The words fell distant and hollow, fighting to be heard over the roar of pain in Henry’s ears.
“You sure … we could always … and that should do the trick.” An unfamiliar voice faded in and out.
The pair of voices battled a duel, making little sense in the muddled fog of his mind.
What was happening? Why were they arguing?
“Shut up and get out of my way.” The sounds grew nearer.
Henry fought to open his eyelids, but they were so heavy.
Stella. He’d seen her … for the briefest moment. She was alive. Still alive. He tried swallowing past the desert in his throat.
Something gripped his arms and legs. He wriggled to free himself, but either the hold on his limbs was too strong, or his muscles were too weak.
Focusing his energy, he forced his eyelids into submission. Why couldn’t he see? Pinholes of light filtered through something over his face. Rough fabric scratched his cheeks. Black swirls lapped at the corners of his vision, and his head felt as if it had been filled with helium.
No. Don’t sleep.
He had to stay awake. Stella needed him. She may be alive now, but more time spent under Linda Hazzard’s care would certainly spell her doom.
When he opened his mouth to shout for help, the sound died in his throat.
“Ready?” a male voice said.
A pause, then Henry’s body lifted from where he’d lain. His heartbeat drummed in his temples. One …
Whoever held his shoulders jerked and emitted a grunt.
“Two … Three.”
On the final count, the pressure on his extremities vanished. Suspended in the air, he struggled to find something solid, but when he went to flail his hands, ropes bit into the skin on his wrists.
Splash!
Chilled water engulfed him, stealing his breath. His feet clambered for footing, but found nothing firm. He struggled to refill his lungs as he sank beneath the surface. The water seeped through the material covering his face. The shock of the water returned his drifting senses, and he fought the ropes, kicking his feet to keep from dropping like a stone to the bottom.
His bonds held fast.
Fear clawed his chest. God, help me. Stella … Stella. What would Linda Hazzard do to her?
Henry contorted his hands. If only he could see what he was doing.
His fingers brushed twine. With a swift tug, the string gave way, and the fabric covering his face floated upward. He shook the burlap sack away with a head jerk that granted him a murky view of the rope at his wrists.
His lungs burned, and the drive to inhale screamed in his chest. How much longer could he survive without air?
Kicking for the surface, Henry worked his wrists. His skin tore with each effort at liberty. Blood curled in the water from the struggle.
Just a little more.
Bubbles sputtered from his mouth. He kicked harder. His calves burned. He fought the involuntary urge to inhale. It was no use. The surface might as well be miles above him. The last gush of air left his lips in a swollen gurgle.
Water pressed in around him. So this was how his life would end. Darkness edged the corners of his vision.
Stella’s image played in his brain like a moving picture show.
Their rambles in the meadow, hunting violets for her mother.
His shoulders relaxed. Leaves and other bits of debris drifted lazily in the brackish water surrounding him.
The kittens they’d fed with an eyedropper. What sorry little bundles of fur they had been before he and Stella rescued them.
A strange sense of peace wrapped him tight. His legs stilled their paddling, and his eyelids drifted closed.
That day at the sand dunes.
His eyes snapped open. Red from his wrists floated past his vision.
Fight.
He couldn’t give up on Stella, not when she needed him. If he couldn’t find a way to save her, what hope did she have of escaping the Buzzard’s talons alive?
Working the bloody ropes, he prayed while his feet managed weak kicks.
His hand slipped free, and he swam for the surface. A dark blanket began to descend over his vision once again. No. God, no. Let me survive this.
How much farther? He had to be close.
His face broke the surface. He gasped, filling his lungs with life-giving oxygen.
Rain poured around him, plunking the water and creating bubbly splashes. In a few strokes, he reached the shore. He fell onto his back, and his stomach roiled. When he rolled over, lake water and bile spewed from his mouth. Coughing, he swiped his hand over his lips. The gashes on his wrists left a metallic taste on his tongue.
The ropes had chewed nearly to the bone. A humid breeze clawed at his tattered flesh, and he clenched his teeth against the sting.
