by Pamela Cowan
As her eyes adjusted, she tried to look around the dim space for a way out, for a weapon. There was nothing. The trunk was empty. Coarse carpeting scratched her skin. Above her was only the metal interior of the trunk. She felt around for a release. It was there but when she tugged on it she realized it wasn’t connected. Could she kick out a tail light. She saw narrow bands of light and dark and realized metal bars had been welded across them. Yes, they had done this before.
There was a lurch as the car accelerated. Trying to straighten her legs she found the width of the trunk forced her to keep them knees bent. The injured knee had stopped screaming and was now only moaning with every beat of her heart.
She fought to catch her breath. Hard to do in the still air of the trunk. It smelled of oil and gas and helplessness. She wondered how many others had shared this ride, felt this terror.
For the first few minutes she tried to formulate a plan. Then she resorted to praying. “I know you’re probably not real but, if you are, if you could do something. I need help.” Her whispered plea brought fresh tears of fear and frustration.
Why hadn’t she taken El with her, or Leo. Because I shouldn’t need them, she answered herself. But you did. You do. Fresh anger momentarily conquered fear and she began kicking at the sides of the trunk. The sound was much less than she’d hoped. Time passed in fits and starts. It seemed like it was taking hours but it might have been minutes.
She tried to free her hands. An article she’d read said it was possible to break free of zip ties. Sadly, the article only talked about what to do if your hands were tied in front of you, not behind your back. If she ever got out of here she’d have a word with whoever had written that useless garbage.
Emma struggled to slide her wrists down to her ankles so she could step through and bring them to the front. She couldn’t do it. Sweat dripped into her eyes as she tried. The pain in her knee was too much to fight against.
Giving up on escape, she pushed herself into the trunk as far back as she could. Maybe she could at least get in a few good kicks.
Suddenly, she was thrust toward the front of the trunk. Time was up. The car had stopped.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Wednesday, September 19
When the trunk was lifted the influx of cool. fresh air was wonderful. The light made her dark-adapted eyes sting. Once again tears pricked her eyes and one slid down her cheek.
“Get out of there,” someone barked at her sharply.
She didn’t move except to close her eyes, pretending to be unconscious. As soon as one of them got close enough . . .
The man she thought had been the driver of the car that hit hers, reached inside the trunk. He took a handful of her shirt, and tried to pull her out. Spinning on her hip, she broke free, then kicked out with both feet, feeling a rush of satisfaction as she connected with his face.
He yet out a yelp and stepped back. She struggled to climb out, but before she was able to reach the edge of the trunk he was back with the redhead.
The two of them grabbed her by her arms and legs and dumped her on the hard concrete floor. The one she’d kicked had a thin line of blood dripping down his chin. He looked like he was drawing his foot back to kick her, when a third man appeared.
The new man, Latino like the driver, wore a gray cap with a Corvette emblem. He reached down, took her wrist, and easily pulled her to her feet.
Emma looked around frantically, searching again for a weapon, some way to escape. There were three of them in total. Maybe that wasn’t too many. Maybe it was. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to give up.
They were inside a garage. Emma realized it must be “My Body Shop”. The walls were cinder brick. The floor was concrete, stained with what she hoped was only oil and gas. There were three bays, each with a closed roll-up door. The space was brightly lit by rows of fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. There were rolling tool boxes and shelves against the walls filled with cans and bottles. The only car in the garage was the one they clearly used for kidnapping people. A different kind of bodywork all together, she thought, amazed at her morbid sense of humor at such a serious time.
The man in the Corvette hat stood with his hand wrapped firmly around her left arm, just above the elbow. The other two stood facing him, clearly awaiting orders. The man’s obvious sense of authority told her she was in the presence of Ernesto Padillo.
Padillo had a large squat nose set in a long face, deep set eyes that drooped at the outer corners and a gap between the whitest teeth she’d ever seen.
