JACK KILBORN ~ TRAPPED (75 page)

Throwing perfectly good food away was wrong, and Plincer didn’t want that on his conscience.

Captain Prendick opened his eyes. For a moment he thought he was asleep on his boat, but then the headache hit, followed swiftly by the memory of how he received it.

He’d just locked up the Randhurst woman and the two kids in Doc Plincer’s prison; something he would be getting a large bonus for. Martin had asked him to stay close and ready, just in case. Prendick understood why. He hated coming to the island. When he did his monthly supply drop-off, it was during the day. Being here at night really upped the danger quotient.

He hadn’t seen a single feral on his walk back to the beach. He’d heard things, but figured they feared him too much to try anything.

Then, when he was reaching into the bushes to drag out his dinghy, he got whacked from behind.

Now he was naked, lying on his back and locked in some kind of strange cage. It was in a clearing, and to his right was a bed of coals, glowing orange. Prendick had no illusions what those coals were for. He checked the other side, and could see his clothes in a pile just a few feet away on his left.

Was my gun in the pile as well?

He couldn’t tell, and couldn’t reach. The cage gave him no freedom to move, the bars crisscrossing his chest and back. It was sort of like being the meat in an iron sandwich.

Pendrick knew it was the ferals. It had to be. But he didn’t see any of them around so he was able to control his panic. This cage had to have some kind of locking mechanism, something that didn’t involve any kind of key, because those cannibals wouldn’t have keys. That meant a crossbar, or some sort of lever set-up. He began to explore the bars with his fingers, seeking out the hinges. They were covered with a thick layer of charred grease.

“
Hello, Prendick.”

Someone was standing over him, but Prendick couldn’t crane his neck back far enough to see who it was.

“
Who is it? Christ, you gotta help me. Those goddamn savages are going to roast me alive. See if there’s a latch on this cage.”

Movement, to his right. He looked, and saw the figure walk next to him and crouch down. His face was bathed in the soft, orange light from the coals, and Prendick sighed in relief when he recognized Martin.

“
It’s not a cage. It’s a gridiron.”

“
I don’t give a shit what it’s called, Martin. Get me out of this thing.”

Martin smiled. “Now that would be counter-productive. Who do you think put you in this thing in the first place?”

Prendick didn’t think that was funny at all. He knew Martin was a killer. What else could explain the many trips Martin took to the island with a companion, only to be alone when Prendick picked him up? But he also knew Martin needed him. There weren’t too many don’t ask/don’t tell captains on Lake Huron.

“
Seriously, Martin. Let me out before those freaks come back.”

“
Seriously, Captain Prendick. I’m the one who hit you on the head, carried you here, and put you in the gridiron. Both Doctor Plincer and I have grown tired of your escalating prices. So we decided that I would be the supplier from now on. I’ll need your boat, of course. I’m assuming it’s paid for, with all the money we’ve given you over the years. Where’s the title on that, by the way?”

Prendick read Martin’s face, looking for the joke, the lie. But the man looked serious.

“
I haven’t bought the boat yet. Most of the money the doctor gives me goes to the airlines. I have a mother in Florida that I visit all the time. Seriously, you have to believe me.”

Martin stared at him. Prendick felt sweat break out over his entire body, despite the cool morning air.

“
Martin, I swear. If you think the cost of my services is too high, I’m happy to renegotiate. Hell, I’ll even throw in some freebies. Sort of like frequent flyer miles. You’ve been a great customer, and I don’t want to lose you.”

Martin moved closer. Prendick saw a glint in his blue eyes.

“
Where’s the title to the boat, Captain Prendick?”

“
I haven’t paid it off yet. I swear.”

“
I see. Well, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Martin reached down, grabbing the bottom bar of the cage. He kept his back straight and lifted with his legs, tilting the gridiron, and Prendick, onto the side. Prendick eyed the hot coals, just a simple push away.

“
Martin! Wait! We can talk this out!”

“
I built this gridiron myself. Always was curious to try one, after reading about them.

While it delivers some deliciously slow and agonizing deaths, it wasn’t hands-on enough for my taste. So I gave it to the ferals. They’ve discovered a benefit beyond its intended purpose. Cooking their food. I find the whole thing rather distasteful, really. But who am I to look down my nose at their cuisine? There isn’t much else to eat on this island.”

Prendick felt hysteria creeping up his spine. He fought to maintain control. “Martin, please, I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”

“
Where’s that boat title, captain?”

“
If I tell you, will you promise not to push me onto those coals?”

“
Of course.”

“
Do I have your word?”

“
Cross my heart.”

Prendick could feel the heat rising from the coal bed. The thought of being pressed against them, unable to pull away, was the most terrifying prospect he’d ever considered.

“
Behind Goldie’s tank, in the safe. The combination is my birthday, three, twenty-nine, seventy. I’ll even sign the title over to you.”

“
How gracious of you. But that won’t be necessary. I’m sure I can adequately forge your signature.”

Prendick felt the gridiron shift.

“
Martin!” he impotently cried. “You promised!”

“
I’m a killer, Captain Prendick. Certainly you could have guessed I’m a liar as well.”

Prendick screamed at the gridiron tipped over, dropping him face-first onto the burning coals.

Kong opened his eyes. He’d gotten exactly one hour of sleep. Not ideal, but it would do. He got out of bed and went into the toilet. The whore was tied up in the bathtub. She’d died sometime during his slumber. No big loss there, but an inconvenience. Kong had desired a shower, but he found bathing with corpses to be distasteful.