Where was he? A glance around the lake didn’t offer familiar landmarks or points of reference. He stood, fighting the quaver in his legs. Where had Sam Hazzard gone?
And how would Henry get to Stella before her time was up?
He scanned the landscape.
Mount Rainier stood behind him, and masts from what looked like a schooner flapped to his left. The mountain was situated in the same general direction to Stella’s cabin. He glanced at the dreary hills to his right.
She had to be somewhere east of him. He scrambled up a low rise to a road littered with pebbles, each breath that sawed through his lungs adding fresh fire to the urgency boiling at his core.
No vehicles or signs of life inhabited the gravel road, which meant Sam Hazzard had long since returned home. How could he get to Stella before the Hazzards—
The faint sound of an automobile engine scuttled, and he turned toward the sound. With arms waving over his head, he flagged the driver. A Model T drew to a stop beside him, and the eyes of the man behind the wheel widened in surprise. His mustache twitched. “I say. You look like you could use a hand, my boy.”
Henry climbed into the motorcar, relief offering a temporary balm to his troubled mind. “I must get to Starvation Heights.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Stella paced the cabin. Where had Sam Hazzard taken Henry? The cold glint in his eye had prickled her nerves. Whatever the man had done with him, it couldn’t be good.
After Sam dragged Henry out of sight, she had pounded on the door with the last shred of her strength, but to no avail. What if Henry needed her? Her shoulders slumped. What good could she do him in her weakened state?
She dashed tears from her eyes. What if Sam killed Henry? Breath left her lungs in a painful gush. He would never know of her change of heart—how very much she cared for him.
With her pulse rushing in her ears, she stepped to the window. Could she squeeze out of it? It was so small. She mentally measured the pane then glanced at her spindly form in the mirror. Over the last weeks, she had shrunk, but was she thin enough to fit?
And even if she managed to climb through the window, what help could she offer Henry? She hadn’t the first notion where Sam had taken him. And even if she could find Henry, the Hazzards might afford them nothing more than the favor of allowing them to die together.
I could run to Olalla for the police.
Sam’s automobile hadn’t returned, and she would have a clear shot to the tree line.
She clenched her jaw and pulled a chair to the window. Its legs scraped the wood floor. When she stepped onto the seat, she made eye contact with the sinister cherub hanging on the wall. “If I never see you again, it will be too soon.” She tried to lift the sash, but it stuck on something.
Why must everything be so difficult? As if the stars in their courses worked against her.
After repositioning her fingers, she tried again. The window groaned, raising slightly. Raindrops dampened the sill as she pushed with all her might. Bit by bit, it opened, and triumph coursed through Stella’s veins.
She poked her head through but froze when she saw the muddy ground below. Falling face-first into a puddle wouldn
’t be the best option. She worked first one leg then the other through the opening until she perched on the sill, half inside and half outside the cabin.
Wood dug into her hips on each side. Although it was a tight fit, she just might make it. Wriggling her legs, she squeezed through the window. Unable to see her feet, she swung them around, hoping to find someplace solid to plant them.
Now her hips were free.
She rotated until her arms held the window ledge. From this position, she could drop to the ground and make a dash for the woods. She slid down, grasping the sill.
Almost there.
Hands clamped around her waist, and a scream climbed from her throat.
“You’re scrappier than I thought.” Sam’s voice carried a smile, and the vanilla on his breath soured her stomach. How had she not heard him approach? He pulled her from the window and planted her legs on mushy earth.
She met his wicked gaze. Movement behind him flagged Stella’s notice. Dr. Hazzard marched toward them, one hand keeping her skirt from skimming the puddles. The nearer she drew, the more pronounced the rage in her eyes.
“Where do you think you’re going, Miss Burke?” All the syrup and honey from their meeting with the attorney had vanished from the Buzzard’s voice.
Stella straightened her shoulders. Both this woman and her husband were insane. That was the only explanation for their behavior, and she would put an end to it or die trying. “What have you done with Henry?”
