The Trouble With Murder (28 page)

The complete absence of light was
unnerving and incredibly disorienting. I’m not afraid of the dark. I don’t
believe in ghosts. I’m not particularly upset by bugs or rodents, although I
didn’t like the idea of either. But the impact of perfect darkness on one’s
psyche is a well-documented phenomenon. Two minutes after waking up, I realized
I’d be no exception. The panic I’d been feeling earlier was back and had
increased exponentially. I was having more and more difficulty keeping it at
bay.

I may have been down, but I wasn’t
ready to count myself out just yet. I knew I’d be as good as dead if I lost
control and succumbed to the panic.

All I really needed to do was stall
for time. Time enough for a rescue or an escape. The exchange in the truck had
been recorded on the tip line after I’d dropped the phone into my pocket; I was
sure. Or, I had to hope, anyway. Of course, I realized it was stupid to bank on
such a hope, considering it was my life hanging in the balance.

I had a feeling I was no longer at
Stacy Karnes’s house. That being true, if someone did eventually get my message
and figure out it wasn’t a prank, the police would now have to track me down. In
which case, I sincerely hoped they had more information than I did, more
information than I thought they did, and that there were a limited number of
places I could be right now.

I was also sure my five o’clock
deadline had past. I prayed Koepke would make good on his threat and come
looking for me. Even if he showed up with an arrest warrant in one hand and
handcuffs in the other, I’d be damn glad to see him.

Struggling, biting my lip to keep
from screaming in pain, I worked to sit up. Every time I pushed with my right
arm, the cuffs pulled my left and made me dizzy, the pain in my shoulder white-hot.
It was a real possibility the stitches had been pulled loose. Finally, I got
myself sitting up, my arms cuffed behind me, my legs straight out in front of
me. I sat bent forward at the waist, panting and sweating, trying to suck in
air and fight off the vertigo and nausea.

After a moment of recovery, I
turned back to business. I wanted to know if the phone was still in my pocket.
I thought the chances were good the phone had been discovered and taken from me
while I was unconscious, which I guessed had come from a stun gun. If I still
had the phone, perhaps it would be possible to make a call.

Wincing at the pain, I reached down
with my right hand, pulling my left along. I felt my pocket, finding it empty.
I sighed and sagged forward. I hadn’t really expected it to be there, but I
couldn’t deny the disappointment. The disappointment only served to fuel the
panic, however, so I quickly switched gears.

Time to start thinking about how to
get out of here. A rescue would be great, but I wasn’t willing to put all my
eggs in Koepke’s basket and sit around waiting for him to show up. For all I
knew, he was all bark and no bite, and had no intention whatsoever of tracking
me down and hauling me in for questioning.

I needed to get up. Then I could
feel around the room and perhaps find a door. There was always the chance they
hadn’t bothered to lock the door because they thought I was unconscious. Or
maybe they assumed I’d be too weak to get off the floor even if I did wake up.
Whoever I had talked to in the truck outside Stacy’s house had seemed mostly
cocky, until I’d cracked that confidence and instilled doubt. Cockiness would
lead a person to make a silly mistake and underestimate an opponent. A silly
mistake like leaving the door unlocked.

It was thin, oh so thin, but it was
all I had. Either that, or wait. And I’ve never really been much for waiting. I
tried standing straight up, but the pain in my shoulder made balance all but
impossible, and I kept falling back down. Instead, I tried getting to my knees.
It took a couple tries, but I finally got it and was able to stand from there.

I was panting, doubled over at the
waist, sucking in breath. The air was stale and rank, and I felt like it was
difficult to breathe. I decided this was the panic playing to my fears, so I
quickly worked to put it out of my mind. Even if it was getting harder to
breathe, if I was running out of oxygen, thinking about it—
worrying
about it—wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

When I could stand upright again,
my left shoulder sagging uselessly against the restraint, I began to move. My
best interpretation of my senses was that this was some kind of cellar or
basement. I got the distinct impression it was below ground, and I was definitely
inside. Operating on that conclusion, I began moving very slowly.

Being unable to see where I was
going was a huge hindrance to the process. I was afraid to move, afraid I’d run
into something I’d prefer not to. I was also afraid of knocking something over,
or causing some other kind of noise that would alert my captors to the fact
that I was awake. I shuffled forward inch by inch, leading with my right
shoulder. Whatever I ran up against, I didn’t want to lead with my face.

