by Sarah Graves
A knee in her back urged her up as a hand went roughly into her pocket, found her GPS locator.
“I knew you’d try something like this.” Hot breath gusted at her. He gave the gadget a low, underhanded toss so it slid on the alley’s pavement, downhill until it stopped on the sidewalk.
A passerby bent and picked it up, peered curiously at it for an instant, and went on walking, dropping it into his pocket.
Desperately she moaned through the tape.
Don’t take it! Please, just leave it where you found it, or my son will think that—
That she was still here, watching the fireworks accident’s aftermath or even helping somehow. Because whenever something bad like this happened, someone always called Wade, and if not, then they’d have been trying to find George.
So Sam would know quickly about the mishap on the barge. And given her propensity for sticking her nose into things, he would not think it was strange that the GPS device, supposedly still in her pocket, was now on its way up Water Street.
After a little while, he would catch on that something had gone wrong, that his screen was showing locations she wouldn’t be in. But by then it would be too late.
Distantly she understood that the explosions had stopped and that the dull boom boom boom she now heard came from inside her.
That it was her own heartbeat. Through a nearly overpowering wave of dizziness, she wondered how long she would go on hearing it.
On the other hand, she was still alive right now. So maybe she could still think of something.
“Walk,” said the man who had seized her, very near. Which ordinarily would have been a big cue in the think-of-something department.
Something like jerking her head back, breaking his nose with it. Or kicking him; who said that had to be done frontwards?
But a sharp little tickle of something just under her left ear suggested a more cautious strategy, one that wouldn’t put the tip of whatever he was pressing there right through her jugular.
Or whatever. Some big, highly pressurized blood vessel. Her legs went weak again.
“Stand up straight,” he hissed at her. “Walk. That way.”
Past the shed, the alley curved around toward Washington Street. But nobody ever came this way anymore; when the alley was built, Model T’s might’ve used it. But there wasn’t enough width to get a modern car through here comfortably, and as for any pedestrians, it was too dark.
Really dark. On the other hand, apparently somebody liked it that way.…
A figure materialized in the gloom. The pinch at her throat kept her still as it approached. A flashlight beam hit her in the face, blinding her, then shifted minutely sideways to light up her captor’s. Then it went out.
“I want my money,” said a voice out of the darkness as the figure stepped forward.
Garner ripped the tape from her face, cut her wrists’ bonds with a swift, businesslike flick of something she didn’t want to think about at all, then pressed whatever it was into her neck.
He didn’t have to tell her to keep quiet. She knew.
“And I want it,” the figure added, “right the freak now.”
THEY’D KICKED HIM THE MINUTE THEY FOUND OUT HE wasn’t who they were looking for. Mad about it, too. They took away the jail scrubs, the hygiene kit with the comb, toothpaste, and the little wrapped bar of motel soap in it, even the tray with the paper cup of watery coffee and the jailhouse breakfast on it, powdered eggs and blackened toast.
Not that any of those things were any great loss. It was what they’d given him in return that burned him up so badly: a freaking court date.
In the gloom of the little alley behind the buildings, he took another irritated step toward the little jerk who’d gotten him into this mess. Freakin’ little liar, he was.
“So hand it over. The other five hundred.”
Because that had been the agreement, and he’d lived up to his side of it. Spend a night in jail, big deal, he’d thought.
And now look. “I mean it,” he said, sticking his hand out.
For the first time, he noticed the little jerk’s ears, big and sticking out like his own. But it didn’t make him feel the least bit sympathetic.
It made him feel like ripping them off, maybe threading them onto a chain or a leather thong and wearing them like a necklace; oh, but he was ticked off now. The little jerk had a woman with him, one hand tight on her arm, other arm around her shoulders. She didn’t look too happy about it.
But the hell with her, too. He had his own problems. “You didn’t tell me it was a felony, what you wanted me to do.”
Because this Garner guy, there was a warrant out for him, and getting in the way of it at all, that was a big deal. Cops’d had him in a room all damned day, asking him questions.
And they’d kept his five hundred bucks. Evidence, they said. He’d get it back, they’d promised him. Eventually.
Yeah, right, he thought. Sure he would. The only reason in the world that he wasn’t still in jail right now was that he’d done his best to tell them what they wanted to know.
The woman looked hopeful. Scared, too, like maybe she wanted him to do something about her situation. Help her out, maybe get her away from this weird dude. Play the knight in shining armor.
Not freakin’ likely. He got his money, he was going straight back to the cops, drop a freakin’ dime on this yo-yo here.
Maybe if he did that, he’d get a head start on a way out of his troubles, which he wouldn’t be in if it weren’t for—
The guy took his hand off the woman’s arm. Kept his other arm around her shoulder, though, his hand right up there in her hair.
“So they gave you a lot of trouble, huh? Down there at the jail?”
Which was his opening, maybe get a little more than the five hundred. His eyes began adjusting to the dark back here, a little bit.
That buoyed his confidence, too. “Yeah,” he told the guy. “I didn’t know you were—”
A wanted man, he’d been about to say. But wait. Don’t tell him that. It was already too late, though.
The guy’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t know I was what?” he asked mildly.
