Chapter 17

 

Ruth’s rain boots flapped against her calves. Her socks bunched around her ankles. Blisters stung her heels, but she couldn’t slow down. Anyone she met was as likely to be foe as friend. She had no protection out here on the road, and the trees that framed it loomed like sentinels, a living fence to pen her.

The early morning hush pressed in, increasing her sense of isolation. She had to get to a phone, let Tony know she was safe. Tell the police where to find Harry so they could get him back into custody—and to a doctor.

She pictured him lying on the couch, shivering with fever. At least she could have covered him with a blanket. What if he died before help arrived? Was he dying now?

She’d never expected praying for Harry to make her care this much about his soul. Then again, she’d never expected to pray for him at all. But God wouldn’t let go. Dreams of a dying man had haunted her sleep, sound-tracked with wild, abandoned wails. Waking, she’d hear an echo in her mind: Somebody had better pray for him.

She resisted until the final dream, the one she couldn’t fight.

The man was drowning. The water turned to quicksand. To fire. Hands of flame clutched him. Another figure plunged into the inferno, but the man twisted free of his rescuer and sank into a red-hot river of magma. The wailing had started again, a haunting lament, the worst yet.

Ruth shivered now in the sunlight. Her lungs fought for breath against the remembered weight of mourning. Is this how it would end for Harry?

Suddenly she was sobbing. However terrible hell was, she knew his crimes deserved it, yet something inside her begged mercy for his soul.

Wincing at the pain in each step, Ruth walked faster. She had to get help before it was too late. “Please, God, he can’t die this way. Not without You.”

Her boot slipped on the muddy road and she threw out her arms for balance. The burst of adrenaline stopped her crying. With more care for her footing, she pushed on.

She hadn’t spoken one word to Harry about his need for forgiveness, about God’s longing to save him. What if it was Harry’s last chance, and she’d left him to die alone?

Ignoring the blister burning her heel, Ruth strode even faster along the muddy lane. Her breath came in searing gasps.

She rounded a sharp bend in the narrow road, her feet sliding in the mud. Before her mind could register what she saw, a massive black Rottweiler lunged at her from the front of a cottage, chain rattling. Booming, throaty barks drowned her scream.

Instinct sent her flying back along the lane. A hoarse voice shouted a curse, and the dog fell silent. She risked a quick look back. She was alone.

Not daring to stop, Ruth slowed to a staggering walk. She pressed both hands against the stitch in her side. Thank God that dog was tied. Tears burned her eyes, and she trembled all over.

She’d caught a brief glimpse of a large, extravagant A-frame building, more a house than a summer cottage. A glossy black sports car parked carelessly on the lawn, alongside a mud-spattered all-terrain sport vehicle.

If it were a smaller place, maybe with a station wagon or some kids’ toys in the front, she could have asked for help, but she couldn’t risk this fancy spot with the guard dog. It looked like the sort of set-up only a drug dealer could afford, and Harry had said his accomplices were nearby.

Ruth trudged forward, the pounding in her chest slowly fading. God, help me reach the highway, or show me a safe place to ask for help.

The sun had crested the treetops, and its gentle fingers of warmth comforted her. How high would it get before she found help? What if that was too late for Harry?

“God, I’m sorry if I failed You. Give Harry another chance to hear... soften his heart... it’s not his fault I didn’t know what to say.”

A squirrel scolded from a tree high above her, and she jumped. She tuned her senses to the scurry of small creatures in the underbrush, the chatter of birds, the other woodland sounds. The scents. Anything to take her mind off the pain in her feet and legs—and off the sick man she’d abandoned in the cottage.

Move one foot, then the other. Don’t think. Just move.

A low-pitched droning behind her turned into the sound of an engine, and she realized she’d been hearing it for a while. She threw a glance over her shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief at a battered blue pickup. Not one of the vehicles from the doom-dog’s home.

The truck slowed, then stopped beside her. The young man at the wheel reached to roll down the passenger window and gave her a slow once-over. “Lady, you okay? Looks like you’re limping. Do you need a ride somewhere?”

He looked to be in his early twenties, clean-cut with an open face. Safe. Tears prickled Ruth’s eyes. “Yes, please.”

Her rescuer popped open the door and she hoisted herself onto the seat. “Thank you so much. I need to get to a phone. Or the police.”

The truck jostled slowly along the rutted track. “Police? What’s up?”

She wilted against the headrest, her last scrap of fear gone. Harry’s associates would have recognized her. They’d have been following the news. “I’ve been abducted. My name is Ruth Warner, and I know where Harry Silver is.”

“Holy crow. They’re searching everywhere, but nobody thought he was anywhere around here. I can’t believe you got away from him.”

“Me neither.”