In order to keep the panic from
settling in, I tried to keep my brain moving. Questions seemed the easiest way
of accomplishing this. The first, most-obvious question was, who took me? The
next was, why? I didn’t think the person who had appeared at the truck had come
after me before. The way they spoke, the way they commented about my reported
reputation, made me think they had no personal experience. I like to think of
myself as memorable. At least, I thought I would be memorable to a person who
had confronted me in the lobby of an apartment building, chased me through a
restaurant with a gun, or showed up at the place I was staying in the middle of
the night and tried to kill me. I supposed the most obvious answer to the “why”
question would be my connection to Stacy Karnes and Tyler Jay. I had seen Stacy
Karnes attacked, and I’d been looking for Tyler Jay. (Well, looking
and
finding.)

I came up against something solid.
The scent of dirt was stronger. I turned my back to it and touched it with my
hands. It was a concrete wall. My cellar theory was looking more and more
likely. Keeping my arm and hand on the wall, I shuffled forward slowly, still
leading with my shoulder, on the alert for any sign of a door.

Who would have cronies? I’d already
seen Tyler Jay’s entourage. Maybe those people could be described as cronies.
It seemed they were already doing his bidding, staying with him while he hid
all over town, running interference for him when people wandered by (or knocked
on the door). If Jay was as bad as they said he was, then it was entirely
possible he was behind this. If it was Jay, I was having a hard time coming up
with a reason. Who was I to Jay that he would want to kidnap me, possibly
murder me?

Where had that person at the truck
come from? I’d only just parked and had enough time to put the phone to my ear
before the gun was pressed against my head. I hadn’t heard anything through the
open windows or seen anything in the mirrors. If that person had hid in another
vehicle or behind a vehicle or bush, how did he or she know where I was going
to park? I hadn’t heard any car doors after I parked; it seemed unlikely the
gunman had come out of a car. So what, then? He or she didn’t just drop out of
the sky or ooze up through the ground.

I came to another corner. The cold
concrete of one side met another at a ninety-degree angle. I changed my
direction and continued with my chore, using the same approach. So far, I had
come across nothing that could be a door or an outlet, no furniture or
fixtures, no objects of any sort. I had also counted fifteen paces from where I
had started to the corner. When I came to the next corner, I had counted
twenty-three paces, give or take. Because I had nothing else, I adopted the working
theory the room was square.

I was ten paces along the next wall
when I heard the unmistakable sound of a key in a lock. So much for the
unlocked-door theory. I froze and listened as a doorknob turned, creaking from
age or disuse or both.

The door, heavy by the sound of it, swung in, squeaking on
its hinges. A long bar of dim light appeared on the floor and grew wider as the
door opened. I now saw I was standing against the wall with the door. In the
light, which was blinding after the total darkness, I could see a large shelf beside
me, laden with jars and cans, pots and pans, and several glass vases. I hoped
it would temporarily shield me from whoever had come to check on me, and that
whatever delay it provided me would be the extra few seconds I would need.

The light pouring in through the
open door was natural but dim; I’d been unconscious from the stun gun longer
than I’d estimated. My five o’clock deadline with Detective Koepke was certainly
long past. It also told me whatever room I was in opened to the outside, which
supported my cellar theory. There were a lot of older homes in Fort Collins,
and I thought it seemed likely any number of them had cellars. But something
deep down caused me to doubt I was still in Fort Collins. Actually, it was the
fact that the cellar was so cold—too cold, I thought, to be in town, where
temperatures had been in the nineties for three days straight. Either way, it
did limit the number of places I could be.

The room was indeed square, made of
cold concrete, and very dirty. There was nothing in it aside from several large
shelving units near the door. And no source of artificial lighting.

Around the edge of the shelf, I saw
the muzzle of a gun first, then a black gloved hand. As the figure continued
forward, obviously confused about not finding me on the floor, he or she began
looking around, a large flashlight in a second hand. Now that I could see the
figure fully, I saw the expected bad-guy uniform complete with ski mask. This
was not someone I thought I’d met previously, however, because I didn’t
recognize the gun, and it was held in the left hand. None of my other visitors
had been left-handed. The figure looked to the left, shining the light into the
deepest corner behind the shelf and seeing nothing. Then the figure turned to
the right. I took a breath then closed my mind to the pain I knew was coming.

I held my weight on my right leg
and lifted my left, striking upward at the gun. There was a cry of surprise and
the report of a gunshot. The arm flew up, the person pulling the trigger
reflexively, the shot landing in the concrete ceiling. The figure stumbled
backward but managed to keep hold of the gun. I was afraid he or she would kill
me out of retaliation or self-preservation, even though he or she didn’t seem
to have come down here for that reason. Before the shooter could aim, I kicked
forward for all I was worth, the sole of my shoe connecting with the figure’s chest.
There was the sound of air rushing from the figure’s lungs, and I was sure I
also heard the snap of bone. I kicked again, this time sinking my foot into
soft belly.