The one she thought of as the driver was middle aged, clean shaven, with short hair, pock-marked cheeks and dried blood on his chin.
The tall redhead had a scruffy beard and what looked like chewing tobacco stains at the corners of his mouth. He’d been the one who put his boot on the back of her head. There was no blood on his face but she’d have loved to put some there.
Looking up at the man holding her arm she asked, “Are you Ernesto Padillo?”
He gave her a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes and nodded. “Si,” he said, curtly.
“Is this about me looking into Dodge?” she asked.
“Dodge. Pendejo,” the man hissed in her ear. “I blew his fucking head off. It exploded like a goddamn melon. It was way too good for him. He should have died slow. I should have brought him here.”
He tightened his hold. She could feel his fingers digging into her arm, wanted to pull away, but decided not to resist. Is he thought she’d given up. Or if he thought she was timid, fearful, maybe she could catch him off guard. When he started across the bay, pushing her ahead, she exaggerated her limp, practically leaning on him for support. He’d killed Dodge. He was going to kill her. If he gave her the smallest glimmer of a chance she would take it.
“Get the lift down,” he said. The redhead moved into a slow jog, while the other man followed more slowly.
The redhead reached the farthest bay, and Ernesto prodded her in that direction. In that bay was a lift. A huge blue steel machine with two vertical posts and a cross piece at the top.
The redhead grabbed a black box at the end of a thin yellow hose that wound like a slinky and was connected to one of steel posts. He pushed a button with his thumb and as she watched the posts lowered, sinking into themselves until the cross piece was about six few feet from the ground.
With a sound too much like a whimper, Emma stepped back, pulling Padillo with her. He tightened his grip, grabbed her hair with his free hand and held her. “Jorge, the rope.”
Jorge went to one of the tool carts, and removed a length of rope.
Emma kicked backward, driving the heel of her boot into Padillo’s leg then sliding it down his shin. The moment she felt his grip loosen, she spun away and facing him did a front kick. He was bent forward, reaching for his injured leg and the toe of her boot caught him under the chin, snapping his head back. She turned and ran.
The sound of traffic outside was tantalizingly close. If she could get out and get to the traffic . . .
Sprinting across the garage her mind scrambled for an escape route. She didn’t know how to make the big garage-style doors go up, but she’d spotted a standard door near the corner farthest from the empty bay. It had a window inset at the top and sunlight made a bright white square against the blinds hanging in front of it, as though it were a beacon urging her to reach it.
Almost there. She could hear them coming, their shoes slapping against the concrete, their breathing loud. Everything began moving slowly while her perceptions grew. Her senses were wide awake and focused on the door ahead, the light, the door handle. Her hands were still tied behind her but she pictured how she would do it. How she would slow down, turn, grab the handle and turn it with both hands.
Intense pain exploded from her ankle and she was knocked down like a bowling pin. She caught a glimpse of a tire iron spinning nearby, heard the metallic clank and rattle as it hit and skittered across the pavement.
The impa
ct took her feet out from under her, knocked her over backward. She landed on her elbows. Barely slowing, she rolled to her feet.
The redhead tackled her, slamming her into the door. It shook from the impact. She spun and tried to drive her forehead into his but missed. He shoved his forearm into her throat, driving her back. The back of her head slammed into the wall near the door. Sparks of light bloomed, while the edges of her sight went dark. She felt her knees give way, but no pain, as she was operating on adrenaline and fear.
The next thing she heard was panting breaths. It took her a moment to realize it was her own panicked breathing. They had her again, one on each side, their arms supporting her as if they were drinking buddies helping a pal. She helped the illusion, staggering like a drunk.
They lifted her higher, half carrying, half dragging her toward their boss. The straps around her wrists dug into her skin. The toes of her boots slid across the concrete. Waves of helplessness seemed to accompany the waves of pain that finally reached her. Her knees and elbows throbbed and there was something very wrong with her ankle. When she tried to straighten it she almost screamed.
