A Killer in the Wind (20 page)

I had to work the separated section of the trunk out of my way. Then I pressed close to the wall. Found the opened compartment. Forced my restricted hands into it.

My fingers touched cold metal right away. I hardly dared to feel the thrill of it. I scrabbled desperately to get a grip on the metal. A cylinder of iron. The car’s tire iron. Wedged into some sort of holder in the wall.

Fresh tears sprang to my eyes—tears of desperate desire now. The hope that I could get that tool brought fresh fears with it: fear that time would run out before I got the thing, fear that the nylon of the zip-tie would be too strong, fear that my movements were so restricted I wouldn’t be able to use the iron at all.

I strained back, wrapped the fingers of one hand around the cool cylinder. I arched my body. Kicked with my feet, grunting. I came away from the wall—and, yes, pulled the tire iron free.

I fell slack. Panting from the effort, gulping in lungfuls of the hot air. My shirt was soaked through with sweat, clammy on me, heavy on me. And my arms hurt so much I had to lie still another moment to let the muscles rest, let the pain subside.

As I paused like that, blinking through sweat, staring into almost pitch blackness, the car’s movements once more forced themselves on my attention. We were traveling slower than before but our progression was just as steady. I figured we must be on a smaller highway now, maybe a two-lane. Traveling through open country, I imagined. Sure: traveling to someplace secluded. Someplace where Stark could go to work on me in private, without interruption, for as long as he wanted . . .

Stark’s voice started to whisper in my mind again:
With the right tools, you can go straight into the brain
. . . But I chased him off with a fierce shake of the head, a silent curse, my teeth gritted against his hissing, skeletal presence.

All the while, I kept hold of the tire iron in one hand. Now I tightened my grip, began to try to twist it around so I could wedge it between my wrist and the plastic, get it inside the loop of the twist tie. Oh, man, it was slow work. Slow, hard, so frustrating. So many failures. So many times I lost my grip and then—then I dropped it, and dropped it again—and each time I heard the clunk of the iron on the trunk floor, I made a noise in answer like a beast whimpering in the jaws of a trap. I got hold of the iron again. I got the wedge under the plastic of the zip-tie—then it snapped away again. I had to stop to rest my shoulder, gasping for breath. But almost at once, I tried again. Got the wedge in a second time, scraping my skin, making it burn—and
bump
: The car turned, went off the road, went bounding and rumbling over a new, rough surface.

I knew where we were—or at least I thought I knew. We were on a broken road now, maybe a dirt road. The sort of road that leads into the middle of nowhere, to a place where no one would hear me screaming, where I would never be found until Stark’s long vengeance was over.

My heart sped up and my breath grew shallow. Exhausted, sick, hurting, gasping, I felt a fear beyond fear, a scarlet mindful of fear that almost torched my panic again. But the wedge was in this time, in beneath the zip-tie well and truly. I worked it in deeper with one hand. Then deeper, bit by bit. Then I began to try to wrap the fingers of my other hand around the shaft.

The car juddered over the broken road, dropping into a deep hole with a jarring jolt. But I still had the tire iron gripped in both hands. I started to twist it against the zip-tie, using it as a lever to stretch the plastic, to pull the bonds away from my wrists, farther away, and farther, trying to get it to break.

It wouldn’t break. I couldn’t get enough leverage. I relaxed the pressure, gasping. No choice. My shoulders were burning with pain. My wrists were aching, my hands weak.

The car bounced and slowed and my heart seized in me. I thought we’d reached the end of the line. But no, we were only working our way more slowly over the broken road, edging forward, maneuvering past the potholes.

I didn’t try to stretch the tie again; I knew it wouldn’t break. Instead, I shifted my grip on the metal bar. I worked my hands into position. I drew breath. Held it. Then all at once, I let the air burst out of me as with a single concerted motion—a single effort of strength that tore the sinews in my arms and sent a sparkling burst of agony through the darkness behind my eyes, I twisted the tire iron in the zip-tie sharply—one hand pushing one way, one pulling in the other—and the plastic snapped.