He brushed his teeth, shaved, combed his hair, and dressed in his new clothes, perfectly timing the completion of the Windsor knot on his tie with the knock at the door.

It would appear that even American Chinese worked at being punctual.

He greeted the two new arrivals in Mandarin, and was pleased when they answered back in kind. Kong hadn’t met either of them before, and didn’t plan on seeing either of them again. One held an oversized metal briefcase, the other a large, empty suitcase. This also pleased him. They had planned ahead.

“
The whore is in the bathtub,” he told them, using his native tongue. “Next time, send someone with a stronger constitution.”

The man with the suitcase nodded, apologized, and hurried to the bathroom as Kong turned his attention to his companion.

“
Show me,” Kong ordered.

The man placed the briefcase on the bed, popped the latches, and opened the lid.

Kong stared. He didn’t so much as flinch, but he was shocked that something worth so much money was so small.

Kong told the man to leave, so entranced by what was on the bed that he wasn’t even aware he’d used the word
qing
, meaning
please
, as if making a request rather than a command.

The man bowed, then hurried into the bathroom. The shower came on—the men rinsing away the blood. A minute later, the duo were lugging out a bulging and obviously heavy suitcase.

Kong paid them no mind as they left. There were also papers in the briefcase, but Kong didn’t bother checking them, knowing they were in order. He closed the lid and shook his head, marveling at what Westerners considered valuable. For the same price he could get a hundred such items in China, any of which would make this pale in comparison.

But then it would be difficult to carry a hundred items in one small case. He gave Plincer a modicum of respect for his ingenuity. There weren’t many items that were portable, legally obtainable, could easily pass through airport security, and were worth twenty-five million dollars.

Kong didn’t bother checking his watch because he already knew the time in his head. His plane would be in a little over an hour, enough time for him to endure a bland, banal representation of what people in this country considered breakfast. Hopefully one of those garish airport restaurants served Wulong tea, though he wasn’t holding out much hope.

He picked up the briefcase and headed out, confident that he was about to take the first step in changing the future of China, and by extension, the future of the world.

Laneesha opened her eyes. But she couldn’t see anything, only feel a sharp yet empty throb.

That was because her eyeballs were gone.

Sara wasn’t a religious person. She understood the social and psychological needs that religion sated. Apart from a few late night college gab fests with fellow psyche majors fueled by wine and pot, she’d managed to avoid having to justify her godless convictions.

But locked in the trunk, relieving the biggest horror of her past and waiting to experience one that would be even worse, Sara gave herself over to a higher power and prayed for death.

She prayed hard, with all she had, chanting the phrase over and over in her head until
please God let me die
became one long, endless word, ends running into beginnings running into ends.

She tried to help God along, hyperventilating to the point of dizziness, trying to suck up the last bit of oxygen in the trunk.

letmediepleasegodletmedieplease…

When that didn’t work, possibly because the trunk wasn’t air tight, Sara tried holding her breath, willing her body to give up, picturing her brain cells dying and bodily functions ceasing through the sheer force of determination.

That didn’t work either. Sara sobbed for a while, alternately being assaulted by terrifying memories of the past, self-hatred at her own naïveté for loving and trusting and being married to a monster, and the despair of what would happen to the rest of her kids, and the horror of the tortures yet to come. The darkness nipped away at her soul, the heat and cramps making the claustrophobia even worse than when Paulie Gunther Spence abducted her a lifetime ago. The feeling of helplessness was so encompassing, so powerful, she lost all sense of anything else.

The shift was gradual. The sobbing abated, mostly out of exhaustion. The darkness remained, but became a tiny bit more bearable. Anger snuck into the mix, jockeying for position against fear and guilt. It built slowly, and Sara embraced it, fed off of it, and added a fuel she didn’t have when she was eleven years old. Responsibility.

This wasn’t just her life on the line. There were children involved. Children she’d pledged to help and protect.

She couldn’t do either while stuck in a trunk.

Sara stretched out a crick in her neck, shifted her weight, and began to test her bonds. The rope was thin, nylon, the same type the ferals had used to string up Martin.

Should have let the bastard hang there.

She let the anger carry her forward, twisting her arms, trying to get some play in the rope to slip out. Her wrists became slick, first with sweat, then with blood, but the knots were simply too tight.

Then she remembered the nail clippers that she’d shoved into her back pocket while at the campsite. Were they still there, or had Martin taken them?

Sara shifted again, bending her knees to give her hands more room to work. Her fingers dug into her pocket and touched the small metal object.

Small, but packed full of hope.

They weren’t the best tool for the job, and Sara couldn’t see what she was doing, but she opened up the clippers and began to slowly nip away at the rope binding her left wrist.

It was slow going, and involved intense concentration. The clippers were slippery, and the repetitive motion made her fingers cramp and throb. But she kept at it, clipping a few nylons threads at a time, and after five minutes of exhausting work she was through the rope.

It freed her left arm, which was one of the greatest feelings Sara had ever experienced. But her right wrist was still tied to her legs, the multiple knots Martin had used still holding tight. Sara attacked the rope again, using her left hand. But it lacked the control, and strength, of her right, and after ten minutes she’d only gotten halfway through.

Self-doubt returned. Martin could come back any minute. He might even be in the room right now. Maybe he left her the nail clippers on purpose, seeing if she’d try to escape, waiting for her to come out. He’d fooled Sara for six years without her suspecting a thing. Clearly he was capable of anything.

The darkness pressed down on Sara, getting into her nose and mouth and ears, reminding her what was going to happen.