They dragged her back to the lift and stopped underneath it. Ernesto was there, waiting. A noose had been tied to the cross bar and now dangled at his side.
He was bleeding. A slender line of red tricking down the corner of his mouth. Despite her fear, she felt pleased to see she’d hurt him. She lifted her head and stared into his shark-black eyes again.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which smeared blood across his face, making him look primitive and fierce.
Looking down, he saw the blood on his hand and stared back at her with an expression of pure malice. He opened his mouth and pointed to his teeth. “You broke my tooth bitch. Going to cost me money. Going to cost you too.”
Stepping forward, he grabbed the noose and slipped it over her head. She felt the stiff rope against her skin.
“Bring it up, Jorge,” he said.
Emma had been taught that if she ever found herself in a hostage situation she should try to humanize herself. “Get them to use your name,” the instructor had said. “You want them to see you as a person, to talk to you. “
The problem was that Ernesto was talking to her, not because he was starting to see her as a person, but because she had hurt him. He was angry and he wanted to talk, but only in order to taunt her.
“Bring it up slow, real slooow,” he said. dragging out the word. “You know what happens to people who get hung slow?” he asked, a gleam of cruelty dancing in his dark eyes. “They mess their pants. A truly shitty way to go.” He laughed, his eyes now twinkling with humor and something darkly sadistic.
”Chinga tu madre,” Emma said. Fuck your mother. It was the first, and nearly all, the Spanish she knew. “You’re a stupid pig. So stupid you let your own brother get killed.”
“You don’t know nothing, bitch.”
“If I don’t know anything, then what the hell am I doing here?”
“You’re here because you pissed off the wrong person. Because you can’t stop digging into shit that’s none of your business. He warned me you would be trouble.”
“He who?” The realization that Ernesto wasn’t in charge surprised her. “You have a boss. Who is it?”
“If I told you I’d have to kill you.” He laughed again, so hard he had to wipe away tears.
“Tell me,” she said. Tell me who your boss is?” The need to know was so intense she stepped forward. The rope around her throat tightened. She took a step back, closer to the center of the beam. It relieved the tension for a moment, but the posts had begun to rise, lifting the bar the noose was tied to.
It continued to rise, the knot tied to form the noose began to press against her jaw, pushing her head up and back. Then, it stopped. Jorge had taken his thumb off the button.
The rope held Emma erect, almost on tiptoe.
“What are you doing?” Ernesto asked Jorge.
“You told me to go slow.”
“Slow, not stop. Keep going. I want to see this bitch beg. Come on now, you ask nice, maybe you’ll live a little longer.”
Feeling the noose tighten, knowing she would soon be unable to talk she stared into Ernesto’s eyes and with all the courage she could muster she said, “Fuck you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Wednesday, September 19
The door that Emma had been so desperately trying to reach didn’t swing open, it burst open. The window exploded, sending glass shards flying.
Leo had taken one of the wheels he’d found stacked in front of the garage and used it as a makeshift battering ram. Now, he dropped the wheel, fell to his knees in the doorway, and went for his gun.
Ellen, gun in hand, stepped around him into the garage, took cover behind a tool box and looked for a target.
All three men ran, fumbled for their guns, tried to get to the battering ram of a car and use it as a shield.
The redhead made it first, Jorge close behind. Ernesto, because he was closest to Emma, was Ellen’s primary target. She caught him as he was turning to run, pulling his gun from a shoulder holster. Three bullets, closely spaced, and he dropped to the ground and stayed there.
Leo fired under the car. The bullets hit the hard concrete and whined, ricocheting toward the far wall.
Someone cursed. Ellen used the moment and Leo’s cover fire to run to Emma. She was struggling, the noose cutting off her air as the lift continued to rise. Her eyes were wide and desperate.
“Lo-o,” she gasped. Ellen couldn’t understand what she was saying but Emma had turned her back to her. Her tied hands were clasped, both forefingers pointing.
