Hellbox (Nameless Detective) (12 page)

I kept silent.

He said “Okay” to himself this time, then moved on down the steps and got into his cruiser and drove off with a little more speed than he’d used arriving.

Rely on us, be patient. Bullshit. The danger to Kerry was real, her life in jeopardy, and urgent action was necessary.

I thought about calling the FBI. Yeah, sure—another exercise in futility. I had no contacts in the Bureau, and contrary to a television show like
Without a Trace
, the FBI has no task force that deals with missing persons cases unless there is substantial evidence that a kidnapping has taken place and federal laws violated. The chances that I could convince an agent to come up from Sacramento were slim and none; with the threats of homegrown, as well as foreign, terrorism and the social and political unrest that seemed to be amping up, manpower in the Bureau was stretched thin, and low-priority cases received short shrift as a result. What I’d get was a polite listen on the phone and the same kind of brush-off I’d gotten from Broxmeyer.

Forget the FBI for now, forget the county law. But the conversation with the deputy had convinced me that I could not go on depending on hope, strangers, myself alone. I needed help, which meant it had to come from a known quarter I could rely on. And I needed it fast.

12

KERRY

Sometime during the morning or afternoon, she managed to free her hands.

She no longer had any sense of time. At intervals it seemed compressed, sluggish, and then it would expand in jumps like a defective clock. The light that filtered in through chinks in the wall boarding, at the edges of the shutter over the single window, was no help: there wasn’t enough of it to do more than put a faint sheen on the murkiness. Objects in the shed, the low ceiling, were shrouded in shadow. The gathering heat was the only indicator that the day was moving forward at all. Smotheringly hot in this prison, but it didn’t bring an ooze of sweat from her pores the way it had yesterday. So dried out now, she could no longer produce enough saliva to ease the burning in her mouth and throat. Her thirst was almost unbearable.

But none of that kept her from sawing at the duct tape binding her wrists. She’d squirmed her body painfully from one end of the long bench to the other, in the hope that the other support leg would have a rougher edge. If it did, she couldn’t tell; she had almost no feeling left in her hands or arms. The sensors in her back told her when she had herself positioned, then she’d begun the long, arduous process. Rock forward and back, slowly, scraping the tape against the wood until she could no longer stand the strain; rest for a while and then start in again.

The task seemed impossible. More than once, she came close to abandoning it. But what else could she do, trapped in here, helpless? Wait passively for her captor to return and try to talk him out of killing her? No. She wasn’t made that way. All her life she’d been a doer, a fighter: never give in, never give up. The more difficult the task, the more determined she became. That wasn’t going to change now. Her outrage was greater than her frustration; so was her will to survive.

Now and then she prayed. She’d never been particularly religious, but she did believe in God; and if others believed in the power of prayer, then maybe there was something to it. She’d led a reasonably moral life, a more Christian life than so many of the self-important, hate-preaching hypocrites on the Far Right; maybe God, if He was merciful after all, would take pity on her.

The rest of the time she focused her mind on freeing herself. Her thoughts had grown sluggish anyway, and thinking only led to anxiety, a return of fear, and the crimping edges of panic.

The heavy rasp of her breathing kept her from hearing the duct tape finally rip and split. She didn’t realize she was free, or almost free, until she leaned forward to rest again, flexing her back muscles forward to ease the strain, and her arms bowed outward slightly and she had just enough feeling left in her wrists for an awareness of the tape’s pull on her skin.

A kind of dull elation moved through her. She didn’t have enough strength to tear loose the rest of the tape, and her fingers were useless. All she could do was keep flexing her back muscles, try to work enough feeling down through her arms so she could widen the spread of hands and wrists. It took a long time … bunches of minutes broken up by rest periods, an hour or more for all she knew. Slowly, slowly, the tape pulled and scraped, and there was another ripping sound and a faint stinging sensation on the back of her left hand. And both hands dropped apart and she was free.

