The Camp (17 page)

Almost instantly, she felt her arms and legs go limp.

Both arms were released. The third man, the one from the shadows, seemed to be the leader. “I don’t think so, Billy. You nearly ruined the one from the store. No. This one goes in the hole.”

Billy came around to look down at the leader. “We aren’t leaving until tomorrow night. She could die and what would Cindy have to say? And what about the pills?”

The leader stood to face off the question. “I’ll deal with Cindy. Now dump this bitch in the hole and be sure to weigh down the lid. We’ll give her the pills when we pull her out. All the fight should be out of her by then.”

Struggling as much as possible, her eyes closed as if of their own volition and Amy felt like she was floating. When next she opened her eyes, she had to blink to be sure they were open. It was pitch black. She rubbed her hand over her face and came wide-awake. When she pushed to sit up, she’d barley moved before banging her head. In a sudden panic she remembered the last words she heard. ‘This one goes in the hole.’

She rolled on her side and banged into something soft. Like reading brail she tentatively ran a hand over the object. Then she snapped it back and rolled to the other side. It was a body.

“Hello.” No answer. She was in and out of panic, constantly banishing the image of her father falling off the bridge. She had to count breaths. Nothing worked. Her heart pounded and images of her father falling ran through her head.

Amy began to cry. “Oh, daddy. I’m sorry. In her mind’s eye, she could see him looking all over for her. Aunt Claire and Uncle Rye, too.
 

She thrashed and kicked at the body next to her until she was exhausted and then began to think.

Reaching around and feeling the sides, touching the end with her feet, she determined the size of her confines. Then, slowly, so as not to make contact with the body, she rolled onto her stomach. Rising up, she flattened her back against the lid and began to push. She felt something shift and when she collapsed, she heard a thump. She’d moved the lid.

Chapter Twenty-five

Rye guided Claire’s 1968 Fiat Spider behind a gas station that looked like it had been closed since their car had first been manufactured. The next curve straightened out in front of the Little Country Store.

The only light came from the moon. They both wore black pants and sweatshirts.

The Fiat was a convertible. Rye used the door and was always amazed that Claire would rather vault in and out whenever the top was down. He watched her pull a two-foot rattan stick from behind the seat.

“Think you’ll have to use that?”

She popped the air several times. “Not taking any chances.”

They started out at a slow lope through the weeds, but were making so much noise that they moved onto the hard pack dirt road.

“Paul’s note indicated a footbridge we could take that would put us on the same side of the river as the barn. Said it would be hard to find in the dark and that if we came to the main bridge for vehicles, we’d have gone too far.”

Claire ran in a crouch, stick in her right hand. “How far from river crossing to the barn?”

“The note just said to follow the river.”

Rye tapped his wife on the shoulder, pointed, and without a word, they cut across a field of weeds and intercepted a path that led to the bridge.

“That’s what I call a footbridge,” Claire whispered. “Do you think it’s even a foot wide?”

He shook his head. “I’ll go first. Thing looks a hundred years old.”

She was relieved that it didn’t sag or creak under his weight. He hadn’t reached the end when she started out at a sprint. She figured the less time she was on the bridge, the less time there’d be for someone to see her.

River debris was scattered along the bank so they moved through the forest, keeping the river in sight.

They’d been moving at a steady jog for twenty minutes when the trees opened up.

Rye nudged her with his shoulder and she followed his gaze.

An odd shape was heading in their direction and lurching with a sagging gait, one arm obviously swinging out of sync with the rest of its movement.
 

Claire gripped Rye’s arm and pulled him close so she could whisper. “I’ll take this one clean and quiet. You play backup.”

Rye had boxed and wrestled in college and spent several nights a week on bag work. He didn’t like it when she relegated him to backup, but it made sense.

The strange figure was changing its angle of approach and would be crossing directly in front of their position.