Ellen saw it then, the controller for the lift, lying on the ground at Emma’s feet. Three buttons! She wasn’t sure which one to press.
Stop. Think.
She stared down at the controller. Three fat buttons in a row, red, white and black. The buttons were worn and dark with grease. She brought the controller closer to her face, caught the faint outline of an arrow. White arrow up. Black arrow down.
Down!
She pressed the black button. The posts stopped. Emma was choking. Ellen could hear her. Then the sound was drowned by a fresh burst of gunfire. Ellen ignored it and held the button down with every bit of pressure she could muster. Slowly, the posts began to slide downward. Dropping the controller, Ellen got her fingers around the rope, loosened the noose and lifted it from around her sister's neck.
As soon as she was free, Emma fell to the ground. Her injured ankle unable to bear her weight.
Ellen shoved her gun in its holster, took her sister’s hand, and pulled her to her feet.
Emma, her arms still tied behind her, struggled to help. The sound of gunshots filled the enclosed space. Emma had taken two lurching steps, leaning heavily on Ellen, when, suddenly, Leo was there.
He reached for Emma as Ellen drew her gun and started peppering shots toward the men still hiding behind the car.
Sweeping Ellen up, Leo ran for it. Fragments of concrete exploded around them. Ellen dropped to one knee and searched for a target. One of the men popped up from behind the car. She fired and heard a yelp.
Leo and Emma burst out of the garage and into bright sunlight. Leo shoved Emma to the side, turned, aimed toward the car but held his fire, waiting for his eyesight to adjust.
Ellen, hunched to make herself a smaller target, scuttled through the door, then swung and fired her last three rounds at the back wall. Shattered bits of masonry rained down.
Staying low, she did a fast crawl to the side, dropped to a crouch and reloaded, ejecting the empty magazine and slapping in another.
It was quiet.
Emma sat with her back to the wall, her good leg drawn up, the injured one stretched in front of her. The throbbing in her ankle made here hope she wouldn’t have to move again soon.
Ellen watched the door as Leo reloaded. Then she pulled a knife from her pocket, opened it and carefully cut t
hrough the ties around Emma’s wrists.
Relieved to be free, Emma brought her hands to her lap and tried to rub life back into them. They had fallen asleep, and the initial tingle turned into pinpricks of pain as blood rushed to her fingers. She didn’t mind. The pain was nothing compared to the rush of being free.
“Wait until they try to come out and shoot them?” Ellen asked.
Maybe we call the cops?” suggested Emma. “They can deal with them.”
Leo didn’t offer an opinion, just remained where he was, his attention on the doorway.
“How d-did you f-find me?” Emma asked, a combination of pain and adrenaline making her voice shake. “H-how did you know where I was?”
“I put a tracker on your phone,” said Ellen in an offhand way, as if it were an everyday occurrence.
“You what? How?”
“Remember that day at your office when I put Mrs. Carpenter's name in your phone? Well, before I did that, I loaded a tracking app on your phone. I was worried about you. I knew once you started investigating this murder you wouldn’t let it go.”
Emma took a deep, shuddering breath and thought about it a moment before saying, “That was very sneaky of you. Good thing it saved my ass or I’d be furious.”
Ellen smiled. “Yeah, I noticed this morning that you, or at least your phone, were out in the middle of nowhere. It made me nervous, so I talked to Leo and we decided to see if we could find you.”
“I’m not sure I’d say we decided.” said Leo.
Ellen shot him a look, then said, “Oh my god. You’re bleeding!”
Leo shrugged, then looked down at his arm and nodded. “That happens when you get shot.”
Emma looked at Leo, saw what Ellen had seen first. Blood was steadily dripping from the fingertips of Leo’s left hand.
“I’m good,” he said. He stood up slowly, reaching out once to steady himself, leaving a bloody palm print on the wall.
Seeing this, Emma said to her sister, “To hell with waiting for those bastards to come out. Call 911.