My hands were free.

The shock of the release, the joy of fresh hope, the relief to my arms—all of it sent a new burst of strength through me. Quickly, I tore the zip-tie off me completely. I curled around in the cramped space. I ran my fingers over the metal of the trunk cover, trying to find a spot where I might wedge the tire iron in, break the lock, and pry the lid open.

But the damn thing seemed built to thwart me. The trunk lid overlapped with the body of the car in such a way I didn’t think I’d be able to get the iron in between them—and even if I did, I wasn’t certain I’d be able to get the leverage I needed to snap the latch.

I cursed, my heart falling as quickly as it had risen. I had to steel myself against breaking—because I was breaking, my spirit was breaking and I had to fight to keep it alive. I told myself I had a chance now—I had a weapon now, free hands, the element of surprise—I could do battle if I had to. But I remembered the calm, professional, expert demeanor of the young muscleman who’d put me in here. He had a Taser. He surely had a gun. He probably had allies—even Stark himself—waiting for him wherever we were going. If I was still stuck in this rolling coffin when we reached the end of the line, I was a dead man, and worse than dead.

“All right, all right,” I whispered. My voice was barely audible above the noise of the tires banging over the rough road.

I had to think again, had to go back to the beginning. What did I have? What could I use? What could I find that would help me get out?

The jack.

I started moving at once. Twisting around. Gasping, puling with the effort. Working my body into position to get my hands in the compartment, to get the jack. I grabbed it, pulled it out of its holder. It was a good one. A heavy, solid scissor jack. I set it on the trunk floor. Feeling my way, I worked the iron into its slot. I lay curled on my side next to it. I started to pump the bar.

The jack cranked up inch by inch. I could hardly see it in the dark and had to keep putting my hands on top of it to find out how high it was. I wasn’t sure it was tall enough to reach the lid, but there was no sense worrying about it. I didn’t have any other ideas. I tried not to think. I just kept pumping.

And the car kept moving, bouncing slowly over the dirt road. How much farther would it go? How much time did I have?

Curled on my side, moving my arm up and down, I listened to the grinding jack rise, feeling the sweat pour off me, feeling it soak my clothes.

The jack touched the ceiling of the trunk. Again, new hope, new strength went through me. I kept pumping—harder, then even harder as the trunk lid resisted the rising jack. I felt the metal of the lid begin to buckle and dent. I heard it. Would the driver hear it? No, not over the noise of the road. I gritted my teeth. I pumped harder. Now the lid had bent as far as it would go. Now the metal held, resisting. I pressed down on the iron. It seemed to press back up against me, refusing to budge. I leaned on it, grunting, lifting my body off the trunk floor, pressing down with all my weight.

The latch snapped. The lid flew up. The trunk sprang open.

The driver must have seen it. The car stopped at once, stopped hard. At the same time, light—blue evening light—and air—cool evening air—washed in over me, and by some magic chemical reaction all the terror and hope and desperation inside me turned instantly into a killing rage.

I grabbed the tire iron. Yanked it free of the jack. Climbed out of the trunk and tumbled out onto the road.

I was in a forest of towering pines, the sky twilit above me. Everything was falling into silhouette as the daylight died.

I stumbled a few steps, then planted my feet on the rough dirt. I clutched the cold iron in my hand. I was weak and unsteady and drenched in sweat, but the fury was like lightning in me, one long blast of white-hot power, animating my failing flesh.

I saw the dark shape of the car door coming open, framed against the low glow of the car’s running lights. I saw the dark shape of the thug rising out from behind the wheel. An animal cry tore out of me and I rushed him.

He was halfway out of the car, half turned away from me with his hand still on the door, when I reached him and brought the iron down on his head. The blow wasn’t hard enough to knock him out but it stunned him. He threw his two hands up in self-defense and tried to stagger away.

