She’d had two other experiences with personal peril. The first time, shortly after she and Bill were married, when the serial rapist he’d been pursuing had caught her by surprise on what was supposed to have been their honeymoon getaway in Cazadero; she’d escaped serious harm through luck and guile and Bill’s last-minute arrival. The second time was the breast cancer episode, the months of radiation therapy, the constant mind-numbing anxiety-but that had been a known quantity, the cancer a tangible enemy, and she’d had the support and medical knowledge of others. This was different from either of those menaces. Accidental blunder into a situation and an enemy she didn’t understand; alone, bound, trapped, with few, if any, resources and only the slim hope of rescue. She was not sure how long she could keep the fear under control, just what the limits of her endurance were.
She kept trying to convince herself that Bill would find her somehow. He’d always been there when she needed him, always kept her safe, like that awful time in Cazadero. There was no better detective anywhere, she believed that with all her heart. But how could he know where she’d been taken, and by whom? And where she was being held when she didn’t know herself?
He’ll find out. Clinging to the thought, repeating it in her mind. Believing it and not believing it at the same time.
The battle with terror was harder now that night had come. Inside of her prison, it was pitch dark, not a glimmer of light anywhere, the single window covered with some kind of shutter and the only door tight in its frame top, bottom, and sides. The blackness magnified the smells of old wood, dust, linseed oil, paint, rodent droppings, and God knew what else. Scurryings in the walls and sporadic night sounds outside seemed magnified, too, thick with possible menace. Balfour had been back once while it was still light, to check on her; she’d pretended to be unconscious and he’d stayed no more than a minute. If he came back in the dark…
She rid her mind of that thought, shifted position in an effort to ease the numbness in her hands and legs. She could barely feel her fingers; pictured them swollen, like the fingers on gloves inflated with helium. Bruises throbbed on her arms, a blood-scabbed rip in one knee gave off little twinges of pain. Her throat felt as if it she’d swallowed hot sand. Once, a long time after Balfour had left her the first time, she’d given in to the urge to scream, but the only sounds she could make were painful squeaks and she hadn’t tried it again.
She could still feel the marks of his thick fingers on both sides of her neck, as if they’d made permanent indentations in the skin. But he must have stopped choking her right after she blacked out, otherwise she’d be dead now. Assaulted by a wild-eyed stranger because she’d “screwed something up” for him. Senseless words, senseless attack… as if he’d had some sort of psychotic break. He hadn’t said anything in the pickup or when he’d put her in here to give his actions a rational explanation. Hadn’t said anything at all.
Stopped choking her. Stopped just in time.
Focus on that. If he wanted her dead, he’d have finished the job then and there, wouldn’t he? Why bother to tie her up, bring her to his home, confine her in this storage shed, unless he had something else in mind?
Rape?
Torture?
Both?
Kerry shuddered at the thought of his hands on her bare flesh.
God, if he was that kind… But he wasn’t, or he’d have done something by now. Unless he was savoring the anticipation. Fragments of atrocity stories she’d read or heard flickered across her mind and she shuddered again. She could bear sexual assault, no matter how brutal or how many times he repeated the act, if he let her go when he’d finally had enough He wouldn’t let her go. She’d seen his face and knew his name, she could identify him. He was known and didn’t seem to be liked in Six Pines, lived somewhere in Green Valley… his pickup had still been on the logging road when she regained consciousness and they hadn’t driven far to this property, what must be his property. Crazy man, but not crazy enough to turn her loose, let her walk away…
The fear broke through her defenses again, a black wave of it that left her weak and shaking before she could lock her mind against it. The rumpled piece of old, dirty canvas she was lying on gave off a mixture of rank odors that made her suddenly nauseous. Her stomach convulsed; she twisted onto her side, head down, to keep from choking on the thin stream of vomit that came up.
She spat her mouth clear, wiggled backward away from the vomit odor. The stiff canvas rustled beneath her, cold and crawly on her bare arms and legs. Something touched her face, skittered across it. Bug. Spider. She recoiled, shook her head, and brushed it off against the curve of her shoulder.
Outside, the dog started barking at something.
The dog frightened her, too. Pit bull, as big and ugly as its owner. It had made a lot of noise, barking and snarling, when he carried her in here. Not allowed to roam free; tied by a long lead with a hook looped over a cable stretched across the yard, so that it could run back and forth. Guard dog. Patrol dog.
Her shoe scraped against a solid object. She knew what it was-one of the leg supports on the long bench below the window, the same support she’d propped herself against earlier. She squirmed over to it, rolling onto her buttocks, digging the heels of her shoes into the canvas, until she was again sitting with her back against the rough wooden edge. The position gave some relief to her cramped muscles, but not to her hands or feet. She didn’t have the strength to lift herself upright.
She knew that because she’d tried, more than once, even though there was nothing on the bench she could use to free herself. Balfour had taken box cutters, a saw, a pair of hedge clippers, and a few other gardening tools away with him before leaving the first time-everything with a sharp edge. He might have overlooked something, but she couldn’t stand, let alone search, with her hands and feet bound the way they were.
Kerry leaned against the support until her breathing eased and the last of the nausea went away. Then she wiggled around slightly so that its edge was in the middle of her back, leaned forward to bring the joining of her wrists up against it, and struggled to make up-and-down sawing motions. She’d done that before, too, thinking that the rough wood could be made to cut through the duct tape. But she hadn’t been able to sustain the effort then, and she couldn’t now. Almost immediately, pain began to radiate through both arms, across her shoulders, sharpening until she bit her tongue to keep from crying out. She had to quit then, change position to keep from crippling herself.
She let a little time creep away, working the muscles in her shoulders and upper arms to loosen them, then tried again. Same result. But the sawing was having some effect on the tape… or was it? She couldn’t be sure. Not enough feeling in her hands. And there was no sense of separation when she sought to move her wrists apart. He’d used a lot of the tape, tying her hands crosswise at the wrists and winding it partway up both forearms Scuffling noises outside, close to the shed. She heard them clearly because the pit bull had stopped barking.
Footsteps? Balfour coming back?
She froze, holding her breath, listening.
The scuffling came again, but only once more and not as near; then the night was quiet. And it stayed quiet except for the singsong chatter of crickets and the irregular thumping of her heart.
Not him. The dog prowling around. Or bumps in the night.
The painful cramping forced her down onto her side again. She was sweating from the exertion, the tension, but the sweat had an icy feel. She shivered, shivered again, her skin crawling with gooseflesh. Cold in there… she hadn’t realized just how cold until now. All she had on were the knee-length shorts, the thin summer blouse. She’d freeze in this godawful place before morning.