The figure doubled over and
stumbled backward. I moved with him (I now felt sure this one was male),
keeping the distance between us minimal and my eye on the gun. The figure
crashed to the floor, landing heavily, and I rushed for his left arm, stomping
on it with a foot and pinning it to the ground. Now the gun was pointed
harmlessly toward the wall. The figure had dropped the flashlight, and it
rolled across the floor, coming to a stop against the wall with a flicker. His
right arm was banded across his chest as he writhed in pain, trying to suck in
a breath.

I considered my next move as the
light from the open door was interrupted. Looking at the door more closely now,
I saw there was a very small slab of pavement between it and concrete steps
leading up away from the cellar. I couldn’t see the top of the stairs, but I
imagined they opened to a backyard.

I saw black boots on the stairs.
Then a second uniformed figure appeared, this one with a familiar gun held in
both hands—the gun the shooter at the motel had used. It was pointed steadily
at my forehead.

“Back away,” the newcomer croaked.
It was impossible to tell from the voice if the person was male or female, but
based on the height, which I guessed to be about six feet, and the narrow hips,
I was positive this person was also a man. 

“That doesn’t seem like my best
move,” I said. I was panting, exhausted from the pain and exertion.

“I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

He was serious. Nothing about his
posture, his dark brown eyes, or his demeanor gave any indication there would
be a moment of hesitation.

“All right,” I said. “You’ve
persuaded me.”

Slowly, I lifted my foot off the
first guy’s arm and took a step back. Step after step, I backed away. I was
briefly worried the first guy would shoot me as payback. The second man seemed
to sense the same thing.

“Don’t,” he cautioned the first.
“Get up.”

“The bitch broke my ribs!” the
first guy croaked. He was not trying to disguise his voice, however; he was
simply in pain and out of breath. My guess as to gender was still only that: a
guess. But it felt right.

“Just get up.”

We waited, watching while the first
guy struggled to stand and leave the cellar. The entire time, the second man
held the gun on me without ever wavering, displaying no doubt or hesitation.
This man was certainly thin enough to be Tyler Jay, but I thought he was too
tall. Of course, the last time I had seen Tyler Jay, we had not been on equal
footing, so my estimations might have been off. Still, I didn’t think it was
him. Based on the cool confidence, the level of control, I was considering this
person to be the leader. The only reason I doubted it was because I thought for
sure the leader would be someone I’d already met. With the mask, it was
difficult to be certain, but I didn’t think I knew this guy.

_______________

The men left and secured the door behind them. Neither had
bothered to collect the dropped flashlight. There were still parts of the cellar
that were dark, but the light helped immensely in warding off the confusion and
despair I had experienced before, in total blackness. Even if it was getting
dimmer.

I decided it was pointless to try
to get through the door, because I’d clearly heard the lock engage. What would
be more helpful would be to get the damn handcuffs off. I thought I could use
the flashlight to search the shelves for something with which to pick the lock.
Lock picking is something of a pastime for me. It had also been a required
skill during my brief walk on the other side of the legal line. Picking the
lock on the cellar door would likely be impossible from this side, but picking
the cuffs was another matter entirely.

Handcuffs have the type of locks
that can be picked with any number of items. I wasn’t sure what I’d find on the
shelves, but I thought I might be able to find something useful. A small knife,
maybe, or a screwdriver, even a paperclip or—

Oh!

A hairpin. Like the bobby pins in
my pocket.

Already I felt the pain surge
through my shoulder at trying to retrieve those pins. I walked over and stood
in the beam of the flashlight. It blinked off then on again. I cursed the damn
thing and the idiot who’d dropped it. Just like a kidnapper to drop a flashlight
with shitty batteries.

Leaning my left shoulder against
the wall, I twisted my right hip backward as I pulled my right hand forward. My
left arm screamed with pain, and sweat ran over my skin. I knew I was holding
my breath, but I couldn’t seem to make myself exhale.

My fingers found my pocket.
Twisting a bit further, tears filling my eyes and squeezing past my pinched
eyelids, I finally got my fingertips into the pocket. I began pulling up,
working the fabric up and out of my pants. After what felt like forever, I had
reached the bottom of the pocket. A bit of careful searching found the pins,
and I pulled them out, relaxing. I resumed breathing, my chest heaving, as I
leaned back against the wall.

Soon, I sank to the ground, knowing
full well I’d have to get the cuffs off if I had any chance of getting back up.
The exertion so soon after being shot was draining me quickly. Soon I would be
drawing on reserve strength and after that . . . well, I didn’t want to think
about after that.

