The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (35 page)

Craig shrugged.

“Look, I can’t deal with this right now. You take care of it, but keep her here till after the fight.”

He nodded.

I grunted and wiggled, but Lettie didn’t seem to notice. She turned and left without even addressing me, closing the basement door.

Craig picked up the end of a long rope, attached it to the ones binding my hands. Then he swung me over his shoulder and carried me to the center of the basement, where I saw that the long rope descended from the ceiling, from a pulley fastened among some pipes. Oh, God. Craig was going to hang me by my wrists.

Okay. Time to beg. I tried to talk through the gag. Please, I tried to say. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I’ll even gamble on your fights. But everything came out the same, a guttural gargle of unintelligible sounds. Craig wasn’t listening anyhow. He checked to make sure my wrists were secured to the rope and pulled the slack rope dangling from the pulley, lifting me by the arms until my feet were about a yard off the floor. I kicked, I moaned, I pleaded for myself and my unborn child. But Craig didn’t pause. He didn’t even glance at me. He went around the room to the cages, unlocking doors. At the top of the stairs, he paused to say one word: “Now.” Then he left.

Pain tore through me. My arms seared as if they were being torn from my shoulders. Another contraction grabbed my midsection, so sudden and powerful that I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even see. I thought that, for sure, I was losing the baby. But in an eye blink I realized that pain and contractions were the smallest of my problems. From all directions, dogs burst from their cages and lunged at me. Snarling and growling, they circled my legs with bared, dripping fangs while I hung, kicking and swinging, spinning in the air, as helpless as the mangled rabbit in the backyard.

T
HE RABBIT, THOUGH, HAD
had better odds. It had been attacked by just one dog; I was facing about eight. Legs flailing, I dodged gnashing teeth, my muffled shouts lost in the din of barking and snarling. I contorted and twitched, too panicked to think. My shoulders screamed as my own weight seemed to tear my arms from their sockets, and for a never-ending moment the dogs and the room faded, bleached white, the color of my pain.

This was it. I was going to die. My baby would never be born. I would be chewed to pieces. I saw my corpse, pieces of my face missing, teeth marks in my legs, chunks gone from my neck and stomach. I wasn’t afraid; I had no time for fear or any emotion. Not regret. Not sadness. I didn’t think about Molly, Nick or even our unborn child. My life did not pass before me. I was about to be torn apart by starving, blood-hungry fighting dogs; that was all I knew.

Thoughts became irrelevant, burdensome. A deeper, more primal force took over, and my paralyzed, useless mind followed events sluggishly, as if from a great distance. Dodging the dogs, I saw myself kick and twist, thrusting my body forward and back, pumping the air until I began to swing. My heel accidentally collided with a dog’s skull, adding momentum, and soon I was crossing the floor like a pendulum, legs tucked up to my belly to keep out of the reach of snapping jaws. I couldn’t maintain that position for long, didn’t have the strength. My legs weighed tons, and lightning pain flashed through my shoulders, sapping my energy. I looked down, faced starving eyes and savage teeth; looked up, saw ceiling beams and pipes. And suddenly, energy surged through me. Adrenaline flooded my veins, and I began swinging with both legs extended out, then up, higher and higher. Once, twice, again and again, yanking my torn, agonized shoulders against the ropes for leverage until, finally, my right foot reached high enough to touch, then to rest against, then to twist over and lodge an ankle above a beam. I hung there, inverted, working my right foot over the beam, turning it inward to secure its hold. Then, I lifted the left leg, struggling to pull the leaden thing up, realizing how heavy my left thigh was, becoming vaguely aware that I was having repeated contractions and that my midair leg lifts were making them worse. But it didn’t matter. I had to get that second foot onto and over the beam. Beneath me, hungry dogs barked and chomped at empty air, salivating, reaching for my flesh. My left foot hit the beam, nearly making it over the top but slipping, nearly dislodging my right foot with its weight as it dropped. Immediately searing pain sliced the side of my heel as it grazed a dog’s fang. Open jaws tried to close on it, tugging at me, almost yanking me from the ceiling.