Fury flashed in Dr. Hazzard’s eyes, and she clamped a hand on Stella’s arm. “Never mind him. He’s a problem that’s been eliminated.” The cold nature of her words made it sound as if he was little more than a toxin to be eradicated from the body.
Stella tried jerking her arm from the woman’s iron grip, but no amount of wrenching would break her free.
“Now it’s time we eliminated the problem you’ve become.” Dr. Hazzard’s jaw clenched.
“But I haven’t signed your precious papers.” Stella clung to her last thread of hope. The one reason Dr. Hazzard couldn’t kill her. Yet. “Admit it. You still need me. Otherwise, what was all this for? The beatings, the starvation. If I don’t sign that will, you walk away from this empty-handed.”
Dr. Hazzard chuckled. “You still think I need your signature? My, but you are naive.” She shook her head. “You signed the check-in paperwork, and your signature wasn’t difficult to duplicate. And it won’t be difficult to post-date the death certificate.”
Stella’s heart stuttered. If the one thing that made her indispensable had been erased, the Hazzards must see her as nothing more than a threat to their livelihood. She screamed until her throat grew raw, and fought Dr. Hazzard’s grip, but the exertion only tired her.
“Where is the motorcar?” Dr. Hazzard lifted a brow to her husband.
“Rollie’s bringing the Butterworth’s vehicle around.” Sam motioned with a thumb toward the road. “He shouldn’t be much longer.”
Butterworth’s? Weren’t they the people sent to take care of Claire and Sue? But that couldn’t be right. Those women had been dead when Butterworth’s was summoned… . The full force of Dr. Hazzard’s intentions stole Stella’s breath and sent a rash of goose bumps over her skin.
Stella met Dr. Hazzard’s fiery gaze. This woman planned to kill her. And she had probably already killed Henry. God. When are You going to save me?
A motor sputtered toward them. If only the sound signaled Henry’s return. But the self-satisfied smirk on Sam’s lips told her that possibility had died earlier in the day. Tears sprang to Stella’s eyes. The vehicle screeched to a stop on the soupy road, and yellow words contrasted against the dark green background.
Butterworth’s Funeral Parlor.
Stella’s stomach hit the ground. She struggled against Dr. Hazzard’s claws. “Let. Me. Go.” She stomped on the woman’s foot, and her grip loosened. With her arm free, Stella ran toward the woods, stumbling in the mud.
Tree branches slapped her face, but she brushed them aside and pressed on. Her heart pounded and her breath came in jagged gasps. Her foot caught on a tree root, and she fell headlong to the forest floor.
“Just give up.” Rollie’s voice sent her scrambling to her feet. She started to run, but he picked her up and draped her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
“Let me go!” She pounded her fists against his back and kicked, but he plodded toward the Butterworth’s automobile as if she were a noncompliant child instead of a woman fighting for her life.
When Rollie turned, Stella glimpsed a wooden box lying on the ground behind the motorcar. A coffin. A scream jarred her lungs but escaped her lips as a raspy whimper. Her captor hefted her around and dumped her in the casket.
“Please, no.” She moved to sit up, flashes of light curling at the corners of her eyes. Not again. Not when she needed all her faculties to fight for her life. Sam held her shoulders against the bottom. Splinters scraped her skin through her nightgown.
“If you could keep quiet, we wouldn’t have to do this the hard way.” Dr. Hazzard uncorked a bottle, held a rag to the rim, and tilted the vial of clear liquid. “Hold this over her nose and mouth.” She handed it to her husband.
“You’ll never get away with this.” Stella squirmed beneath Sam’s hold and screamed for help.
Sam clamped the rag over her nose, and Stella turned her head from side to side, avoiding the sweet fumes on the cloth. He couldn’t do this. Where was God in the midst of this? Had He left her to fend for herself?
The sickening scent crept into her nose, and despite her struggle, she inhaled.
Gray dots formed in her vision, and her body ceased to obey her commands.
“Thank you, love. That did it.” Sam removed the cloth and bunched it in the coffin beside Stella. He rose and stood beside his wife. The pair gazed down on her.
