Gone (10 page)

As she approached the house, Marcie carefully applied the brakes, but the tires slipped and the front of the car drifted slowly to the left. She compensated by turning the steering wheel, but it made no difference at all. A soft bump and the sudden dip in the front of the car told her that at least one wheel, possibly two, had gone over the shoulder. The car eased forward another inch, then stopped.

Marcie’s throat was tight, her heart beating so hard and fast that she felt as though she couldn’t breathe. She was frozen in place, afraid to move, worried that even the slightest shift of her body weight might send the car farther off the road until it nosedived into the muddy swamp.

For a long while she sat there, waiting to see if the car was going to slip any more. Finally, she decided that it either was or wasn’t, but she would probably never know unless she moved. And she sure couldn’t sit there all night...could she?

Marcie moved carefully, an inch or two at a time. Each time she moved an arm or leg, she stopped and held her breath, waiting to see if the car moved. She managed to slide out of the driver’s seat and onto the center console without the car moving.

Now, all she had to do was get into the backseat and open the door and get out. She figured the hardest part was over, getting out from under the steering wheel and maneuvering over the gearshift on the console. She went into the backseat headfirst, rolling a bit so that she landed on her back. When she did, she felt an ominous shudder underneath her. The car was sliding.

Marcie froze, holding her breath until the steel frame quit moving. She took several deep breaths, then held her breath again, staying perfectly still. From what she could tell, the car seemed to have stabilized. So she eased the rear driver’s side door open and climbed out. By the time she was standing on the muddy road, her legs felt like they were about to collapse and her whole body tingled from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She looked up and down the road as far as she could see in the steady drizzle, which wasn’t far, more than half afraid that Howard was watching, waiting to spring out and grab the money from her.

After squinting and staring in each direction, making sure she didn’t detect any movement, she retrieved her purse from the passenger seat, then got the tote and the blanket from the backseat. Then she closed the doors as carefully as she could. But even for all her care, the car’s frame groaned again.

She jumped backward. The vehicle gave another shudder, then slowly the front end dipped another several inches, placing the driver’s side rear door right over a mud hole.

She stood there watching the back of the car for a few moments, fully expecting it to disappear, but it didn’t move again. Looking up and down the muddy road, she crossed to the other side, walking as carefully as she could to avoid the deeper puddles. By the time she made it across the street and onto the narrow, rickety pier that led to the stairs, the soles of her tennis shoes were caked with sticky mud. She scraped the soles against the pier’s rough wood until she’d gotten rid of most of it.

The stairs were wobbly, but much sturdier than the pier, although the soles of her shoes remained slippery. The weathered planks creaked in protest as she climbed, but nothing broke and she finally made it onto the small stoop. She’d estimated the height of the stilts with her eyes when she’d driven up. They looked to be about four feet above the level of the road. But now, looking down, it seemed as though the dark water was much farther below her. She carefully backed away from the edge of the porch and toward the door, almost tripping over a bucket that was about half-filled with rainwater. She shoved it out of the way with the toe of her shoe.

Her thoughts turned to Howard again. What if he were inside, waiting for her? What if he planned to ambush her inside the house, take the money and run? What if he didn’t have Joshua and never intended to give her baby back to her. Marcie shivered and wiped rain out of her eyes. One thing was for certain—it was much too late to worry about whether Howard was inside the stilt house now. She was going inside because she had nowhere else to go.

When she pushed the door open and stepped inside, her hand automatically shot out to the right, patting the wall for a light switch, but there wasn’t one. Her pulse began to race in the classic flight-or-fight adrenaline reaction. But still, she had to keep going. Otherwise she’d be out in the rain and probably catch hypothermia.

She remembered the pile of broken poles and wires on the side of the road. Using the anemic sunlight that crept in through the open door, she examined the interior. It was a single room with two windows, one to the left of the door and a second directly across from it on the back wall.