I went after him, roaring. I hit him again. This time I only connected with his hand. I heard him make a noise. I saw something drop from his fingers. I heard the sound of plastic hitting the dirt. The Taser. He’d been planning to shock me again. To knock me out, keep me alive for the skeleton’s tortures. The jagged bolt of rage inside me danced with fresh fire. I roared—I couldn’t stop roaring—and swung the iron again.

He threw his arm up, blocked the blow. I could feel the strength in him: the muscle, the power. Even dazed as he was, he managed to wrap his arm around my arm and capture it, twist it, force me to drop the iron bar. At the same time, he tried to jab his free hand into my eyes. But we were close now—too close for blows. We grabbed hold of each other, spun away from the car, and tumbled down together into the dirt.

We rolled and clutched at each other in the glow of the running lights. He was too strong for me. Quickly, he had me wrapped up, held fast. He got around behind me, wrapped his arm around my throat. I had my chin tucked in to keep him from strangling me but he was forcing me down under him. Desperate, all I could do was keep my body loose, slither my arm out of his control, reach for a pressure point.

Just before he pinned me to the earth, I found it. My hand slipped between his thighs. I made a fist.

He grunted and his grip on me loosened. I pulled away but kept clutching him. In the thrashing force of his agony, he lashed an elbow into my temple. That made my head ring and knocked me away. I rolled across the dirt, a throbbing pain behind my eyes. But I was out of his clutches and I knew I only had seconds before he recovered. I had to rush. Had to get my best shot at him fast.

I rolled up onto my hands and knees. An owl
hoo-hooed
in the high pines. A wind whispered through the branches. I saw the tire iron in the dirt by the light of the car. I reached for it, wrapped my fingers around it.

The day had darkened even further now. The air was deep blue, except where the double beam of the running lights cut through it. The first stars were shining mistily above the crowns of the trees. I saw the thug’s silhouette in the road. I saw him bent over double, clutching his middle in pain, but still pushing his way to his feet.

I got up first, the iron in my hand. I leapt at him. Swung. The heavy metal hit the side of his head. Halfway to his feet, he grunted, staggered. I roared. I hit him in the head again. He stumbled down onto one knee, trying to keep his hand up in front of him. I brought the iron down overhand, smashing it into his well-groomed hair. He dropped onto his butt. He tried to crab-walk away, keeping his hand up. I hit him again, roaring, and hit him again and kept roaring and hit him again, and that last time, I felt something give—his skull: I felt it cave in under the blow and that was it, finally, he went down, not in stages, but dead weight,
bang,
to the ground. He lay there twitching violently.

Staggering with the force of that final swing, I lost my balance and sprawled onto the road beside him.

I lay in the dirt there, gasping, cursing, sobbing while the thug next to me spasmed and shuddered—a long time, it seemed like. Then he lay still.

The owl hooted again in the gathering dusk. I climbed slowly to my feet. Took two unsteady steps to the car. Grabbed hold of its opened door, leaned on it, trying to catch my breath.

I lifted my eyes to the forest around me. The pines stood straight and tall like shadow sentries. I followed the sound of the owl and saw him, high on a dead branch, a black shape against the indigo sky. A thin mist was rising from the ground, I noticed now. It swirled in the double gleam of the car lights. It rose above me and dimmed the light of the early stars. It grew luminous at the horizon line where the edge of the moon was just rising, a bright arc visible through the trunks of the trees.

I turned this way and that and turned again, but there was no other light in the woods that I could see.

I glanced at the killer. Not shuddering anymore. Motionless.

Still breathing hard, I lowered myself into the car.

It was a Chevy, old, maybe ten years old. The radio was playing low. A man singing, his voice grainy with yearning. A GPS glowed, mounted on the dashboard, but there was no course highlighted on it: This road was off the map. With the door open, the car’s top light was on. I could see my jacket lying on the passenger seat. I lifted it. My gun and holster were underneath. So was my wallet and my phone. So was the manila envelope I’d found behind the wainscoting at Samantha’s place.