33

Eyes skimming a report, Susan shook two Excedrin tablets into her palm and swallowed them with cold coffee. Her ears crackled. Shouldn’t the damn antibiotics be working by now? The phone at her elbow buzzed and, without looking, she picked up the receiver. “Yes, Hazel.”

“Hospital called. Jennifer Bryant had an accident.”

An icy little worry tapped at Susan’s mind as she drove to the hospital. Oh God, please let Jen be all right. Sliding doors hissed open as she trotted up. Cool air poured over her when she stepped inside. Strong smells of disinfectant, alcohol and vomit stung her nose. In the emergency room, she found Mary Mason, calm and efficient in the midst of chaos, jotting a note on a chart.

“Jennifer Bryant,” Susan said. “What happened?”

Mary’s face softened for an instant, then the professional look came back. Fear whispered in Susan’s ear. “She took a bunch of pills,” Mary said.

Oh Jen. “Is she okay? You pumped her stomach, right?”

“There were complications.”

“What kind of complications?”

“Come with me.” Mary led her to Exam Room Two and told her to wait.

Five minutes later Susan was talking with Doctor Sheffield, a stocky man in green scrubs, black curly hair, thick chest, and square hands. He crossed his arms and leaned against a metal cabinet with row upon row of drawers. “She was brought in two hours ago. Pupils fixed and dilated.”

That was bad.

“No response to pain stimulus, muscles completely flaccid. CT scan showed a subdural hematoma. I called the neurosurgeon and he’s operating now.”

“A head injury? I don’t understand. I was told she took pills.”

He uncrossed his arms and rested his palms on the cabinet behind him. “Vicidin, Xanax, Wellbutrin. Maybe a few other things.”

“Then how could she have a blood clot on her brain?”

“Apparently, she took the drugs and climbed up to a tree house.”

Jen’s father had built the tree house when she was little. It was her place of quiet and solitude. Often, she’d climb up there and read.

“… most likely, she slipped into unconsciousness and fell—hit her head—midbrain. Controls breathing…” Doctor Sheffield stopped talking. “You all right?”

“What you’re giving me doesn’t sound good.”

“Yeah.” He eyed her with a clinical look. “The neurosurgeon can tell you more after the surgery.”

Shivering in overdone air-conditioning, Susan paced a corridor, waited, and looked out a window at the sun blazing from a cloudless sky, and waited some more. She avoided the room where Jen’s mother, father, and stepfather sat, isolated in separate misery. Finally, Mary came to tell her the surgery was over, and took her to the doctors’ lounge.

Some minutes later, the neurosurgeon came in. Susan was immediately reassured. Gray hair, neatly trimmed beard, crisp white coat, chiseled features. Dr. Phillips exuded competence, an aura of arrogance, confidence that said he could handle anything.

“How is she?”

“I removed the clot. Her brain is very swollen.” Calm, soft-spoken, he explained he’d removed a flap of skull to accommodate the swelling brain.

“Will she be all right?” A second ticked by, another, a third. Blood pounded in Susan’s ears.

Finally, he said “The odds are very slim.”

She wanted to slap him.

“I’d say maybe a three percent chance of survival.”

Three percent? No, that couldn’t be right. Susan took an elevator to the lobby, went out through the sliding doors, squinted in the bright sunshine as she stumbled across the parking lot to her pickup.

*   *   *

Cary craned her neck. The building—structure—she was pretty sure it was a silo—must be at least forty feet high. She should ask Ronny what it was for. Ronny, trainer of miniature horses to lead the blind, had grown up on a farm and would know about such things. Octagonal in shape, the wood, once painted green, was weathered and crumbling. A rickety-looking ladder went up the side. The wind tossed around the smell of decay.

Kneeling, she leaned close to the door and traced the outline with her fingertips. Not a door, a panel that slid up. With both hands flat against the rough wood, she pressed slightly. Splinters and flaking paint were ready to pierce her fingers, but there was no give, no feel that the old wood would collapse in. She pressed harder. Not a budge. Probably frozen in place by disuse and disintegration.

Most likely nothing inside anyway. She shoved upward. Tiny shift. Grain trickled from the hairline opening near the ground. She shoved harder and got a splinter in her palm for the effort. With repeated pushing, she inched the panel up in such tiny increments she was ready to give up. Except the smell, that awful, sickly-sweet smell of death grew stronger. With everything she had, she managed to move the panel an inch or two upward.

The stench made her gag. Grain continued to trickle through the opening. Turning a hand palm up, she stuck the fingertips inside and felt fabric. Holding her breath, she put her face near the ground and tried to see. Whatever, or whoever, was buried in grain.

A scream got trapped in her lungs. She fell backward, fist pressed against her mouth. Scrambling to her feet, she stumbled along the stone path toward the house and heard a car come up the driveway. Her poor sight let her make out the driver as he slid from the car. Tall and thin. That was all she could tell, except he carried a shotgun nestled against his arm, barrel pointed down. A high-pitched buzzing started in her head.