Simple, thick curtains were pulled shut, shielding enough light that it would be almost impossible to see if she closed the door. She started toward the back window to open it, and something brushed across her face. With a little cry, she swiped at it, imagining a huge spider web or a bat. But her fingers touched a cool, small chain hanging from the ceiling. It felt like the type of ball chain that was used on lightbulbs and lamps.

She grabbed it and pulled, expecting nothing except a dry clicking sound. But a low-wattage lightbulb on the ceiling flared, surprising her. How could there be electricity? Then, just as the question formed in her mind, she heard the low growl of a gas-powered generator starting up. Relief made her jaw ache, although she hadn’t realized she’d been clenching it.

The bulb was dim, but it helped a little as she surveyed the room. To her profound relief, it was empty. There was no one else here. Also, the little house felt much tighter and more secure from the inside than it had looked from the outside. Even so, she decided she would stay toward the middle of the room and not press her luck. While she was relatively sure that the one hundred and twenty-five—okay, thirty—pounds on her five-foot-eight-inch frame wouldn’t tip the building over, she wasn’t going to take any chances.

She did tiptoe over to the back window long enough to push the curtains aside. What greeted her was a pane of streaked, dusty glass, through which she could see the pale pink beginnings of sunset seeping through the rain clouds and shadowed by cypress trees draped in Spanish moss. In the dimming light, the trees looked like ghostly figures with tattered shawls.

The swamps of Lakes Pontchartrain and Maurepas were beautiful in a rugged, primitive way. The water, dark as mud, stretched out as far as the horizon, its vastness blocked only by clusters of cypress or tupelo trees and marsh grass. As she watched, a white heron flapped its wings then rose from the murky water and flew above the treetops, stirring a flock of seagulls that followed him. Their calls harmonized with the low groans and squeals of alligators as they splashed water while climbing onto a fallen log to sun, or slid back into the water after prey.

As beautiful and primitively elegant as the swamp was, the idea that sunset was not that far away made Marcie pull the curtains closed again. When it got dark, she didn’t want anything out there looking in at her.

She swung the tote and her purse off her shoulder and set them on the floor near the door. Arching her shoulder and neck, she wondered just how much the hundred and seventy thousand dollars in twenties and hundreds weighed. From the furrow the heavy tote had made in her shoulder and the ache in her arms from hauling it up the stairs, she’d say forty pounds. Her purse was heavy, too, with the extra things she’d thrown in—the two flashlights, a couple bottles of water, a small package of toiletries and several protein bars. She looked at the bars ruefully. They weren’t really appropriate for Joshua. As she was throwing things into her purse, it had hit her that everything she had was for a nine-month-old and Joshua was almost two and a half now. But surely, he could eat a protein bar.

Setting down the heavy bag, she fished the flashlight out and began exploring the small cabin. The walls were covered with what looked like canvas—or maybe burlap—that had been given one coat of white paint. The effect was spotty and oddly interesting, with an abstract pattern of light and dark that played over the walls like strange graffiti.

On the south wall, barely visible in pink light from the back window, was a counter on which sat an old-fashioned bowl and pitcher. Marcie lifted the pitcher. It was full of fresh water. There was no refrigerator or icebox, no cabinets and no food. Good thing she’d brought the protein bars.

She turned toward the other side of the room, the north side, directing the flashlight’s beam into the shadows. The first thing she saw was a metal folding cot, its squatty legs about twelve inches off the floor. On it was a threadbare blanket, rolled up. Pushed up against the wall behind it was a small space heater. She studied it briefly, thinking that it looked about as dangerous as any electrical appliance she’d ever seen.

The heater coils on the front were exposed. The three metal safety guards were broken. It was plugged into an extension cord that ran across the floor, up the wall and out through the back window.

This corner was where she was supposed to sleep? She glanced toward the front door, thinking she’d rather sleep in her car with the blanket over her and the doors locked, than to be in here alone, sleeping essentially on the floor with nothing but that ragged, moth-eaten piece of wool touching her.