Claire prepared herself to spring and waited until the figure was less than a foot past their position to make her move. In an easy flow, she ran the stick against the carotid artery in the neck and bulldogged the man to the ground. But something was wrong. There was no resistance and he was soaking wet. Slowly, cautiously, she removed the stick, instead of pressing and sending him into unconsciousness. When Rye duck walked up, the figure extended a hand in his direction and pronounced his name.

“Paul. What happened?”

Before he could answer, they heard voices and quietly pulled him between several trees. All three flattened themselves among the ferns.

Rye kept a hand on his wife, knowing that her adrenaline was pumping. They never saw anyone, but the voices grew faint until a night breeze carried their words away.

“Amy. I think they have Amy.” At the mention of her niece’s name, Rye felt his wife’s hackles rise. There was nothing he could do to restrain her when she got to this point.

She stuck her face inches from Paul’s. Even so, her whisper came out with a rasp. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“We came up just to find the barn. Parked the bus at the campground. I left her to cross the bridge and ran into two men, one with a shotgun.” Paul’s words began to fade, Rye restrained Claire’s arm when he saw she was about to give him a shake. He could see dark spots along the arm that had been hanging. The mention of a shotgun explained everything. The spots were blood.

Paul rallied and pushed up into a sitting position with his good arm. “They threw me over the bridge. The last thing I remember is Amy slamming into one of them. But it was too late for me.” Claire helped him brace his back against a tree, then looked at Rye.

He felt helpless as he watched his best friend struggle to stand. She couldn’t miss his anguish. She looked at her husband with a ‘don’t argue with me’ stare that he’d seen before. “You go back to the car and get the first aid kit. I’m going to locate Amy.”

Paul looked at Claire. “I’ll go with you.”

“No. Wait here and rest. I’ll bring her to you.”

Rye touched his wife on the shoulder. “He’ll be fine.”

Without a word, she turned. Rye knew that she didn’t like the idea of his not following her plan of going to the car. He knew that his insistence on going with her made her feel ineffective, but she’d shake it off. Without a backwards glance, they moved in the direction of the cabins.

Paul slumped low against the tree. Claire was right. He never should have brought his daughter along. He watched the shadows of his two friends until they faded into the night, knowing in his heart that if there was a chance of finding his daughter…He stifled a sob. “Buck up, God damn it.” He sat up straighter. He was angry with himself for bringing Amy along despite knowing the risk, and he was frustrated that he was too weak to help look for her. He had to do something.

By the time Claire got to the first structure, Rye was right on her heels. Exchanging looks of caution, they approached the front and slowly pushed in the door. Empty.

There were twelve cabins, two rows of six, all facing each other. By the time they discovered the third one empty, they relaxed and proceeded to the end of the row where they stopped.
 

Continuing in rows were six outbuildings of differing sizes, mostly shed-like. At the end of the road, which had become a cul-de-sac, was a barn.

“I’ll go around to the front. You hang back until I whistle.” Claire whispered.
 

Rye nodded. “Anything comes down the road, I’ll let you know.” Backup again, he thought.

He watched as she rounded the corner. He waited but she didn’t whistle, so he backtracked around to the corner, thinking he’d come around from the other side and meet her.

When he came around the far side, car lights appeared in the distance, heading toward the barn. A tree was growing several feet from the back of the barn, but leaning sharply into it. He quickly pulled himself up using several low branches. The van pulled to the front of the barn just as he scrambled up and stepped onto the roof.

Although he was carefully crawling to the peak, his foot pushed through a hole between several shingles. He had to warn Claire. Then he heard harsh voices, knew she was in trouble, and pulled with all his strength. Placing both hands just below his knee, he rocked back and pulled at the same time. But it seemed the more effort he put into freeing his leg, the tighter the shingles became. Cautiously leaning forward, he pried up several of the wood slats until he could withdraw his foot.
 

Like pulling the cork from a bottle and releasing the contents, when he removed his lower leg from the hole, he suddenly heard a strange mewing. Dropping down to his belly, he carefully inched up to the opening so as not to dislodge any more shingles, and couldn’t believe what he saw. But as he took in the tragic scene below, he felt a subtle vibration come up from the roof and course through his body.

