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September slowly regained consciousness when the ancient truck’s jounced movement stopped. Her head throbbed. The driver’s side door squealed open, and the shot springs jiggled when someone climbed out. He left the door open—she assumed it was Victor—and icy air laced with a hot, gag-making smell poured in.
She couldn’t see. Panic. Had the head blow left her blind? The knit mask itched her face, and memory assuaged the panic but only a little. The blindfold snugged tighter over her eyes and around her head than before so no light leaked through. Her temple throbbed. How long had she been out?
Shadow! He’d shot her dog! Then she remembered hearing muffled barking before she passed out, and could breathe again. Knowing he was still alive, that one small victory made the pain worthwhile.
Careful to remain still, September blinked, testing the limits of her vision. Eyelashes scrubbed against the fuzzy knit mask. She heard steps shuffle outside the truck. Victor probably could see her through the windows. Best to play possum as long as possible. Maybe she could learn something useful, leave a message for would-be rescuers, or even figure out how to escape. She’d escaped before.
After a smitten fan sent her flowers—Forget-Me-Not blossoms—Victor became enraged and threatened to smash Melody, her only connection to normalcy, to life before, to the real September. Once he destroyed the music, she’d be next. September knew her daydream of escape must become a reality.
The chance came three months later, December eighteenth, after Victor escorted her onstage. She seated herself, situated Melody between her knees and took the bow. She didn’t look at Victor when he brushed a kiss on her forehead, fearing he’d read her intent. He hesitated, and September forced a smile, prayed he couldn’t hear her thrumming heart.
Vic exited stage right and stared as she prepared to play.
September nodded at the conductor, the orchestra played, she placed her bow and fingered the strings, took a deep breath—and stood. She ran into the wings, cradling her cello like a beloved child. Gathering her long skirt in her bow-hand, September raced down the stage stairs into the audience, thundered up the aisle and out through the rear double doors. Audience members began to murmur and rustle but she didn’t hesitate, and dashed down the first set of red-carpeted stairs, turned the corner, and continued to the ground level.
She terrified the coat-check girl when she suffered her first panic attack, certain Victor would convince everyone her “mental breakdown” required his personal intervention. But the girl let her in and September burrowed between hanging coats to hide, holding Melody like a shield, like the life preserver she truly was.
A half hour later, Detective Christopher Day and the police team appeared. Victor Grant disappeared.
And now he was back.
The truck jostled with accompanying thumps and grunts of effort. He must be in the truck’s bed, moving Felch’s body. Felch must have helped steal Macy, even if he hadn’t understood the implications.
And what was that smell? September breathed through her mouth, but the odor coated her nostrils and clawed at the back of her throat. She could almost taste the acrid, cloying smell. They must be at the county dump. She turned to the window and leaned her shrouded brow against the glass, welcoming the cold but afraid she’d vomit into the knit cover and choke to death. That’d serve Victor right. But she wouldn’t get much satisfaction, either.
September heard him drag a large object from the back of the truck. Gravel or sand beneath the weight screed against the metal bed. Her seat jounced again when Victor jumped off the back of the pickup, grunted a few times to drag the object off, and a sodden thump hit what sounded like wet leaves. Sound faded as he dragged the object some distance away from the truck.
Before he could return, September quickly explored her face with her hands. Her wrists were bound by tape. More tape wound around her head and across her eyes over top of the knit covering. That explained her loss of sight.
His face and voice haunted her nightmares. She didn’t need to see Victor to know it was him, but the blindfold kept her helpless, and literally in the dark about where they were going. Or what he was doing here at the dump.
There must be something, some way to leave a message. The police would talk to Doc Eugene, and he’d tell them she’d been there. Victor could have taken her at the house, but he didn’t. Instead, he left the flowers so she’d run. He wanted her to run, and when she didn’t, he took her.
Combs might think otherwise. She’d discouraged his attentions for so long, he might decide he’d had enough. How long could you push someone away before they gave up trying? A brief, clutching grief nearly crippled her before she pushed it away as well.
Her car. They’d find it eventually. She’d left the keys behind. Surely they’d know that wasn’t right. Maybe Victor had finally screwed up. She had to do something, leave a signal. She had to trust they would look.
September patted her coat pockets. The noxious rotting odor faded into the background as she struggled to wriggle one hand inside the zippered front. A hard object, long and pointed. And a round cylinder, a pill bottle, no help at all. A pencil might work to scribble a note, or if sharp enough, pierce the tape on her wrists, or stab as a weapon.
She traced the outline and recognized the blunt-nosed Sharpie Marker with disappointment. There was no way she could get it out of her pocket, un-cap and write a message before Victor returned to the car.
This had to be more than payback from the mercenary son-of-a-bitch. It had something to do with Sly; the terrible day had started with him. Then there was Felch’s confusion, clumsy gait and insistence on “fixing” some wrong. He said the ski mask was some official merchandise. A TV show, that’s it. If she could figure out where Victor fit in, she might still get out of this alive.
She heard Victor returning to the truck. No time, no time, leave something behind in the truck, something that could come only from her. He’d notice if she kicked off a boot. She’d cut her nails short to practice cello, and they couldn’t leave noticeable marks. No buttons to tear, and the ski mask had contained her tears or blood, if any. She wore no jewelry, so had no watch to drop onto the floorboards, nothing that identified her.
The pill bottle. Macy’s prescription. She hiccupped, and grappled to pull it out, and the cap pulled off. Normally the child-proof bottles were a bitch to open. Never mind, it wasn’t the pills—it was the label on the bottle that mattered.
She managed to milk the bottle up out of her pocket until it dropped. Most of the small, white tablets scattered down her front. September kicked the bottle out of sight beneath the seat and shifted, brushing off pills caught in the fabric folds of her coat.
Knowing Victor, he’d probably dumped Macy somewhere. Her eyes filled. One more innocent victim because of her. If she didn’t survive, Macy’s pill bottle found under the seat would convict Victor. That was a damn fine legacy for her beloved cat.
The truck bounced as he climbed back into the cab and slammed shut the door. “So my sleeping beauty awakes.”
She refused to answer. But in the back of the truck, another voice replied.
“Meowring?”
Macy was alive.