Looking back at the space heater and thinking that it was certainly thoughtful of Howard to provide warmth on this rainy day, she noticed a smaller, darker cube next to it with a cord that was plugged into the same extension cord. Walking over and crouching down, she shone the flashlight and saw that it was a radio of some kind, probably a walkie-talkie.

She picked it up. There was a small green light on its top. Her hand jerked and she almost dropped it. It was on. Did that mean someone—Howard—had been here? Did it mean he was listening to her right now?

Marcie wiped her hands down her jeans as if she’d touched something dirty. She had no idea what the range of the walkie-talkies was, or precisely how to operate them. Still staring at it, she thought back over the past few minutes. Had she said anything out loud? Anything Howard could use against her? She didn’t think so.

Standing, she turned on her heel and did her best to pretend that the walkie-talkie wasn’t on and that there was no one on the other end of it. Still, she shuddered. Nothing about her exploration of the cabin had made her feel any better about where she was or how long she was going to be forced to stay. Howard hadn’t even hinted at when he would contact her. All he’d told her was to wait in the cabin.

He—or someone—had obviously left the water and the cot and blanket for her because she would be here overnight. The meanness of his threats contrasted sharply with the thoughtfulness of the comfort items he’d provided. Marcie wondered if the latter were Rhoda’s idea, and how she’d managed to convince Howard to provide them.

Well, if Marcie was going to have to be here overnight, it wasn’t going to be on that cot, covered by that moth-eaten rag folded on top of it. Thank goodness she’d brought in her clean, fresh blanket. She could cover up with it, although she had little hope of sleeping a wink in this rickety cabin that only had one way in or out through a flimsy, hollow door.

Marcie wiped her face and did her best not to give in to the tears that were hovering just behind her eyes. Now that she was here alone in this grubby little hovel in this awful swamp that had practically devoured her car, it was getting harder and harder to believe that all this was going to lead her to her little boy. It felt like a wild-goose chase. All the horror stories she’d ever heard about kidnappings gone wrong swirled in her mind.

Despite her determination, her eyes stung and filled with tears. The tears spilled over her eyelids and ran down her cheeks. She knew what she needed. She needed Joe. If she could hear his low, reassuring voice pointing out all the odds that were in their favor, she’d calm down.

Then what he’d told her came rushing back to her memory. He’d promised her that he’d be close by, that all she had to do was call and he’d come to her rescue. But if that were true, why hadn’t he rushed to her aid when the car slid into the swamp? Had he watched and decided that she wasn’t in danger? Or had he been worried that Howard might be close by and didn’t want to expose himself?

She wanted to call him, even though he’d told her not to. She knew it was a precaution to keep Howard from thinking she’d passed along her location. But she was terrified that if she didn’t talk to him, she was going to have a full-blown panic attack. She hadn’t had one of those since those first weeks after Joshua was taken, but she could feel the telltale symptoms starting. She could already feel her heart rate increasing.

She dug her phone out of her pocket and entered speed-dial one. Her fingers tightened around the phone as she heard the first ring. But it cut off in the middle. Pulling the phone away from her ear, she looked at the display.
No service.

“No!” she cried. She shook the phone, as if that would help, then punched speed-dial one again. “Hello?” she cried into the speaker. “Hello!” Louder this time. “Joe? Hello? Please?” But the phone was dead. No sound. No service.

She held the phone high, then low, walked over to the back window and along the back wall, but no matter what she tried—checking voice mail, dialing a number, sending a text, even trying to access her email—it still indicated no service. Growling in frustration, she suppressed a sudden desire to fling the device at the wall. But, before she gave up, she wanted to try the phone outside in the open air. So she stepped outside onto the little stoop and tried her phone again. Still nothing. She looked around. Was she crazy to think that if she walked a few yards up or down the road, or got out from under the canopy of cypress branches, she might have more luck?

She started down the stairs, holding on to the rickety rail with one hand while continuing to check the phone with the other. Halfway down, she stopped, too frustrated and deflated to continue. Of course there was no cell service. Otherwise, why would Howard have left a walkie-talkie set up and charged and ready to use in the house?