He snickered. “Way to embarrass the big, bad serial killer. But you’re headed in the wrong direction. I’ll find us a spot to turn around.”

“Are you sure you have time? I’m sorry to be an inconvenience.”

“No worries. Besides, you don’t want to be walking. He’ll be looking for you.” He nosed the truck onto a narrower lane, reversed, and headed back the way they’d come.

Harry. God could send someone else to reach him. Once he was safely behind bars.

If he made it back. If.

She stared out the window. The passing foliage and the vehicle’s gentle motion lulled her, and fading adrenaline left her thick-headed.

They drove past the lavish A-frame cottage and the Rottweiler started barking again. Even in the safety of the truck Ruth shivered. “I came this way but that dog scared me out of my wits. Are the owners... friendly?”

She could hardly ask if they were drug dealers.

Her rescuer grunted. “They party a bit loud, but they’re okay. The dog’s all bluster.”

He slowed and turned up the next driveway. “You can phone from my place. When the RCMP pick you up, you’ll be able to show them where to find their dangerous offender.”

Ruth frowned. She’d feel safer at the nearest station, but she couldn’t insist he drive her there. “Could I phone my husband, too?”

“Sure.” He parked behind a tidy-looking cottage and hopped out of the truck. Ruth followed him across a raised wooden patio to the back door. He held it open and motioned her inside.

Ruth stepped into an empty kitchen that smelled of stale pizza. The sound of gunfire and a helicopter said someone was watching television in another room.

Behind her, the door clicked shut. Her host yelled, “I’m back. And I brought company.”

Ruth didn’t see a phone. Before she could ask, a second man entered the room. Dressed in a muscle shirt and cut-offs, he was heavier but not much older than the one who’d brought her. “Good job, Chris. Bring her in. Silver’s still not answering his phone.”

Ruth’s mouth opened, ash-dry. Her tongue wouldn’t work. Her lungs heaved for air. Harry’s partners.

The young man at her side—Chris—grabbed her arm and marched her toward the doorway. Muscle Shirt stood aside to let them pass, flashing Ruth a hungry look that chilled her bones.

Ruth knew she should feel something, but she had nothing left.

Chris led her into a room dominated by a huge television blaring an action show. A third man, old enough to be the father, looked past her. “Denny, grab a kitchen chair and some rope.”

Four of them? But it was the second man who dragged a wooden chair across the floor and made bold eye contact before stumping away. He was back in a minute with a handful of rope. “Where do you want her, Beck?”

Not their father, then. But clearly the one in charge.

“Over there by the wall, away from the windows.”

Ruth couldn’t breathe, could barely think as they tied her up. The one called Denny pawed her shirt. He smelled of beer and bacon, and Ruth’s stomach heaved.

Chris slapped Denny’s arm. “Get off, dude.”

Denny stepped back, but he pinned Ruth with a gaze that brought the blood to her face. “She’s already dead, far as everyone knows. Looks like we got us a free ride.”

A sob bubbled from her lips, and she bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from screaming.

The older man—Beck?—swore. “She’s going back.”

Denny’s eyes burned brighter. Hands in his back pockets, he tilted his head and studied Ruth. “She’s not as hot as his usual picks, but I’m game. Let Silver have our leavings.”

Ruth’s heart thudded so hard that the sound filled her ears. The edges of her vision greyed. Denny’s flushed face dominated her view.

He stepped nearer. A quick blur, his head snapped back, and he fell. Chris picked him up and shoved him toward the couch.

Despite the pounding in her ears, Ruth heard Beck shout. “Denny, you moron. Sit down and shut up. It’s bad enough we’re on damage control for Silver’s blunder. We do not want to get any deeper into this.”

Denny rubbed his jaw, his eyes never leaving Ruth. The other men hadn’t looked directly at her since she was brought in. Guilt at sending her back to her death?

She noticed four smaller screens, two on each side of the mammoth television, with black and white images. A small cottage, front and rear views. And two angles of a road Ruth assumed ran past this one. Webcams. No wonder they’d gone after her when the dog barked. Had they seen her leaving the cottage and sat waiting to catch her?

Chris prowled around the room. “If she’s going back, let’s do it now. Silver must have left his phone behind when he went after her. Or he forgot to charge it.”

Beck nodded. “Keep her tied and drop her where he’ll see her. With a note saying the boss will add a delivery fee. Plus the cost of cleaning up whatever he leaves behind.”

Denny licked his lips. “I’ll take her.”

The others ignored him. Still not looking at Ruth, Chris untied her from the chair and bound her wrists and ankles on top of the bruises from Harry’s ropes. A new hope blotted out the pain. If they thought Harry was still out searching, and Chris dumped her into the cottage, she could sneak away after dark.

