There were many mundane possibilities but I wondered if he’d been there to check up on the local gossip, to determine if his family was being mentioned in connection with the murderous hold-up at Peachy’s gas station only a few miles distant, or the subsequent disappearance of the three girls. Whatever his purpose was, it made me wonder again if there was such a thing as coincidence or if some unknown power was at work conniving to bring us into conflict. Maybe it wasn’t chance that three missing females bore such similarities, or that a random visit to a truck stop in the middle of nowhere led me to make that link, not to mention placing one of the possible culprits in my sights at much the same time. Then again, it could all prove a pile of crap if my recce turned up nothing untoward.
The Logan family.
At first I’d assumed that they were brothers, but Scott had put me right. Carson was the elder, and father to Brent. The other, Samuel, was a cousin. Once there had been a couple of women living at the homestead: Brent’s mother Arlene, and also Carla, Samuel’s younger sister, but I was glad to hear that neither woman was there now. Arlene had passed away from throat cancer fifteen years back, while it was believed that Carla had headed for the West Coast and a new life just over a year ago. That, at least, was the story told to anyone who asked about the young woman. No one had heard from her since, but then most people tried to stay out of the Logans’ business and didn’t raise the subject very often.
It’s shameful, I know, but there have been times in my life when I’ve hurt women. Not out of choice, but during the wild firefights I’d been involved in during my military days there had to have been some women injured if not killed. I wasn’t proud of the fact, and had never intentionally targeted a woman or, God forbid, a child, and for that reason I was happy that neither Arlene nor Carla could fall into my sights if things did come unstuck with their menfolk.
From my position I could see a ramshackle dwelling of sun-bleached boards and shingles, and beyond it further barn-like structures in equal disrepair. There was a stockade at the back, empty of animals, and then a mound of junk and debris comprised mainly of deteriorating mechanical implements, empty plastic sacks and steel drums. An ancient wagon rested up on blocks, but now it was little more than a disintegrating feature of the landscape. The Dodge pick-up was drawn up at the front of the house, telling me that at least one of the Logans was at home, but there was no movement or sound to give them away.
Crouching behind a boulder that reminded me of a lion’s head, albeit ten times the size, I downed some more water. Then, with half of it now gone, I replaced the container in my rucksack, but propped it in the shade in the lee of the rock. I’d made myself a promise earlier that I wasn’t going to spend all day in this furnace but if I just stayed put and watched for an obvious sign that my suspicions about the family were true I could be in for a long vigil. For all I knew they were sleeping through the hottest part of the day, and I wasn’t prepared to wait them out. Before setting off, I made another inspection of my weapon. Having already loaded my pockets with spare ammo, I was good to go.
That wasn’t exactly true. I should let someone know where I was, because with the exception of Scott and his buddies, no one did, and I didn’t trust them to race to my rescue if anything bad happened. I took out my cellphone, intent on dropping Rink a text message, but true to form there was no signal. At least I tried. I pocketed the phone again.
I was on my own but it wasn’t the first time. Having Rink or Harvey at my back would have been a bonus if indeed this was a hot zone, but I hadn’t confirmed that yet. I slipped out of concealment, and staying low and utilising the natural hiding places that the landscape offered, I headed for the homestead and into another desperate chapter of my life.
13
Long before the rope gave way, the sharp burr of tin plate blunted, caught in the strands and snapped off. Frustrated, Jay screamed into the ground, but would only allow an almost silent exclamation by pinching the sound in her throat. Though she rocked back and forth, straining against her ropes, she could not snap them. It was a pointless waste of energy, as was the way of anger. Better that she concentrate on finding some other protrusion to snag the rope on. It was a difficult search to undertake, bound the way she was, but by twisting and contorting and throwing one scapula almost out of joint, she discovered the protruding head of a bolt where the planks had been bolted together. No sharp point, but the threads were abrasive against her thumb. She had to lie on her side, hook the rope over the bolt then hurl all her weight towards the head of the grave. Not once, but over and over again. Jay set to a rhythm, jack-knifing open and closed, pulling at the strands of the rope with each jerk of her body. It was tortuous, but she felt a sense of impending success and set to the task with new fervour. If her captors suddenly threw back the lid of the coffin they’d probably think she was having a fit.
Exhaustion beat her.
Jay collapsed on her chest, sucking in air that felt as thick as oil. Pain flooded her arms and shoulders, burning like fire as her muscles cramped. She sobbed as she writhed against the agony.
This was hell.
Yet compared with the terror and humiliation and God knows what else Nicole and the girl were enduring it was nothing.
Ignoring the pain and the rebellion fronted by her cramping muscles, she went at the bolt again, ripping harder and harder. When she halted this time, gasping and sweating bucketfuls, she could feel that the rope had frayed and was almost eaten through. With a surge of energy she yanked her hands wider and felt the rope weaken. There was no sudden loosening, but she could feel each strand pulling free. She uttered a wordless groan, snatched at the free lengths of rope and applied concentrated effort on one point. Her arms sprang apart, the knuckles of one hand tearing as they struck the old bolt, but she didn’t care. She was free!
Actually, she wasn’t: her legs were still bound and she was chained inside the coffin-like structure, but that meant little now. At least she had hands to work with. First she untied the lengths still wrapped round her wrists. The surge of blood returning to her fingertips stung like crazy, but was also welcome. She twisted round on to her back again and fanned her hands over her chest, promoting circulation. If the structure had indeed been the size of a coffin she’d have been finished, but there was room to manoeuvre now that she had more mobility. She could pull her ankles towards her backside and it was only the task of a minute to undo the ropes there. With that done she took a moment to steady herself, because the trickiest phase of her escape plan still remained. As she lay, sucking in air, she understood that she didn’t have time for this. She was putting off the real task.
Escaping through the tin sheets and the chains that held them in place wasn’t the difficult part; it was doing so without alerting her captors to what she was up to. She had no idea how close they were to her prison, and any untoward noise might bring them running. She could just lie there, wait for them to open up the grave and then leap out at them like a vampire. Only that idea was just ridiculous. She had no way of fighting the men, and all she’d achieve would be a quick death. No, better to escape from the grave before they returned, make her way to civilisation and bring the police back. That idea died swiftly as well. Even if she was able to get away and to make it across the desert, her escape would be discovered before she could return with help. The men would murder Nicole and Ellie, then disappear. No, somehow, some way, she had to get out of her prison, release the girls and get them all to safety. To do so successfully would be a gigantic task for anybody, but both Nicole and the girl were relying on her, and Jay would rather die than not try.