Stella’s eyelids fluttered as she fought the sleep that threatened to overcome her.
“Finish the job, Rollie. I don’t have to tell you how important this is to your future.” The old Buzzard’s voice hardened to flint. “If only you didn’t fritter away the money I give you.” She cast a final unfeeling glance at Stella then walked away.
Sam reached for something on the ground then stood with a wooden cover in his hands. He fit it over the coffin, bathing Stella in darkness except for the tenacious light that pushed through the cracks between boards.
In the enclosed space, the odor of ether swelled and tickled her nose. The sensation of being lifted then dropped left only a faint imprint on her floating brain.
Where were they taking her? Her eyelids grew heavy, but she forced them open.
How could she escape their clutches when everything about her screamed frailty? The fumes scratched her throat.
Was Henry alive? She sniffed. He couldn’t be, not when she considered the look of triumph Sam Hazzard wore. If only she could see Henry one more time. She’d left so many words unsaid, and there would be no chance to apologize for both viewing him and treating him as beneath her.
Why had God allowed this? He knew Linda Hazzard for who she was.
Stella’s head swam. Her thoughts undulated one on top of another.
But Henry had tried to warn her, and she had chosen not to listen. What if God had given him that unsettled feeling?
This was all her fault. Still, God knew her weaknesses. He loved her. He saw her.
Dear Lord, Your children stood still and saw Your salvation. I can’t be any more still than I am now. Without You, there is no hope. Do something mighty. Tears scalded her eyes. And this may be too much to ask, but let Henry be all right. He tried to save me. Please don’t let him die, or I’ll never forgive myself.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Henry thanked the driver and hopped out of the motorcar a hundred yards from the turnoff to Starvation Heights. Any rattle of the wheels or thrum of the engine could give away his plan to the old Buzzard and her husband. The pair were not to be trifled with. After Sam had tried
drowning him, Henry lost all doubt the man would so much as blink at the thought of killing Stella with the same disregard for human life.
Henry ran into a stand of trees along the road, clothes clinging to his skin, blood staining his sleeves. On his left, Starvation Heights stood. How did a place filled with evil give off such an unassuming air? As he approached the drive leading to the house, the clatter of an automobile stilled his steps. He pushed aside a leafy branch to get a better view.
Were Sam and Linda Hazzard fleeing the consequences of their criminal activities? Surely starvation and murder wouldn’t go unpunished if brought before judge and jury.
The brightly painted words on the sides of the motorcar caught his eye.
Butterworth’s Funeral Parlor.
Henry’s gut contorted. They must have been called to collect a body. But whose? Stella’s? Heaven forbid. When the vehicle turned the corner, a plain pine box rattled in the back.
His heart stalled. A scrap of purple fabric peeked from beneath the lid. The same pale shade as the nightgown Stella had been wearing when Sam bashed his head with the shovel.
Was she—
His heart wilted, and emotion scalded his throat.
No. The thought was too awful to entertain. He had to follow them. Get Stella out of their clutches before it was too late. But how? He’d never keep pace on foot.
Henry glanced toward the house. His motorcar—Weston’s—still sat on the gravel drive. He dashed to it, cranked the handle, and leaped behind the steering wheel.
Linda Hazzard ran onto the front porch, waving and shouting for him to stop like a drill sergeant breaking in new recruits. But Henry pulled away from the house and sped to the road. He would have liked to run her over, but he hadn’t the time. The funeral home’s vehicle had turned left, and though it had disappeared, fresh tire tracks in the mud would serve as a guide.
He followed the tracks while sending prayers heavenward.
If she wasn’t dead, why put her in a casket? The only possible answer nagged his brain. They had killed her. She was already dead.
But it couldn’t be. Stella had so much to live for. So much she wanted to do and so many lives to touch with her generosity. Perhaps the Hazzards used the funeral home equipment to secret her away. Yes. That had to be it. He’d cling to the tenuous hope no matter how improbable it might be.
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