Ruth stared at the webcam feeds. She’d be safe to slip around to the side of the cottage and into the trees. Oh, God, keep Harry unconscious. Her conscience prickled. Unconscious, but alive... let him live until someone could lead him to forgiveness.

Chris pulled her to her feet and swept her up in his arms. For a small guy, he was strong. Solid biceps held her without a quiver. “I’ll do a coffee run while I’m out. You guys want anything?”

As if returning her was a simple errand. Hope of escape softened her anger, and she almost smiled. Who’d have thought she’d want to go back to Harry’s cottage?

Chris laid her none too gently in the cargo bed of his pickup, then tossed a musty grey blanket over her. “Don’t try to jump out, you’ll just break something. And I’d still take you back.”

The ride was agony, with each jostle grinding her shoulder and hip against the hard metal of the truck bed. A couple of times they went over bumps that banged her head. Ruth gritted her teeth and held onto the thought of escape.

At last the motion stopped. The blanket whipped off, and Chris vaulted into the back. He picked her up and lowered her over the side. She pulled her feet under her and leaned against the truck for balance as Chris jumped down beside her.

Ahead lay a grey cottage with bright blue shutters. Ruth focused on twin lilac bushes that framed the front door. Their soft pale clusters of purple flowers drooped, battered by the storm.

Storm-battered. That was her.

Chris picked her up in the classic groom-carries-bride-across-the-threshold position. Except that traditionally the bride did not have her hands tied behind her back. He headed for the building, chin up, and avoiding eye contact. “How did you get out?”

It took three tries to make her voice work. “Back door.”

He grunted. “We’ll be watching this place until he’s gone. Don’t try anything else. Not that even a washed-up killer would let you escape a second time.”

Washed up? He wouldn’t say that if he’d seen Harry in action last night. Ruth shivered.

Chris held her nearer while he twisted the doorknob. He took a couple of steps into the darkened kitchen, opened his arms and let her drop.

Ruth cried out, twisting in midair to protect her back and head. The door slammed behind her. She landed hard on one knee. Pain shot clear through to her hip, nearly lifting her off the floor. Jerk. He could have put me down gently. She rolled onto her other side, tears streaming, gasping for air.

At least the young thug hadn’t waited for Harry to come back. She might still have a chance.

Outside, gravel popped under tires and the truck roared away. Ruth struggled to her feet. As soon as her injured leg took weight, she yelped and fell against the table. Her bound arms flopped helplessly behind her. God, I have to be able to walk to get out of here.

Holding her breath, she stood on her good leg, pivoted, and grabbed the nearest chair. No way could she hop like she’d done coming out of the bedroom. With her hands tied behind her, she had to do this in reverse. Chris the creep sure didn’t make things easy. Hands gripping the wooden chair back, she balanced enough to shuffle-hop backward toward the door. Lift chair. Hop. Lift. Hop.

The muscles in her good leg were on fire by the time she reached the door. With the front of the chair pressed against the door, she leaned her hips against the backrest and stretched her arms until her fingers brushed the cool metal of the deadbolt. As soon as it clicked into place, she twisted around to collapse in the chair. Ruth’s racing heart shook her whole frame.

Ruth tried to focus. There was no other sound in the cottage. Harry must still be sick. She should be safe for now. She’d ice her knee, rest it, and pray it’d let her walk out of here after dark when the web cams wouldn’t pick her up.

When she caught her breath, Ruth chair-hopped to the counter and inched along it until her fingers reached the block of knives. She pulled one out and angled it behind her back until she could see it by craning her neck. Straight edge. She tried again until she found one with a serrated blade.

She twisted to sit in the chair before her leg gave out. Sweat trickled along her spine. With small, careful movements, she brought the knife handle between her palms and slid the blade between her wrists, serrations toward the rope. Without good leverage, it took a lot of sawing, and Ruth’s forearms were shaking when her bonds finally snapped.

The knife clattered to the floor. Ruth heaved a sigh, then hissed at the pain in her wrists. Bringing them around to see the damage triggered aches in her shoulders too. But she'd freed her hands. Now where was that knife?

There it was, under the chair where she couldn’t reach it. Still sitting, she scooted the chair sideways and rotated it until her foot touched the knife. She dragged it nearer and toppled over to pick it up.

“Might as well stay down here.” Cutting the rope came much easier when she could see what she was doing and had full range of motion.

Ruth let the ropes lay where they fell and flexed her ankles to get the blood moving again. No wonder it felt so hot in here—she still had her coat on. Her purse strap crossed from one shoulder to the opposite hip. She lifted it off and shrugged out of the coat, looking down at her clothes. Her crisp print blouse was rumpled and sticky with perspiration from her hike. Her favourite pants, once a deep, navy blue, were mud-stained and ruined.

