Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

I wet my pants.

I could tell by the path of the sun across the high windows that it was now past noon, maybe one o’clock. So much for them coming back in the morning. Earlier, I thought I heard the rumble of a truck going by and I’d yelled at the top of my lungs but, of course, the driver hadn’t heard me. I had doubts that I could hold out much longer. Fatigued and numb, I had a severe cramp in my neck and shoulders from holding my head up and back, but I didn’t dare sleep. Knowing the consequences of falling asleep is death by hanging is enough to give anyone insomnia. I wondered when the thugs were going to return. As unpleasant as that thought was, maybe I’d be relieved to see them. Then I remembered Rollo with his knife-and I trembled.

More time passed, but by now I had no idea what time of day it was. It was still light outside, but that’s all I knew. I had lost the ability to gauge the passage of time. It ran together and piled up, moving at its own pace. And anyway, what difference did it make what the watch on my wrist behind me said? Or the clock in my office, or when the happy hour at Rocco’s would start. Or even when my client, Roberts, would finally be out of the hospital and be cleared of all charges. I was here and I’d be here until time stopped altogether.

I heard a car or maybe a truck outside. The warehouse door rattled. Were the bastards returning? Maybe they figured Jimmy O’Brien has had enough. Had time to think it over. Maybe by now he’d decided that the Roberts case just wasn’t worth all the pain. Besides, what could he do? The cops had said his client had killed Vera and the old lady. And O’Brien had no defense and had never tried a murder case. Why should he start with this one?

And why make waves at this late date? After all, Roberts’s troubles had started almost thirty years ago. O’Brien was just a kid back then and he’d figure it was ancient history. In the grand scheme of things, what difference would it make if a loser like Roberts went back to the slam, this time for life?

But I didn’t have the papers .

The car or truck kept moving. It hadn’t stopped, after all.

The high windows changed froma pale shade of grey to black. Moonlight filtered in through the dust and dirt and cast the area in a faint bluish hue. I tried to figure out how long I’d been hanging on the post, but my mind refused to function. I had no idea of the hour or even what day it was; I just knew it was nighttime. Every muscle in my body had been strained to the limit. I was stiff and numb, my neck raw from rope burn. My tongue had swollen to twice the size of a grapefruit and my mouth was as dry as the Mojave. I had no feeling in my hands, apart from the million electric needles that tapdanced under the skin.

My kidnappers said they’d return. I was being tortured in absentia. The thugs wanted to soften me up. They wanted me to give them the papers. They didn’t want me to die. They couldn’t let me die. They’d better hurry. I was circling the drain and didn’t know how much longer I could survive before being sucked down.

I gave up and let my body go limp.

My head slumped. The rope tightened around my neck. Then I got pissed.

“But I don’t have the papers ,” I screamed, in a voice that wasn’t much more than a feeble croak.

I thought of Rollo with the knife, and stomped my foot. “Don’t cut me! I don’t have the goddamn papers.” I kept stomping, pounding the floor, faster and faster.

The edge of my heel scraped the post behind me. Tears came to my eyes. But I kept stomping. I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop. My shoe caught the post again.

It moved.

I stopped.

I could hear my heart pounding. The post had moved. I looked down but could only see my toes. I couldn’t bend my head enough to see the base of the post, but I’d felt it move. The post had moved off center by maybe an inch.

I pulled my leg up slowly, bent it at the knee and, like a mule kicking the barn door, I slammed my foot backward with everything I had. The post moved again. Only a little, but it moved!

My leg became a battering ram. Bring it up, pound it back, again and again. My muscles cramped-horrible cramps. Through excruciating pain I kept kicking. I was demented, a runaway engine, kicking, kicking. Adrenalin coursed through my veins and my body came to life. I kicked harder. And harder.

The post fell.

It fell on top of me and I lay there, sprawled on the floor, too weak to move. My head had struck the concrete and I fought hard to maintain consciousness. I took deep breaths, in and out, in and out. With no tension on the rope I was able to slip my head out of the noose.

My legs twitched-both of them. Could it be? Yes! When the post fell, my other leg tore free. But my wrists were still bound together behind the post. Think, O’Brien! Yeah, I had to figure a way to get a hundred-fifty pounds of rotten wood off my back.

With great effort I was finally able to move. Weak and half dead, I slithered slowly across the floor, pushing with my feet, dragging the post with me.

The thought of Rollo and Danny returning kept me going. I aimed for the closest upright beam. When I got there I moved in a complete circle and lined up the bottom of the post perpendicular to the upright. Then I pushed with my feet. The post, now wedged against the upright, started to slip between my arms and back. It took about fifteen minutes but my body finally came free of the post. With my hands still taped behind my back, I lay on the floor panting for a full minute before I tried to get up.

The thugs could walk through the door at any moment. I had to move. I had to get out of the warehouse before they returned. I rolled on my side, balled in the fetal position, and twisted until my legs were under me. I raised my head and pushed with my legs. I strained hard and managed to stand.

I stood still for a second, maybe two, before the room began to spin. With each revolution it spun faster. Lights flashed in front of my eyes, a kaleidoscope of garish colors. The room sped up, gaining speed. I couldn’t stop it. I dropped to my knees again and bowed my head almost to the floor. The room slowed, but my stomach continued to do aerobatic loops.

I dry-heaved. It felt like I was retching up my guts. I closed my eyes and waited. Christ, I wanted to sleep! I wanted desperately to lie down and go to sleep, but I knew if I did, I’d sleep in this abandoned warehouse forever.

I stood again, and this time the building stayed anchored to the planet. It wobbled a little but I could handle that. Staggering one step at a time, I worked my way to the office at the far end of the warehouse. The office wall had windows with broken glass. Pieces littered the floor where they had fallen. I lay down carefully on my side again, close to the pile of glass fragments, and with my hands still behind my back I felt around with my fingers. I was able to pick up a long thin shard. I tried to cut the tape by feel but only managed to cut my arm. It stung, but I didn’t care. I kept working the sharp glass until I was able to wedge it between the tape and my wrists. I made only a small cut, but it was enough. When I twisted my arms back and forth and yanked them apart, the tape started to tear.

A minute later my hands were free.

I stumbled back to the post, grabbed one end and dragged it over to the small employee door-the door that the thugs had locked after they left. Using all the strength I could muster I hefted the post in the middle, balancing it in my arms, and with a grunt I swung it at the door like a battering ram. I kept at it until the door finally flew open.

Trembling with apprehension, I stepped outside and glanced at the lights of Long Beach, shimmering silently off in the distance below. I saw nothing else, no cars, no people, nothing but the pumpjacks bowing and raising in their eternal homage to the god of oil.