy.”
She wriggled away. “I can’t. You go on. I’m sick.”
“You can’t miss the best part. Finding the quarry and bringing it home. Come on.” He trudged off into the brush.
Trish didn’t know how she made it through that day. The deer was 250 yards from where she murdered it. The trail of blood was easy to spot. When they reached the dead animal, Trish averted her eyes from its face. The arrow protruded from its side and a trail of blood ran from the wound. Trish’s stomach was empty and she suffered through a session of dry heaves.
Then she made the mistake of looking at the head. Dead eyes wide in fright stared at her, convicting her and leaving an image that haunted her.
She wanted to die in that poor animal’s place. That moment was when she began to hate Jim.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Trish took the case from the safe and wasted no time assembling the bow. Her life was on the line. She flexed the bow to regain the muscle memory from hours of practice. Her shoulders strained from inactivity with the bow. But, somehow it felt good. She was not completely at the mercy of Marciano and Boston. She could fight back.
Trish listened at the door again to determine her adversaries’ location. Still in the kitchen. She formed a plan, to make her stand in the corner of the room.
Four metal tipped arrows lay in the bow case. She brought them out wondering again if she had the guts to release an arrow toward a living being. I have to. Lord, give me strength.
An easy chair occupied the corner opposite the door; beside it was a small table containing a lamp. Trish laid the arrows on the table and moved the chair to one side. She stood in the corner and aimed her bow at the door to judge the distance. Best to keep the light off. That way the arrow would be coming from the darkest part of the den to add to the element of surprise. I guess all I can do now is wait for them to make a move.
A million thoughts roamed through her mind. What if both men come in? What if I can’t shoot? What if Marciano comes in? He’s so big an arrow won’t stop him. For that matter, I don’t know if an arrow would stop Boston. She remembered Jim saying a 200-pound deer would take an arrow and run for a long distance. How would it affect a 200-plus-pound man? Why hadn’t Jim left at least one gun in the safe? Oh, God, just let me get out of this alive. Please.
Trish went to the door and pressed her ear to the cold wood. She could make out some conversation.
“What about this file here, boss?”
“Looks promising. Bring it up.” Long pause. “That’s the big one. These others must be the various accounts. Very good, Boston. Copy them onto the flash drive and let’s get out of here.”
“What about the woman?”
“You know what to do. When you get the files copied, I’ll take them out to the car. You clean up the rest of this mess. After you do that, there must be something around here you can use to start a nice fire.”
“Yeah. There’s some stuff in the kitchen. No problem.”
Trish caught her breath. A fire? She looked at the log walls. The place would go up in minutes. She strained to hear more.
They continued to copy files and make plans to get away.
Finally Marciano said, “Good, we’re done. I’ll wait in the car. You finish up.”
“Right.”
Trish forced air into her lungs. This is it. Just wish I could make my hands stop shaking. The front door slammed a few seconds later. Boston began rummaging in the kitchen cabinets. Trish hurried to the corner and grabbed her bow. She fixed an arrow against the string and waited.
An eternity passed until the lock to the den door wiggled. She aimed the bow at the middle of the door and pulled back as far as she could. The door opened. Boston filled the space.
“What the hell?” His eyes opened wide.
Trish concentrated. She had heard
that in times like this things happen in slow motion. Whoever said that was right. Sweat trickled down her back. She stretched to her full height. Exhale. Steady. Release. The arrow flew to its target. It seemed to take a long time to reach Boston. The sound of the arrow hitting flesh was followed by a solid thunk as the tip passed through the man and into the door, leaving the feathers protruding from his chest.
“Ummm. No.” Boston looked down at the shaft. He tried to move. He looked up at Trish and his eyes darkened.
Trish readied another arrow and aimed.
The wounded man yanked at the shaft, but could not pull it out. He looked behind him, and with great effort jerked his body away from the door. The arrow was still stuck in the wood. Boston lunged toward Trish. She released a second arrow. This one caught him between the ribs.
Boston kept coming. Bloody hands reached out. They grabbed Trish in a bear hug. He still had a tremendous amount of strength left. She tried to brace her legs but his weight was too much for her. They dropped to the floor. His breath was bad. He rolled on top of her; all the air rushed out of her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Kicking, scratching and biting Boston only made him squeeze harder. Her hands were pinned to her side. Sticky, warm liquid gushed over her right arm. God, it’s his blood. She lost consciousness as Boston groaned once more.
THIRTY-EIGHT
When Trish regained consciousness Boston was still on top of her. Lord, a Hummer would be lighter. She heaved him off to one side with a shove that cost all of her remaining strength. Inhaling was difficult but she finally got enough air to fill her lungs.
Was he dead? With effort Trish sat up and crawled over to him, careful to avoid the pool of blood around his side. No pulse. Funny, she didn’t have the same reaction with Boston as she’d had with the deer. Maybe because the deer deserved to live.
She scrambled to her feet and peeked out the door of the den. Marciano was nowhere in sight. She prayed he was still outside in the car. Willing her stomach to calm down, Trish stood over Boston and searched his pockets. A pistol, two knives, and a small leather case full of odd-looking tools were piled beside the man.