Ruth sucked a deep breath, the flat taste of fear strong in her mouth. What if the silence didn’t mean Harry was still unconscious? He could be sleeping it off, or maybe he really had gone looking for her. She had to know.

A broom propped in the corner behind the door might help keep weight off her throbbing knee. She stood on her good leg and used the chair to cross the room. The angled broom head wedged nicely under her arm to make a crutch. It wasn’t a perfect height, but at least she could get around.

As she turned toward the living room, one of the polished copper pots on the wall threw back a distorted reflection of her face. Her short brown curls stuck out in clumps in every direction. Streaks of mud ran through her hair and caked her face. The twisted shape the pot bottom gave to her face made the picture look worse.

Was she ugly enough to scare Harry now? Please, God, don’t let me have to find out. First, she’d check on Harry, make sure he was still unconscious. Then maybe she could grab something to eat before finding something to ice her knee. Her stomach growled, right on cue. The clock on the microwave said 9:15. She’d gone almost twenty-four hours without food.

Trembling, Ruth navigated with her makeshift crutch into the living room. Harry lay sprawled on the couch. The sound of his laboured breathing filled the room.

She risked sneaking a little nearer. He shivered, tried to roll over, and flopped back into his spot. Sweat stood out on his brow. Ruth eyed his pockets. No lump from a cell phone. It must be in his back pocket. Under him.

His colour didn’t seem any better, but it was hard to say in the dim light. He looked terrible. The man wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

What if he woke for one last chance to hear God’s invitation? She’d better stay close, just in case. Her nightmare’s anguish flowed back full-strength.

Ruth shivered. “God, let me be gone before Harry wakes. If not, don’t let him get strong enough to move. To touch me. And please give me the words... the courage... to tell him about You. And give him the faith to believe. I can’t convince him. And help me get out of here.”

She took the green and gold afghan from the chair where she’d left it and leaned on her crutch to open it. Holding her breath, she draped the covering over Harry’s unconscious form.

He stirred again, and she sprang back. Arms windmilling, she dropped the broom and fell on her hands and rear. Ruth scrambled for her crutch and pushed to her feet. Had the clatter and thump woken Harry?

His eyelids fluttered as he groaned. She watched him, poised to duck and hide behind the end of the couch, but he fell back to sleep. Ruth pressed a hand against her erratic heartbeat. Deep, slow breaths. She had to get control of herself.

Harry didn’t look to be in immediate danger. She’d have time to clean up and get some food, but she wouldn’t leave him alone for long. If he woke... God, help me know if I’m to speak about You or run for it.

For now, he wasn’t a threat. Not like the men in that other cottage. She could still smell Denny’s beer and bacon. Feel his eyes on her. The way he’d touched her...

She studied Harry’s unconscious form, then made her decision. Breakfast, yes, but first she had to wash off the taint. And she’d want her comb, which meant going back to the kitchen first for her purse.

When she made it to the bathroom, with the door safely locked behind her, Ruth filled the sink with hot water. She’d kill for a shower—if there weren’t a literal killer on the other side of the door.

The man was too sick to hurt her. Worst case, he’d have to vomit again. He’d stagger into the locked door and probably leave a mess right there. He certainly wouldn’t be clear-headed enough to find something to work the safety feature on the doorknob’s privacy lock.

But just in case... no shower. Too vulnerable a position, and too noisy. If he made a sound, she wanted to hear it.

An idea struck her. Ruth unlocked the door, and hobbled to investigate the bureaus in the two bedrooms. The room where she’d slept only provided a man’s flannel shirt, but in the other room she found a denim skirt tucked in the bottom of a drawer under a pile of frilly lingerie which she brushed aside, thankful Harry hadn’t seen it. Ruth stood and measured the skirt against herself. She might have to hold her breath, but it would do.

A glance at Harry on the way back to the bathroom revealed no change. Behind the locked door, she soaped a washcloth and cleaned her face, her neck, any exposed skin. She didn’t feel safe to strip, so everything else had to be washed by shoving the cloth inside her clothes. Awkward, uncomfortable, but safe.

She bent forward and dipped her hair into the water, swishing to wet it through. A little squirt of soap, lather and dip back into the water should remove the worst of Denny’s scent. Ruth towelled her hair dry and listened at the door. No sound. She unbuttoned her blouse and swapped it for the clean top, then slipped from pants to skirt.

Ruth gave her hair a brisk rub with the towel and opened her purse to root for her comb. She found the comb, but even better, her fingers touched the pocket-sized Bible she’d taken to the prayer meeting.

Wasn’t the Bible called a sword? She seized it, and its solidity in her hand felt good. She wasn’t alone. She tucked it into her skirt pocket and unlocked the bathroom door.

Harry hadn’t moved. Ruth rolled up her over-long sleeves and hobbled into the kitchen.