Bill Pronzini - Hellbox

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.

No, she wouldn’t. The canvas… it was large enough to cover her. Filthy, bug-ridden, but it would keep her warm enough if she had to resort to rolling herself into one end of it. If she had to. Only if she had no other choice.

She worked her body upright, gritting her teeth, and began sawing again at the rough-edged wood.

Four A.M. Still an hour until first light, but I was all through sleeping. I hadn’t slept much, anyway. Mostly just dozing, snapping awake whenever a noise intruded or there was a spasming in my mind. Waiting in a twilight world for the footsteps that hadn’t sounded, the call that hadn’t come.

The first thing I did was check my cell to make sure it was charged, and a good thing I did. Low battery. I got the charger and plugged it in.

I killed a few minutes with a hot-and-cold shower and a shave (cut myself twice, the hell with it), and then dressed in clean clothes. In the kitchen, I brewed coffee, poured orange juice, made toast. I had no appetite, but I hadn’t eaten since yesterday noon-the sandwiches Kerry had made for me, alongside one of the trout streams. I had to put butter on a piece of toast to get it down. The coffee was too strong and the juice had a sticky, too-sweet taste; a couple of swallows of each was all I could manage.

The house’s cold, silent emptiness had a charged atmosphere, like a place haunted by ghosts. Time seemed to have slowed down to a stutter. I kept staring at the darkness beyond the windows, willing it to fade into dawnlight. The need to get out of there, get moving, start the search was so strong it began to have a claustrophobic effect. Tension, strain, lack of sleep. There was some Xanax in Kerry’s purse that she used occasionally as a sleep aid; I thought about taking one to calm myself down, but I didn’t do it. I don’t trust drugs, even prescription drugs. I was afraid even half a tablet might make me drowsy, impair my ability to function.

But I had to do something to take the edge off. Deep breathing and aerobic exercises… Kerry’s methods to relieve stress. They helped some. And used up more dragging minutes.

Finally, the darkness beyond the kitchen window began to show a grayish tinge. I went outside. Chilly. And it would be chilly and damp in among the pines, too. Back inside to put on a light jacket, then down off the porch and around past the shed to where I could see the eastern sky above the pine and fir along the ridgetop. From there, I watched the gray spread and lighten, faint pinkish streaks appear. A few more minutes and it would be light enough to find my way around in the woods.

Into the house one more time. My cell phone wasn’t completely charged, but the battery should have enough juice now to last most of the day. I thought about taking Kerry’s cellular with me, too, just in case-she always made sure to keep hers fully charged-but it would be better to leave it here, with a voice message on it asking for an immediate callback. That way, I’d know if she returned on her own or with help from somebody else.

When I finished doing that, it was time to go.

The woods along the northern perimeter fence first. Down past the car, across the weedy yard. The fence was made of waist-high redwood stakes; no gate, but the stakes were old and there were gaps here and there large enough to pass through. I picked one, and a few seconds later, I was into the forest gloom.

The ground cover was damp with morning dew, the footing slick enough so that I had to be watchful of where I walked. Pretty soon I found what looked to be a deer trail, but it petered out after a short distance and if it continued at another point, I couldn’t find it. It was slow going, the shadows still long in places, the uncertain footing and bushes, fern brakes, and deadfalls impeding my progress. At intervals of a minute or so I yelled Kerry’s name at the top of my voice. The close-packed pines caught the shouts and threw them back at me in dull, empty echoes.

I plowed ahead, changing direction now and then, looking for other trails or some sign that Kerry might have passed this way-and still not finding any. Wasting my time… I accepted that, finally. She wouldn’t have gone on into woods like these with no path to follow. I found my way back to the fence, turned uphill to the long section of timber that stretched from the property line all the way up and over the ridge.

An hour slogging along a barely discernible maze of animal trails to the north and east. No sign of her.

South and east then, over some of the same terrain I’d covered yesterday. When I reached the rocky meadow, I found another trail that skirted it on the uphill side and took that until it vanished in thick underbrush. No sign of her.

Across the grassy open space and into the trees on the other side. No sign of her.

Back over the far end of the meadow and up the slope beyond. I hadn’t climbed up there yesterday and I should have, because partway up there were indications of recent passage-a trampled fern, a slide mark on the needled ground. The marks weren’t distinct enough for me to tell if they’d been made by a human or a large animal like a deer. I hunted for more signs, didn’t find any except for another unidentifiable ground scrape. I shouted Kerry’s name until my voice began to go hoarse.