Feet planted wide, he raised the gun and pointed at her. “If you want to live longer than three seconds, just keep quiet and don’t do anything stupid.”

Whirling, she ran the other way across the dirt road toward the cornfield. The noise deafened her. Fire exploded past her face. She screamed. Hot pain grazed her temple and scalp. Staggering on the hard dirt, she raced into the corn and zigzagged through rows.

Blood seeped down her face. She brushed at it with fingertips and hissed at the resulting sting. She dropped to her belly and slithered along the ground, weaving in and out through stalks. She heard the blades clatter as he pushed through. Terror made her want to jump up and run. No. Creep further. Hide. Find a hole and bury yourself. Creeping and burying made noise.

Fight! Bare fists against a shotgun? Play possum. That should work. She was paralyzed with fear anyway. She sat, hugged her knees to her chest, and kept her head bent, hoping he wouldn’t see her pale face in the midst of all the green.

The corn stalks swayed as he got closer. The hunter, after a rabbit. How long before he spotted her? When that happened, he’d shoot and she’d be dead. Think! Come up with a plan. Her terror-stricken mind saw only two choices. Run, or get the gun away from him.

Sounds told her he was closing in. She concentrated on footfalls. Three feet away. Two feet. She held her breath. Shifted to a crouch. Tensed. Waited. Now!

Yelling like the damned, she leaped up, grabbed the gun barrel and shoved up with all her strength. It hit his nose. He grunted with pain. His hold loosened. She yanked and twisted. For a second, she had it. Then his hands tightened and he jerked both gun and her toward him. One hand snaked around her neck, and gripped tight, pulling her face against his chest.

She struggled. He was stronger. What little light she could see started to fade. Sounds grew fainter.

*   *   *

Pain. Deep, throbbing pulses in her head, sharp, stabbing bursts behind her eyes, a dull squeezing ache in her ribs. So intense, no other sensations were noticed. Hold on. Don’t slide back into velvety darkness. If she wanted to live, she had to concentrate, move past the pain. As she groped toward awareness, consciousness, forcing herself to move through the pain, she realized her body was being shaken and bounced. The movement splintered the pain, sent it like forked lightning along her spine, until it made her teeth ache. Mitch had never hurt her this bad before. What would she tell the doctors? They always looked at her funny when she said she fell down the stairs. What had she done to set him off?

Somewhere in the bottom of her mind, a thought was swimming through the murk. She focused hard, and slowly it connected with other images until she had a string of thoughts. She’d left Mitch, come by a torturous route to Kansas. Other stimuli worked their way into awareness, hands tied, ankles tied. Something thick and vile stuffed in her mouth, tied tightly and cutting into her face. Vaguely medical smell. Panic threatened. She fought it off. A swallow got stuck in her dry throat.

The whooshing sound meant tires on pavement. Car, yes. Fuzzy mat beneath her cheek. Bound and gagged, lying on the floor of a car. She could see only darkness and shadows with an occasional flash of light. Events flooded back. Kelby in the silo. Running, futile fight to escape. No memory of being trussed up like a chicken for barbeque. Despair oozed in. She’d left Mitch, was making a new life, wanted to be whole, and it wasn’t enough.

You’re alive! She tried to find some comfort in that, but her mind pointed out that if he’d wanted her dead, he’d have killed her while she was unconscious. He had something else in mind. The smell filtered into her nose and down into her throat, making her nauseated and woozy enough that her thoughts were dreamlike instead of sharp. If she was going to survive, she had to be sharp.

He must have lowered a window, because the sound of tires was louder, thumping along on a rutted road. He’d left the main road and was somewhere in the country where there was little chance of anyone else around. It didn’t much matter. She was in no position to signal anyone.

The sounds lulled her into a half dream state and she was jolted awake when she thought she might—just might—hear something being added, something in the distance. Another car? She wished she knew what time it was. The middle of the night, when any sensible person was asleep in his bed? Or still morning, when another person out driving might be likely? Hopes soared. Maybe, just maybe, someone else was out here, wherever they were. Elation fizzed through her brain drowning out a small voice somewhere in the murk at the bottom that pointed out it was too much to hope for, and how often had anything she pinned her heart on come to pass?

Suddenly, he was nervous. She could tell, because the leather seat back was swishing with his movement. The sound of another car got louder.

“Damn!”

Ah, he heard it, too. There was another car out there, another person who drove it and—so what? It wasn’t as though another car could be any risk to him or help to her. She couldn’t send out flares, wave a handkerchief like a damsel in distress, or even scream. She was trussed up on the floor in the backseat and couldn’t even move. A whole fleet of cars could drive by and it wouldn’t matter. Hope, like a punctured balloon, deflated and dwindled into despair.