Shuffling from one wall of a small room to the other were half a dozen young girls. The words from the phone message instantly jumped to the front of his mind: ‘girls in the barn.’ Then he was torn away from his revelation by the voices coming from the front. “Oh my God. Claire.”

The peak ran from Rye’s left to right. He looked over the top and was confronted by the steep pitch that he’d have to navigate. Then he felt it again. A tiny vibration came up the walls, moved across the roof.

Easing over, he immediately began to slide. In a near panic, he managed to stop himself by digging in with the palms of his hands and toes. Adjusting his breathing, he crept the last couple feet to the edge, grabbed the eves, and gently slid just his head, only enough to see, over the top. He knew that if he relaxed his arms for just a second, he’d sail off the roof.

 
The men below weren’t trying to be quiet and Claire was being ushered into the barn at the point of a shotgun

“Drop the stick, bitch.”

He watched helplessly as the man with the weapon prodded her with a quick jab to the stomach.

“She looks the part, but is way too fucking old.” The man with the gun fished some keys out of his pocket and tossed them to his companion. “We’ll lock her in the barn. Load the girls into the van, Jane will know what to do with her.”

Rye suddenly knew where she’d end up.

Arms quivering, he pushed back until he could swing around. With bleeding palms, he made his way back to the peak. Then he slid over and once again used his hands and toes to keep from sliding over the edge, only stopping himself by grabbing the edge of the opening, hoping Claire’s captors wouldn’t look up.

Holding onto the shingles that ran along the opening, he listened, but didn’t dare peek down into the room and risk being discovered.

He heard the sound of mewing—so near to words but not—and loud, abusive prodding, the shuffling of feet. Finally, the sound of the van’s door sliding shut and the engine starting prodded him to action. Still, he waited until he heard it drive off.

Chapter Twenty-six

Paul pushed to his feet, bracing heavily on the giant redwood he’d been leaning against. He flexed his arm—it hurt but was functional—and stepped away from the tree, feeling surprisingly steady. But then he saw the headlights and stepped back and out of sight. It was the same vehicle that had driven past in the direction Rye and Claire had taken.

Adrenaline shot through his body as he peered around the tree at the shrinking taillights of the van and realized that Amy might be inside. He slammed a fist against the tree and fumed at the memory of Rogue Rescue arriving at the scene of an accident involving a white van full of girls.
 

He jogged down the middle of the road as well as he could manage with his limp. He had to get to the Fiat and follow that van.

Josh drove and Billy sat in the passenger seat, looking back at the girls. When they approached the Little Country Store, he guided the van behind the building and out of sight.

Josh climbed out then turned to Billy. “Stay here and keep an eye on the girls.”

He’d just stepped away from the van when Cindy intercepted him.

“What the fuck is going on?”

He walked her around so she could look through the side window into the back at the girls. “We had an intruder. I need to talk to Jane and find out what to do.”

Cindy walked him up to the back door. “You know they weren’t supposed to go north until tomorrow night.”

He turned and looked back at the van. “Yeah, right. I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave them in that barn with maybe another intruder snooping around.”

“What are you talking about?”

He walked through the back door of the store and stopped in front of the candy aisle. “We were out patrolling and came on this private investigator. We were in the process of tossing him over the bridge when out of nowhere, a girl appears and starts attacking with all this Kung Fu shit. Turns out, Jane was coming out to meet us and lays it to the little shit, tells us to put her in with the other girls.”

Cindy slapped his hand away when he reached for a candy bar. “She in the van now?”

He snapped the candy off the shelf and, with eyes shooting daggers, dared her to slap his hand again. “No. We pinned her down, but when we came back with the pills, she went into another Kung Fu fit.” He gave a short laugh. “We brought Layton along with a syringe, held her down while he shot her up. She’s in the smuggler’s hole.”

He peeled the wrapper away, dropped it on the floor, bit off the end of the candy bar and walked over to the corner of the building and the phone.