“No!” I finally spat out the gag and tried to scream, but the barks of maddened animals drowned out my voice. With all my might I yanked my leg up, ripping it from the dog’s mouth, leaving a chunk of flesh behind. Driven by pain, determined not to die as dog food, I thrust my left leg up with so much force that it rose well above the beam, allowing me to push it forward and land not my wounded heel, but my lower calf there. Great. Now I was crooked, hanging from my right ankle and left calf. My left heel was gushing blood, dripping it onto the floor, where half-starved ferocious dogs lapped it up. I couldn’t stay in this position long, needed to shift my weight so I could balance. Pressing on my right ankle, I pushed my body up, shoved the left leg forward an inch, then another, until, magically, my left knee enfolded the beam. With it holding me securely in place, I shimmied the right leg forward until I was hanging from my wrists and knees, head dangling. The dogs watched me, no longer jumping, and they circled, waiting, not yet convinced that I was out of reach.

But I was. My shoulders throbbed, but the pressure on them had been relieved. My arms, still tied together, extended out over my head, and at first I couldn’t move or feel them. Gradually, with my legs raised, the blood returned to them and they came back to life. Slowly I began to work the rope, squeezing my wrists, wiggling them until finally, painfully, I managed to work my right thumb down and out of the loop of rope. Somehow, throbbing, the rest of my right hand followed.

Exhausted, I stopped to assess my situation. My right thumb, probably dislocated, was now useless and pounding with pain; my foot was torn and bleeding, my contractions were increasing, my body running on adrenaline and agony. But at least, for the moment, gravity was working in my favor. With my head hanging below my body, blood was flooding my brain, allowing it to think again. Untie yourself, it advised. I arched my back and craned my neck to locate the knot around my left wrist. Then, reaching, straining, I worked the four fingers of my right hand, managing slowly to free the left. But, with my arms free, my upper body dropped and I hung upside down, dangling from my knees, arms folded at my chest. I waited, knees aching, staring at upside-down dog fangs, until a strong contraction peaked and ebbed. When it passed, I swung forward, lifting my torso toward the ceiling, reaching up and grabbing ahold of a pipe. Great. Progress. I was untied, hanging like a monkey from a pipe in Lettie’s basement ceiling. And, for an eternity, that was where I stayed.

Beneath me, the dogs grew bored. When I’d bled onto the floor, they’d gone wild. But with my leg raised above my body, the bleeding had abated. When I’d been swinging from a rope, twitching like a pet in their training sessions, they’d been ready to kill me. But now I was motionless and beyond their reach. Gradually they quieted down, yelping or snarling occasionally. A few lay down, giving up. Now and then one would pass beneath me, pacing lion-like, hungry and impatient. Once a couple of them wrangled with each other, wrestling and biting until one retreated into its cage. I clung to the pipe, struggling to catch my breath and think.

The dog attacks might have stopped, but my contractions hadn’t. One came after another, dizzying and only minutes apart. I scolded myself, hating myself for getting into this mess. I needed to go to the hospital, should have done so days ago. Now it might be too late. What if the contractions didn’t let up? Would I miscarry, giving birth prematurely right there, in the ceiling? No, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Gripping the pipe, knees draping the beam, I told myself to relax, then realized that if I relaxed too much I’d fall and become a doggie treat. Tightening my grasp, I breathed, counting the seconds between contractions, replaying Bertram’s calming voice in my head. “Imagine your happy place. Go there in your mind.”

Eyes closed, suspended like a bat, I imagined myself safe at home in bed with Nick, Molly snuggling between us. My legs were numb from a lack of circulation, and the rest of my body throbbed, reminding me that I wasn’t home safe in bed, that I might never be there again. I stifled a sob. Cut it out, I told myself. Keep breathing. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and think of a way to get out of here.

First, I had to deal with the contractions. I made myself count and breathe, breathe and count. In between, I tried to calm down and think. But before I could come up with even one idea for escape, the basement door opened. Craig paused, looking down, no doubt expecting to see my gruesome remains hanging shredded from the rope. When he didn’t, he must have panicked. Without stopping to think, he came bounding, charging down the steps.

Lettie’s half-starved dogs leaped to greet him. I wasn’t sure if they’d obey my voice or if it was actually the right command. But for good measure, I forced a single syllable from my raw throat, shouting as clearly as I could the attack command I’d heard him yell earlier: “Now!”