But he seemed nervous, squirmed. Did that mean something? He was worried? Like there was someone out there? Someone who might help her? Hope came rushing back, then suddenly she was aware her bladder was uncomfortably full and about to humiliate her.

Jazz was playing on the radio. Mitch liked country and western, she hated it. Whenever she was in the car with him, he’d crank up the volume and she’d listen to betrayal, lovers going away, heartache, and going home to wherever home was. She never complained, otherwise when they got home he handcuffed her to the bed, turned the radio to window-rattling volume, and left her there for hours. The day she was lying there with two broken ribs she’d thought life couldn’t get worse.

What a huge, cosmic joke.

This man was going to kill her and she didn’t know why or who he was. If she’d known she would die today, she’d have paid notice to everything she’d done for the last time. Last cup of coffee, last shower, last mystery novel, last glass of cold orange juice. She started to cry, tears trickled down her face, her nose ran and she couldn’t breathe.

“Coming around, Kelby?”

His voice sliced through her mental fog. He thought she was Kelby Oliver. Relief washed over her. He didn’t want to kill her. All she had to do was convince him she was Cary Black, her husband was a cop.

“I know you’re awake. I can hear you stirring around back there. Give me a sign. You know, just to let me know that you’re still with me in mind and spirit. Kick your feet if you want. Anything, just so I know.”

The silence stretched. She lay still. Throat tight with fear, she didn’t make a sound. He reached between the seats and backhanded her across the face. Pain flashed across her cheek like fire. Shadows on the edges of her mind threatened to pull her back to unconsciousness. A moan slipped between clenched teeth. Nausea was sticking fingers in her throat. Don’t vomit! Don’t vomit!

“Why did you do it?” he said.

Do what? What was he talking about?

He reached back and yanked on the gag, pulling it down around her neck. It was slimy with saliva. Desperately, she gulped air.

“Aren’t you going to say anything, Kelby?”

“I’m not Kelby. She’s dead.” At least Cary assumed it was Kelby in the silo. “Go back and I’ll show you.”

“Nice try.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m going to do to you what he did to my daughter.”

“Please listen. I’m not Kelby. I don’t know who you are. I don’t—”

“You might as well call me Joe. You can’t get much more intimate than killer and victim.”

Incipient hysteria was rattling around in her brain. Call him Joe. “I don’t know anything about your daughter—”

“Lily! Her name is Lily!”

Lily. Obviously something tragic happened to her, and whatever it was pushed this man Joe over the edge. “What time is it?”

“What does it matter?”

Could she figure it out? It had been about six when she made a pot of coffee, then she’d searched through the barn, checked the chicken shed, and walked to the silo. It took time to push the panel up. She found the body. Joe arrived. He chased her down and tied her up and threw her in the car How long would that have taken? Two hours? Three?

She didn’t know how long she’d been out, but didn’t think it was very long. Fifteen minutes maybe? Twenty? Okay, add on the time they’d been driving. At least an hour, maybe more. Her mind was having difficulty keeping track and adding, but eventually she came up with eleven o’clock. Maybe eleven-thirty or as late as noon. When she didn’t turn up for work, Stephanie would worry—well, probably not worry, but be irritated—and she could have started somebody looking for her.

He sped up and made turns. Pain battered her everywhere until they jounced onto an unpaved road and he slowed down. “You ever go camping?”

Cary’s mind scurried around trying to determine what that question meant.

“Camping,” he repeated. “You ever go?”

“Not much.” Her voice sounded precise, like a drunk who didn’t want anyone to know he was drunk.

“We used to go all the time. Back when I had a family.”

“Camping isn’t really something I like to do.” Mitch liked to go fishing and sometimes he’d make her go along.

“I’ve rented a cabin for us. A shack, really. But isolated. Nobody will bother us. Or hear you scream. Just like nobody heard Lily scream.”

“Kelby is dead.”

Joe’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Right.”

“She’s in a building back at her house. I can show you where she is.”

“I’ve watched you going around leading your comfortable life. Buying food, taking care of the sick lady, going to the library.”

Nausea sat just at the back of her throat, her head hurt, and she had trouble following a thought. “I’m not Kelby.” He was going to kill her because he believed she was Kelby. Maybe that was a fitting fate for having taken over Kelby’s life. With her life came her problems. Wherever they were going, when they reached the destination, he was going to hurt her, make her scream and cry and beg him to stop. Then he was going to kill her.

Her full bladder would empty, her bowels would empty. She would be a disgusting heap of rotting flesh when somebody found her. If somebody found her. Would he bury her? Or just leave her for the flies and rats? In a few days, she would end up smelling just like Kelby.

Her head pounded, her hands were numb, she was nauseated and stiff, the carpet on the car floor scratched her face, and she was blind as a bat. The only sensible thing to do was give up and let herself slide down into the waiting cave of unconsciousness. But she fought against it for the same reason she wouldn’t cry or beg when Mitch was beating her. Either stupidity or determination.

“Not long now,” Joe said.