Kerry wiggled away from the support, then over onto her side, and then her stomach with arms now splayed out on either side of her body. Still no feeling in either of them or in her hands except a residue of the stinging. She lay there breathing in the stifling air, willing her blood to circulate. More passing minutes strung together like links in an extended chain. Then the pain came, tiny prickles of it at first, gradually increasing until it began to radiate up and down both arms and in her fingers.

The pain brought on an impulse to weep, but her tear ducts were as dry as her mouth and throat. She rolled over onto her back, attempted to lift her arms. Not enough strength yet. She lay still, looking up at the shadowed ceiling where a huge cobweb hung from one of the beams, working now to flex her fingers. One twitched and moved and ached, then another and another, until she could feel them all, clumsy things as useless as sausages.

When the tingling and throbbing began to modulate from sharp pain to dull ache, she was able to raise her arms off the canvas and onto her bare thighs. She struggled into a sitting position, sat staring at her hands. God. They looked, as well as felt, swollen. Torn strips of duct tape still clung to both; blood streaks dried and fresh marked cuts, scrapes, welts all along her wrists and forearms. Again she felt the impulse to cry, but it lasted no more than a few seconds.

She made an effort to strip off the tape binding her ankles. No good. Fingers still too sore, too tender to grasp and pull. She lay flat again to ease the cramped hurt in her back. Flexed the fingers, chafed her wrists as circulation gradually improved—

Thrumming noise from outside: the link on the pit bull’s lead sliding along the ground cable as the animal broke into a sudden run away from the shed. A couple of seconds later, the dog began a furious barking.

Balfour, coming back?

Oh, God, no! Not yet, not while her hands were still useless, her feet still bound.

She sat up again, managed to catch hold of a corner of the canvas, hang on and pull it up over her legs. Lost the grip, regained it, dragged the canvas to her waist.

The dog’s barking tapered off into sporadic yips and whines. Kerry sat motionless, straining to hear. The animal wasn’t running anymore, either.

She clutched at the heavy canvas, her weight on one hip and her eyes on the door. If Balfour had returned, she’d hear him in time to roll herself into the canvas before he unlocked the door and came inside. And then pray he wouldn’t uncover her the way he had this morning.

Quiet outside now. She held her breath.

Silence.

Not Balfour, not yet. Something had spooked the dog, that was all—a wild animal or stray cat, a phantom sound or movement. It didn’t take much to set off a beast like that.

Kerry twisted free of the canvas. The tingling in her fingers was pins and needles now, a good sign. They still felt big and clumsy when she set to picking at the tape around her ankles; it took patience, concentration to scratch an edge loose, pinch it between thumb and forefinger. She didn’t have enough strength yet to tear it, but she found she could unwind it in little jerks—an agonizingly slow process that left her weak and a little dizzy when she finally stripped the last of it off.

Her hands were better by then; she sat rubbing the numbness out of her ankles, her swollen feet. Another long, slow process before returning circulation brought shoots of pain, then the tingling and the pins-and-needles prickling.

She had no idea how long she worked before she was ready to try standing. Stop time, lost time. Awareness of nothing but the task of restoring her body to a functional state, and the occasional sound from outside that froze her until she was sure it had no meaning.

Onto her knees first. Crawl over next to the bench. One hand on a storage door padlock, the other stretched up to the edge of the bench. Raise up, lift up onto her feet. The first time her legs refused to support her weight, even with her body braced against the bench, and she slid down hard to her knees. The jolts of pain increased her determination. She stayed upright the second time, held herself in place while she rested.

All right. Now walk.

Shuffling baby steps, both hands clutching the bench, trying to keep her weight braced and evenly distributed. Good. Another baby step. Another. Buckling knee that time; too much weight on the sliding foot. Rest. Go slow. Another step. Another. Turn at the end of the bench, walk back along it at the same slow pace to the far end. Turn again, come back. Four times, five times, until she could walk with minimal support. Every step had its measure of agony, but it was the kind of endurable, satisfying hurt you felt after a long run.

Ready then to explore the confines of her prison, look for a weapon she could use against her captor.

