FRIDAY NIGHT
Questions. So many questions, starting with Is this actually happening?
Erika inches to the side, leaning against the back seat for a better view of Robert. She can’t gauge his mindset from here. Is this a prank he’s pulling for the show? Is he really going to harm her or will he dump her off at a hotel with instructions for her to lie low until further notice?
“Robert?”
“Don’t talk,” he snaps, checking his mirrors, which he’s been doing repeatedly since they started driving. “You’re only going to make things worse for yourself if you talk.”
“But—”
“Shhh!” He shoots her a dark glance, his once manly brow furrowed angrily. He hardly resembles the man she knew—she thought she knew. He’s not a charismatic, energetic entrepreneur. He’s an alien. A monster.
A Plexiglas screen rises from the seat between them, a power divider. Usually, those are activated by the passengers in a limo, not the driver. But this SUV has been tricked out for the reverse, a serial killer’s fantasy vehicle, she realizes with a nauseating chill.
Craning her neck to see out the window, she tries to spot any street signs and buildings for points of reference. All she can see is the night sky and trees. So many trees. Pine. Beech. Maple. White Birch. Majestic sentinels, reminders that she’s not alone. They are with her. Witnessing.
They drive until the SUV bounces so hard, Erika feels as if her neck is about to snap. Clearly, they’re off a class three road. This is rougher than even a class four. It might be a logging trail. Robert is struggling to maintain equilibrium. Branches scratch against metal and glass. Twigs snap.
And then they stop.
He gets out and opens the rear door. Or he tries. Due to the thick underbrush, it opens only a few inches. “Come on,” he says, hauling her from the back seat, her calves scraping across the car’s edge.
Her foot lands in a divot, her ankle wobbling under her weight until it twists so painfully, she automatically lets out a cry.
“Shut. Up!” Reaching down, he slides off her shoes and snaps off the heels, replacing them on her feet like a disturbed Prince Charming. “Go!” He gives her a push into the brambles.
Stinging thorns scrape her cheek. Unable to protect her face with her hands, she keeps her eyes closed as he pushes her stumbling over roots and brush. She has to curl her toes to keep going. The smells of must and loam rise from the damp earth. Prickers attach themselves to her trousers. Branches recoil painfully with a thwack.
Her heart is pounding so hard, she can’t hear her own churning thoughts. She tells herself to think like an animal, to act if she sees an opportunity to run. At last the brush clears out. Erika feels a breeze and opens her eyes. They are at a field’s edge. She follows the tree line, up the hill to a house. Huge glass windows glow golden in the night. She’s disoriented, confused and, now, slightly hopeful.
“We’re circled back,” she whispers, dizzy. “We’re at the house.” He’s not going to harm her, after all. He’s brought her home!
“Not for you,” he says, leaning down and removing a plank from the ground. “You’re here.”
That’s when she notices the hole.
Reaching into the underbrush, Robert removes a makeshift ladder no more than six feet in length and lowers it down.
“NO!” Erika shouts, backing off, instantly falling sideways into a bush. She tries getting up again only to tip backward. She’s helpless with her wrists tied.
“Get in,” he says.
“I, I, can’t with my wrists like this. I’ll fall.”
“So?”
“I could hurt myself. Undo the ties and then . . .” And then I’ll run, she thinks. If I can just make it to the field.
He pulls out a knife, gets behind her, and cuts off the ties. Snip. Snip. Then he brings out a gun from his back pocket. “Get in,” he orders. “Or I’ll shoot you in the head and throw your body down. Your choice.”
What little bile’s left in her stomach rises up her esophagus. She can’t. She’d rather be dead than buried alive. No. That’s not true. As long as she’s breathing, she still has a chance—even if it’s in a grave.
The ladder’s rickety as she takes each rung in her broken shoes. The earthen smells of rot and damp and soil and mold greet her when she reaches the rocky bottom. She looks up and sees Robert above, peering down.
A light goes on and she turns to see a cavern illuminated behind her. The ceiling’s high enough for her to stand straight. The walls are hard-packed dirt, the stone floor covered here and there with old carpet remnants. This isn’t any old hole; it’s an old New England root cellar that’s been tricked out with a small woodstove and a heap of blankets.
“Holly!” Erika cries, simultaneously horrified by what this monster’s done to his own wife and grateful she won’t be alone in this awful crypt. “Are you okay?”
Holly sits up slowly, adjusting the flame in the Coleman she must have lit. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes sunken, and her beautiful hair is matted.
“Holly, speak to me. It’s Erika. I’m here with you.”
Blinking, Holly squints and murmurs, “Erika?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here.” She assesses their surroundings. The room is no more than twelve feet wide. There’s an empty bottle of water and a plastic bucket that even a slight distance away smells vile. What her grandmother used to ironically call a honey bucket because it wasn’t filled with anything close to honey.
Judging from her condition, Holly must have been here all week. She needs medical care for dehydration and probably the cut under the bandage on her arm, Erika thinks. He can’t let her die. They’ve got to get her out of here.
There’s a commotion by the entrance and the two women scoot back as Robert enters the cellar, head bent. His gun is pointed at Holly. He says nothing, only flicks it toward the ladder.
Holly runs her fingers through her greasy hair and slowly rises.
“Hurry!” Robert commands. “Every second counts. You,” he says, swiveling the barrel to Erika. “Get away from her. Sit!”
Erika does as he orders, plunking herself down on a heap of old, rank blankets. The last thing she wants is to make any trouble for Holly, who is crawling on her hands and knees toward Robert. “Water,” she whispers hoarsely.
He tosses his wife a small bottle. She grabs it, barely able to twist off the top, she’s so weak. Finally, it’s open and she gulps its contents.
“Not so fast. You’ll make yourself sick,” he says, snatching it out of her hands and throwing it to Erika. “That’s all you get,” he says, assisting his wife to her feet.
Erika gapes at the half-empty bottle. It can’t hold more than four ounces. It’s not nearly enough to sustain her for . . . how long?
That’s when it hits her. Robert doesn’t care if she dies of thirst; he has no intention of letting her live.
Robert gives his wife a boost up the ladder, following closely behind. Erika rushes after them, panicked, grabbing the ladder and holding it fast. They can’t leave her down here, not for a day, an hour, a minute. “Let me up. I won’t say anything, I promise. Just don’t leave me here!”
The ladder slips from her hands so fast, splinters dig into her palms and she lets go, staring up helplessly as the plywood falls over the hole with a loud, terrifying thunk!
Then she hears the rocks, one by one, and she thinks, crying, This is what it must sound like when the gravedigger shovels dirt over your coffin.