The woman’s eyes darted back and forth. She looked like she was about to say something. The guy jerked his arm sharply as if to remind her of something.
She sucked a breath in but kept silent, and what was up with that? he wondered suddenly.
But never mind, it was none of his business. Just get out of here, he thought. Just get the money and …
“Nothing,” he said, hearing the sullenness in his own voice. He stuck his hand out, palm up.
“Hey, man, I’ve got no problem with you, okay? Whatever you and the lady got goin’ on here, I just want my—”
The guy’s right hand flashed out fast and then back again, gripping her ruthlessly.
“Hey!” Pain flared in his hand. He looked down; something was stuck in it. Through it, actually.
All the way through it. Reflexively he grabbed the thing and pulled. “Hey, man, what the freak did you …?”
With another sharp flash of pain, the thing came out. It was long and very thin … a hat pin. His grandma used to use them.
“Why’d you do that to me, man?” he demanded, still not quite believing it. But as he spoke the guy’s hand came at him again.
He backed away, but not quickly enough. And this time it was not a hat pin, he saw as the hand moved right up under his chin.
This time, it was a knife.
ONE-HANDED, THE OTHER STILL WITH THE SHARP THING nipping at her jugular, he slapped the tape back onto her mouth and wound it around her wrists. Then he gave her a shove, past the fallen body of the guy who’d wanted five hundred dollars.
Shocked, she staggered a few steps and tried to run. He moved up alongside her and tripped her. Hitting the pavement with her hands bound was an interesting experience. He yanked her up by her wrists, raising the interest level even further.
The tape muf
fled her shriek of anguish. Once he had her on her feet, he leaned in close and spoke.
For the first time, she glimpsed his face. But she’d known: Garner, of course.
“Next time, I’ll cut your throat just like his. Now walk.”
She obeyed, wondering wildly where they were going, and if anyone would find her.
And if she’d still be alive when they did.
• • •
THE ALLEY LET OUT BETWEEN THE SENIOR CENTER AND A driveway with a fence running along it, adjacent to the massive old wood-framed Baptist church.
Back in New York, the night sky never really went black. But in Eastport, a hundred-plus miles from the nearest city’s light pollution, the night sky prickled with stars.
And up here, away from all the commotion on Water Street, everything was quiet. Garner hustled her roughly along the fence-lined driveway to where it ended at a garage. The house the garage belonged to was dark except for a dim porch lamp, its glow not even reaching the yard. No one home …
“Hurry up.” Garner put a foot in the small of her back and shoved. She fell forward over a lawn chair onto the cool grass and rolled hard to the right, hoping to find some hiding place, a low bush or maybe a picnic table.
If she could just get away from him for a moment, she could get the tape off her wrists; she’d started yanking at it right away, so it was already down around the broad part of her hands. In darkness, her shoulders found the hollow at the foot of a huge tree, and she curled herself into it, praying.
But his footsteps followed unerringly. A thin flashlight beam pierced the darkness and found her. His hand shot out, its vicious grip on her ear agonizing as he dragged her up.
The blade touched her throat. “Through there.” He let the flashlight beam rest briefly on a lattice screen at the rear of the yard.
Set up between two tall, bushy cedar trees, it gave the yard an illusion of privacy, she supposed as she scanned it hopefully. But if you didn’t mind getting all scratched up by cedar boughs, it would be easy enough to push through to the next yard.
That is, if you weren’t beat up and tied up. Squeezing her eye closed tight to protect it—the one that wasn’t already swollen shut—she pushed between a tree and the lattice. On the other side, she might get a second chance to—
But the instant she was through, he was right there behind her. He grabbed her arm and the flashlight came on again, picking out an old, moss-covered brick path.
A garden path … suddenly she knew where she was. The Senior Center, the old church, and …
The old house loomed in front of her. He yanked her sideways with a tug on her wrist bindings, then stopped.
Her heart sank; she’d nearly had the damned things off. With a snort of irritation, he grabbed her hands, pulled them together, and wound more tape onto them, from forearms to fingertips.
Then he continued tugging her toward what turned out to be an old porch, its paint entirely absent in the flashlight’s glow and its ancient decking splintered and broken.
And I thought mine needed work. The thing was a recipe for a broken ankle.
“Careful. Don’t hurt yourself.” She could hear the smirk in his voice. Unsteadily she made it up the first step, and then the second.
At the top she looked up at the old door. If I go in there, I’ll never …
Hurling herself backwards at him, she didn’t care if she fell or how. With a grunt of dismay, he landed beneath her, his knife clattering away, his hand scrabbling sideways for it.
He squirmed from beneath her and jumped up, but instead of trying to get up, too, she kicked both feet up and out at him, aiming for his knees.
Her heels hit his thighs, forcing an mmph from him but not fazing him. Instantly he was on her again, his clenched right fist coming around like a swung hammer to the side of her head.
Down and out. A prizefighting term, she recalled having heard Wade explaining it, somewhere over there in what once was her own other, much better life.
The one she was leaving.
She couldn’t move, a lethargy so profound seizing her that she had to decide whether or not to take each separate breath. Even the headlights passing by just yards away, so that now she was within shouting distance of help, failed to motivate her.