The switch for the overhead lights was next to the door. Risk putting them on? She’d have to; she couldn’t see much in the gloom, and with the canvas bunched up on the floor, there was a greater risk of stumbling, falling. Still daylight outside. Even if Balfour came back before she was done, he wouldn’t be able to tell from a distance that the lights were on.

Kerry felt her way to the end of the bench, around the end to the wall, then along the wall to the corner and from there over to the door. The sudden glare from the naked ceiling bulbs hurt her eyes; she narrowed them to slits until her vision adjusted.

The storage room seemed even smaller from an upright perspective—a twelve-by-twelve box, cramped, dusty. Across the back wall was a row of metal storage lockers, each door fitted with a heavy padlock. No help there. Nor from whatever was in the cabinets built in under the bench; the same kind of padlocks closed those off. The bench top was empty except for another piece of folded canvas and a thick-bodied television set. The rest of the enclosed space held rolls of insulating material, a pyramid of three one-gallon cans of paint, an old-fashioned standing ice chest, a brass-studded armchair bleeding stuffing from one dirty arm, some stacked cardboard cartons, not much else.

Could she use one of the paint cans as a weapon, hide behind the door and clout him with it when he came in? She tried to lift the top can with both hands … and couldn’t do it. Full, not empty. Too unwieldy anyway to swing with any accuracy, even if she could manage to lift it. The TV set? No good, either. It was at least twenty years old and looked as if it would weigh thirty or forty pounds.

The cartons were the kind with lids, none of them taped down. Old clothes, drop cloths, rags, more canvas … nothing she could use. In frustration, she yanked on a couple of the padlocks on the row of lockers, not thinking about the rattling noise until the pit bull’s lead ratcheted on the cable outside and the animal started barking again. How close to the door could the damn dog get? She couldn’t tell even when she went over to stand close to it; the wood was thick, solid, and the keyhole too small to see through. She moved sideways along the wall, looking for a peephole chink between the boards. There wasn’t one.

The window? Wire mesh screen bolted to the wall. Even if there were a way to pry it loose, the outer shutter, made of green-painted metal, was sure to be locked or bolted as well.

Still trapped, after all that effort to shed her bonds. No way out and nothing she could use to defend herself.

The fear rose in her again, a surge of it that came close to panic. Fighting it, controlling it, left her weak and shaky again. She hobbled to the door to switch off the lights, then sank down onto the canvas. Exhausted, pain-riddled, dehydrated, hungry. But her determination and her will to survive remained unshaken. As long as there was breath in her body, she would not give up.

She made a blank screen of her mind, sitting humped forward in the near-darkness, massaging wrists, ankles, feet to keep the blood flowing.

*   *   *

It was still daylight when Balfour came back.

The dog’s barking alerted her far enough in advance so that she was able to roll onto her side and wrap the canvas around her before his key scratched in the lock and the door opened. Again he put on the lights by reaching in from outside. Kerry had her eyes slitted so the glare wouldn’t blind her, saw him stand there looking in at her for a few seconds before he entered. Crazy, but not stupid. Even if she’d been able to lift one of the paint cans and tried to hide with it behind the door, she wouldn’t have taken him by surprise. Not that way.

She watched him move to within a few paces of where she lay, stop at the edge of the canvas. If he got close enough, bent down to check on her as he had that morning, she might just catch him off guard. Claw his face, kick or punch him in the groin, disable him long enough to scramble outside, then try to get past the pit bull and make a dash for freedom. She could see the dog through the open door, sitting on its haunches fifty or sixty yards away—far enough so that there might just be enough time to elude him. Desperate plan, with little chance of succeeding, but what else could she do?

Not even that. Balfour didn’t come any closer, just stood looking down at her with a funny little smile flicking at the corners of his mouth.

He looked different somehow. Red-faced and not a little drunk—she could smell the alcohol fumes leaking out of him—but not as grim or as tense. That smile … the secret kind, as if he were pleased about something. Or had made up his mind about something.

“How you doing there, lady?”

Maybe she could entice him into checking on her. She had the words, but it took three tries before she could force them out through the arid caverns of her throat and mouth. “How do you … think I’m doing, tied up like … piece of meat?”