Once I got past the initial shock, I decided I probably wasn’t badly injured, except possibly for my forearm. I didn’t immediately know if I’d broken it or just bruised it badly, but I couldn’t move my fingers—maybe they were just immobilized from the debris. I couldn’t tell if I was bleeding from anywhere, but I didn’t sense that I was.
I was pinned to the floor of the shed, which was made of the same old wooden planks that had fallen on top of me. It was cold on that floor, but thankfully not as cold as the bare ground would have been. I couldn’t turn my head enough to see exactly what was on top of me—every time I tried, something sharp stabbed into my neck. It didn’t seem that any of the heavy metal traps had either landed on me or jabbed into me; I had enough sense to realize that was lucky.
I wasn’t dead, I wasn’t badly hurt, but this wasn’t good.
“Help?” I tried. My voice was muffled by all the elements of this disastrous equation. No one would hear me, even if there had been someone around to hear me.
I was a good quarter mile from Lane’s house, and as far as I knew, no one else lived out here. But then again, maybe someone did. Maybe that someone would come save me.
“Help?” I tried again.
I wasn’t freaking out yet, but I knew that was coming. For a moment I held still, listening to the quiet, noticing the sounds of the falling snow. Snowflakes made the tiniest crunching noises when they landed. Was it the weight of the snow or a big gust of wind that had taken down the shed? Had I done something to help the elements along? Either I had, or my timing was spectacularly bad.
I was going to have to make some moves, but I was very aware of sharp edges and splinters, of the teeth on traps.
I forced one foot. I could move it a little; I tried more force. It ran into an immovable object. At least there was another foot. Unfortunately, not much good there, either.
Then it quickly became time to freak out, maybe just to flail and hope for the best.
I was scared; I could feel tears start to burn at the back of my eyes. Come on, Beth Rivers, you’re still you, just with a few more layers. Figure this out.
“Hello?” a man’s voice said from outside.
“What?” I exclaimed, wondering if my silent pep talk had conjured an auditory hallucination. “Hello! I’m here, under all the wood. Can you help?” Those tears I’d been holding back started to pour out of my eyes.
“Yes, I can help. Be still. It will only take a minute.”
“No problem. I can’t move.” I still wasn’t convinced I was hearing something real.
“All right, here we go.”
It was a puzzle being dismantled. The weight on my body released a little with each plank. Light came through; I’d forgotten I’d left my truck lights on.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“Hang on.”
I waited as the man continued to clear the wood away. He was quick and efficient, but it still seemed to take too long. Because of the way my headlights were angled, I couldn’t make out his facial features even once my view was cleared and he was looking down at me.
He extended his hand. “If you’re not hurt, just grab my hand and I can probably pull you up.”
I wiggled the fingers that wouldn’t wiggle before. They moved. My arm was sore, but not broken.
“Deal,” I said as I reached upward. “Whoa. Hang on, my toe is caught.”
He turned and lifted another piece of wood. My foot came free as he reached for me again. I grabbed on and he heaved, and a few clatters of wood later, I was out. The man was covered in bearskin. He held tight to my hand as he led me to flat ground.
He turned and looked at me, the light from my headlights now illuminating more than backlighting him.
I let go of his hand as my insides crumbled just like the shed had. A scream made its way up my throat, but I was so hollowed out, I couldn’t find my voice.
Travis Walker had pulled me out of the rubble.
Finally, I managed a scream mixed with a yell. And I swung my fist. I wasn’t aware that I was swinging toward his face, but my punch landed firmly. He was so caught off guard that he stumbled backward a step or two as his hand went up to his jaw.
I thought hard, trying to remember what Cecile Throckmorton had taught us. I could get away from him. I could flip him. I could hurt him. I just had to remember what to do, but I couldn’t remember a thing.
“What the hell?” he said as he looked at me.
I blinked hard. Yes, it was snowing, and yes, it was dark outside, but the lights from my truck were bright. As I looked at Travis Walker, he transformed. He wasn’t Travis Walker at all; he was Lane, the man with the kill room in the back of his house. He’d saved me.
“Oh no,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I … oh, shit.”
I don’t know if I looked crazed or afraid, but whatever my expression was, Lane’s face relaxed from anger into disbelief. He kept his distance.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”
I shook my head and collapsed onto the snow-covered ground. I wasn’t hurt, but I wasn’t okay. All I could do—again—was cry, and cry hard.
I hated it when that happened.