Because for one thing, her mouth was taped. And for another, she wasn’t sure she was even in her body anymore.
Garner kicked the door. It fell open with a shriek of rusty hinges and the crack of a breaking frame. Then he stood over her again.
When she didn’t get up, he kicked her, but she didn’t feel it, or not as pain, too disorganized by the punch to the head to be processing anything.
Sam, she thought. Wade.
Someone hauled her to her feet, shoved her forward at a tall rectangular dark opening. She didn’t want to go through it.
A bad smell drifted from it: dampness, old dirt, and mouse droppings mingled with a lemony whiff that was like Bella’s spray cleanser. As he pushed her in, her thoughts fritzed in and out like sparks from a bad power cord.
Trying without success to seize on some shred of an idea and cling to it, she tripped and nearly fell over a deck board that was sticking up. Sharp splinters from the board pierced her skin.
Then another explosion from the direction of the waterfront shook the house. Inside, in the darkness still reverberating with the boom, plaster bits rattled down.
With a hand as strong as a metal claw, he helped her up again.
If you could call that help.
INSIDE, THE AIR WAS THICK WITH ANTIQUE DUST SHAKEN loose by the explosion. The instant he let go of her, she tried to run, but he caught her and threw her to the floor.
Her face smacked the side of what felt like a porcelain sink on the way down, then struck the gritty floorboards.
Bella would have a field day in here. At floor level, the stench of mice and old dirt was even stronger, still oddly mixed with the sharp scent of spray cleaner.
She lay there trying to catch her breath. Across the room, he was fiddling with something; she couldn’t see what.
Something heavy, by the door. But it was even darker in here than it had been outside, which seemed impossible, given that the house had windows, and if nothing else the streetlights in front of the place should be—
A battery lantern snapped on. Through the eye that wasn’t swollen shut—yet, she thought with bleak realism—she could see the black plastic trash bags taped to the windows. At the sight, a bit of hope drained away; so much for any passersby accidentally glimpsing her predicament.
Heavy thuds from the doorway area drew her sluggish gaze back. By the lantern light, he was using a claw hammer to nail the door shut, using one of the broken boards from the porch decking to cover the opening, and the nails still sticking out of the board.
He wasn’t doing a great job. Three out of the four big nails bent before he could hammer them home. But it would be enough to keep anyone else from pushing that old door open very easily.
In the unlikely event that anyone tried. The phone, though, I’ve still got the—
As if triggered by her thought, its ring sounded from her pocket. He dropped the hammer, strode across the ruined kitchen, bent and pulled it out of her jacket pocket.
She didn’t even have the strength to resist. Not that that came as a surprise; Victor the brain surgeon—the late great, she thought disorientedly—used to say the human skull was like a metal bowl full of water.
Smack the bowl, watch what happens to the water. Smack the head, same thing happens to the brain. The only difference being that the skull kept the brain from slopping out.
Lying there on the old floor, waiting for the newly arrived hideous waves of nausea to subside—yet another unpleasant consequence of concussion—she hoped her own brains hadn’t begun leaking out of her ears.
But at the moment, she couldn’t be certain. And if what good old Victor used to say was any guide, it would all get much worse long before it got better
.
Great, Jake thought. The phone was still emitting the ringtone she’d programmed into it: the first thirteen notes of the “Anvil Chorus.” It had seemed like a funny tune to put on an old-house-repair hobbyist’s cellphone.
At the time. Garner switched the ringer off, dropped the device on the floor, and stepped on it. Crunchy bits of plastic flew, as did her last hope of summoning help.
From outside came the occasional distant rumble of a car going by, heading out of town on Washington Street. But most of the crowds were gone, even the vendors were heading home, and—
It hit her suddenly, what she wasn’t hearing: sirens. No cop cars screaming in or ambulances howling out. Whatever happened on the barge must’ve created casualties.
But they weren’t being transported up Washington Street, and that’s how they’d have gone, on their way to the nearest hospital forty miles distant. Unless—
Unless nobody had survived it. She swallowed hard, tasting blood and fear. One of the few remaining sections of plaster in the old ceiling chose that moment to fall, crashing to the floor in a choking cloud of plaster dust.
The house must’ve shifted. In the massive vibration of all those fireworks exploding at once, it …
Garner frowned, shaking his head impatiently as if all the unexpected noise and disruption were almost more than he could bear. Then he squinted down, assessing her, yanked hard at the tape around her wrists, and tried pulling on the patch of it that he’d slapped over her mouth.
“Good,” he said, and his mild tone of approval combined with the intensity of his dark eyes gave her the creeps, even through the pain of her injuries.
Inappropriate … the term didn’t even begin to cover it. “Now you just wait for me. I’m going to go get cleaned up. After that, we’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”
Yeah, right, she thought, fully aware that her situation went way beyond sarcasm but unable to stop. Because right now, sarcasm was the only weapon she had.
It helped the sick feeling in her stomach to realize that at least she could still slap the taste right out of this wing nut’s mouth in her imagination, and the first instant she got a chance to do it for real, she was going to—