I slid one pin into my back pocket for
safekeeping then worked with the other. I held the pin in my left hand while I
used my right to feel around the cuff, trying to locate the lock. If the
kidnappers put them on with the lock facing away from my hands, then this chore
would be much more difficult. After a moment of carefully searching the cuff, I
felt defeat pressing in on me. Then, finally, my cold, nearly numb, trembling
finger found the small opening.

The second problem would be the double
lock. I have made mention of my familiarity with trouble. So familiar at one
point, it was appropriate to use the word “intimate.” This means I know a few
things about a few things. One of those things is handcuffs. What I know is,
back in the day, after being handcuffed, people would try to get the cops to
take the cuffs off so they had an opportunity to escape or fight back. One such
trick was squeezing the cuffs tighter around the wrists. To stop this,
handcuffs were later equipped with a double-lock feature. This type of handcuff
prevents the cuffs from closing tighter after the double lock had been engaged.
To release this type, the double lock must be opened first. Double-locked
cuffs, for this reason, would be much more difficult to break out of with a
hairpin.

Fortunately, mine were not double locked.

I retrieved the pin with my right hand
and set to work. I pulled the two ends apart and stripped the plastic coating
off the straight end. The most time-consuming step was actually getting the pin
into the lock. Once in, I bent the pin and gently twisted it until I felt the
tension on the piece I was trying to manipulate.

The flashlight blinked again. I
didn’t want to be stuck in the dark again, but I didn’t need the light for my
current task. If I could stay focused.

I had no idea how much time had
passed since my captors had been to visit me. It seemed like an eternity. I
didn’t know how long I’d been working on the cuffs, either. One minute? Five?
Thirty? It was impossible to tell, and it felt like forever. I used to be much
more proficient at this task. Obviously, some of my skills had slipped in the
years I’d spent obeying the law.

Beyond the door, I heard sounds,
like muffled voices. My captors had returned. And I had a feeling this visit
wouldn’t be as peaceful as the last. I twisted the pin firmly. Finally, the
cuff popped off my wrist.

Quickly, I pushed myself up and
stood leaning against the wall, huffing. I heard the lock slide back and clasped
my hands behind me. The doorknob creaked and the hinges squeaked. The door
swung inward, and this time three uniformed figures appeared in the doorway.
Each of them held a flashlight and a gun. I used my foot to spin the flashlight
around and pointed it at my visitors.

One of the figures, the one on my
right, I recognized as the man who had come to see about the first person
earlier. He had the same gun, the same posture. On the left was the shortest of
the three. This one was several inches shorter than me, and though it was
difficult to tell from the black clothes against the dark, I thought I caught
the impression of hips and a narrow waist. My guess was a female. The figure in
the middle was the tallest. A few inches taller than the other man, he was also
much wider, fuller, stronger. The lighting was horrible, and I couldn’t get a
clear look at any of them, but there was something familiar about the man in
the middle. Something familiar and commanding. I guessed this man to be the
leader.

“Not very nice what you did to my
friend earlier,” the leader whispered hoarsely, lowering his weapon and holding
it at his side, pointed at the floor.

The other two held their aim
steady.

I shrugged my right shoulder
casually. “So far I think
you’re
ahead in not-nice points. Either the
stun gun or the cellar would have put you over the top. Together, it’s game
over.”

He snickered. “Always so mouthy. I
have to confess, I’ve always really liked that quality in a woman. It’s too bad
we came down on different sides. Maybe we could have had something.”

I noticed the way the woman flashed
a look at the leader at his comment. I filed the reaction away.

“Different sides of what, exactly?”

“I’m on a pretty tight schedule; I
don’t have time to explain. And, what does it matter? You’re going to be dead
in a few minutes anyway.”

“If I’m going to be dead anyway,
what’s the harm? And if you’re planning to kill me, why the masks? It won’t
make any difference if I see your faces.”

A wry chuckle from the leader now.

“You always have something to say,
don’t you? And such a strong personality. I could have used someone like you, I
think. It has been very difficult to find a partner.”

There was that look from the woman
again. This time I was sure it was jealousy. It seemed a shame not to exploit
it.

“Is it too late to join you?” I
asked, adding a small amount of sultry to my voice.

Another chuckle, this one amused.

“Unfortunately, there are events in
motion that cannot be undone. I wish things had turned out differently.”

“Events even you can’t undo?” I
inquired, deciding to play to his ego. “Seems hard to believe.”

“How very unlike you, Zoe,” he said
with a
tsk, tsk
sound. “Stroking the ego of a man. That’s a whole new
low for you, I’d imagine.”

There was a sense of intimacy
between us, and while I couldn’t really explain it yet, the woman had more than
picked up on it. Still, I was playing on instinct, gambling everything. I had
no real idea who this man was or how we knew each other.