“D
OWN!”
C
RAIG SHOUTED, BUT
too late. After that, his cries were shrill and soprano, but they didn’t last long. The dogs ripped at his throat before he could make much noise. I stared into the ceiling, my eyes drilling through the wood over my head. I tried not to imagine the bloodbath beneath me, but I heard bodies thumping, blood spurting, dogs grunting and snarling, and I smelled the reek of terror and gore. I remained still, trying not to gag, not to faint, and I waited, not daring to look down, knowing that the horror that was happening to Craig was supposed to have happened to me. The worst sound was the quiet that came when the struggle was over. The soft ripping of flesh, the wet chewing as the half-starved dogs chomped, jaws smacking on fresh meat.

Who knows how long I hung there, frozen with dread, too sickened to move?

At some point, the dogs were sated and they lay around, bellies full, sleeping, snoring. It was time to go. Dreading what I would see, I turned my head and looked down at the basement floor, eyes darting away from the bloody mass near the steps, finding a safe landing spot beneath me. And slowly, trembling and weak, I grabbed the pipe with both hands. Then I lifted first my right, then my pulsing left foot over the beam, letting them drop, intending to catch myself, hang from my arms and hop gently to the floor. My shoulder muscles, though, were too sore, too wounded to support any weight at all. As my legs dropped, hot pain shot through my shoulders and arms. I wailed; my hands involuntarily released the pipe, and I dropped the final yard or so, landing on my gaping wound, howling, slipping in my own blood to the floor. Around me, a few dogs looked up, bored or curious, but no longer vicious. None of them attacked. None of them even stood up.

Panting and trembling, refusing to look at Craig, I limped as fast as I could through a sea of dogs and cages toward the basement door. When I got there, I paused, listening before I opened it a crack and peeked out. I saw nobody, no people or dogs. But from upstairs, I heard Lettie’s voice, and I froze, not daring to move. “Craig?”

Oh, God. She was looking for him. “Craig—you ready?” The basement door opened. “Craig? Where the hell is he? Yo—you seen him?” A male voice said something. Jimmy? Another of Lettie’s studs? Or maybe Doug Morrison. Maybe the ADA was still there.

Footsteps started down the basement steps. Holding my breath, I plunged out the door to the yard and, frantic and breathless, contracting repeatedly, I hobbled back through the hedges where I’d found Rudo Bachek’s body and back to my father’s house.

I
RAN IN THROUGH
the kitchen door, remembering only after I’d shut and locked it behind me that it had been closed when I’d left the house. Someone else had opened it. I told myself that the prowler had undoubtedly left, that whoever it was would not be as great a threat as the people chasing me from next door. Still, I looked around for a weapon, opened a kitchen drawer, cursed myself and Susan for packing up all the kitchen utensils. I couldn’t find a single carving knife, not one skillet or rolling pin. Get your cell phone, I told myself. Call for help. Watching the windows for Lettie or Jimmy, I searched for my purse, trying to remember where the hell I’d left it, replaying my arrival at the house. Had I left it in the living room?

Trembling, gulping air, I made it to the living room and collapsed onto the sofa. The contraction was blinding, overpowering; I couldn’t keep moving around, couldn’t even inhale. I lay back against the cushions, closing my eyes, waiting for it to ease. But it kept tightening, choking my spine, strangling my organs. What was it doing to the baby? I wondered. Could the baby feel the pressure? Bertram’s voice echoed in my mind. Relax, he told me. Visit your happy place. Screw you, I told him. He had no idea what a contraction felt like. Who was he to tell me what to do? I lay there, my foot bleeding on the rug, feeling defenseless, noticing my purse on the floor beside a chair. Great. I had to get up again. It seemed impossible, out of the question. Go on, I scolded myself. Do it. For a moment I considered it. Maybe it would be better to die right there, to let Lettie or Jimmy or ADA Morrison find me than it would be to muster the energy required to pull myself to a standing position and walk the few steps to my cell phone. Every centimeter of my body was in pain. My thumb throbbed; my shoulder sockets burned. My heel was a searing, gory mess. And my uterus was a hard, tight knot, threatening to expel my baby. Death, for the moment, seemed like a viable alternative. A relief.