Bill Pronzini - Hellbox

Ready then to explore the confines of her prison, look for a weapon she could use against her captor.

The switch for the overhead lights was next to the door. Risk putting them on? She’d have to; she couldn’t see much in the gloom, and with the canvas bunched up on the floor, there was a greater risk of stumbling, falling. Still daylight outside. Even if Balfour came back before she was done, he wouldn’t be able to tell from a distance that the lights were on.

Kerry felt her way to the end of the bench, around the end to the wall, then along the wall to the corner and from there over to the door. The sudden glare from the naked ceiling bulbs hurt her eyes; she narrowed them to slits until her vision adjusted.

The storage room seemed even smaller from an upright perspective-a twelve-by-twelve box, cramped, dusty. Across the back wall was a row of metal storage lockers, each door fitted with a heavy padlock. No help there. Nor from whatever was in the cabinets built in under the bench; the same kind of padlocks closed those off. The bench top was empty except for another piece of folded canvas and a thick-bodied television set. The rest of the enclosed space held rolls of insulating material, a pyramid of three one-gallon cans of paint, an old-fashioned standing ice chest, a brass-studded armchair bleeding stuffing from one dirty arm, some stacked cardboard cartons, not much else.

Could she use one of the paint cans as a weapon, hide behind the door and clout him with it when he came in? She tried to lift the top can with both hands… and couldn’t do it. Full, not empty. Too unwieldy anyway to swing with any accuracy, even if she could manage to lift it. The TV set? No good, either. It was at least twenty years old and looked as if it would weigh thirty or forty pounds.

The cartons were the kind with lids, none of them taped down. Old clothes, drop cloths, rags, more canvas… nothing she could use. In frustration, she yanked on a couple of the padlocks on the row of lockers, not thinking about the rattling noise until the pit bull’s lead ratcheted on the cable outside and the animal started barking again. How close to the door could the damn dog get? She couldn’t tell even when she went over to stand close to it; the wood was thick, solid, and the keyhole too small to see through. She moved sideways along the wall, looking for a peephole chink between the boards. There wasn’t one.

The window? Wire mesh screen bolted to the wall. Even if there were a way to pry it loose, the outer shutter, made of green-painted metal, was sure to be locked or bolted as well.

Still trapped, after all that effort to shed her bonds. No way out and nothing she could use to defend herself.

The fear rose in her again, a surge of it that came close to panic. Fighting it, controlling it, left her weak and shaky again. She hobbled to the door to switch off the lights, then sank down onto the canvas. Exhausted, pain-riddled, dehydrated, hungry. But her determination and her will to survive remained unshaken. As long as there was breath in her body, she would not give up.

She made a blank screen of her mind, sitting humped forward in the near-darkness, massaging wrists, ankles, feet to keep the blood flowing.

It was still daylight when Balfour came back.

The dog’s barking alerted her far enough in advance so that she was able to roll onto her side and wrap the canvas around her before his key scratched in the lock and the door opened. Again he put on the lights by reaching in from outside. Kerry had her eyes slitted so the glare wouldn’t blind her, saw him stand there looking in at her for a few seconds before he entered. Crazy, but not stupid. Even if she’d been able to lift one of the paint cans and tried to hide with it behind the door, she wouldn’t have taken him by surprise. Not that way.

She watched him move to within a few paces of where she lay, stop at the edge of the canvas. If he got close enough, bent down to check on her as he had that morning, she might just catch him off guard. Claw his face, kick or punch him in the groin, disable him long enough to scramble outside, then try to get past the pit bull and make a dash for freedom. She could see the dog through the open door, sitting on its haunches fifty or sixty yards away-far enough so that there might just be enough time to elude him. Desperate plan, with little chance of succeeding, but what else could she do?

Not even that. Balfour didn’t come any closer, just stood looking down at her with a funny little smile flicking at the corners of his mouth.

He looked different somehow. Red-faced and not a little drunk-she could smell the alcohol fumes leaking out of him-but not as grim or as tense. That smile… the secret kind, as if he were pleased about something. Or had made up his mind about something.

“How you doing there, lady?”

Maybe she could entice him into checking on her. She had the words, but it took three tries before she could force them out through the arid caverns of her throat and mouth. “How do you… think I’m doing, tied up like… piece of meat?”

“Your own fault. Should’ve stayed away from my truck.”

“Untie me, please.” The “please” tasted like camphor on her tongue.

“Uh-uh. Not yet.”

“When?”

“Won’t be too long.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll find out when the time comes.”

A dry cough made her say, “At least… some water.”

“Thirsty, huh? Yeah, sure, why not some water. You hungry, too?”

“No.”

“Sure you are. Tell you what. I got some beef stew cooking-Dinty Moore’s, best there is. How about I bring you some along with the water?”

“And what? Feed it to me?”

Balfour laughed, closed one eye-a wink, for God’s sake-and turned for the door. Went out and locked it behind him, leaving the lights on.

Kerry sat waiting, planning. He’d have to come close, squat or kneel down, to feed her the food and water. If she acted quickly enough, she could grab hold of his privates and twist them hard enough to hurt him, really hurt him. She repositioned her body, arranged the canvas over her hands and legs so that she could free herself with a quick flip and then strike with her right hand. Tried it three times to make sure. Then she was ready.

The dog didn’t announce Balfour’s approach this time. Her pulse rate increased when she heard the shuffle of his steps, the key in the door again. Adrenaline rush, with the added fuel of her anger. Her fingers, pressed together behind her, tensed and tingled.

The door opened and she saw him look in, then lean down to pick up two bowls from the ground in front of him and carry them inside. Not ordinary bowls, she saw then. Round metal dishes, old and scratched.

Dog dishes.

He came no closer than the edge of the canvas, where he set the dishes down again. “There you go,” he said. “Water in one, stew in the other. Help yourself.”

“… How?” It was all she could manage.

“Same way Bruno out there eats and drinks. Stick your face in the bowls and slurp it right up.”

Balfour laughed again, went away again, locked her up in darkness again.

And left her, for the first time in her life, with enough seething hatred to want to kill another human being.

JAKE RUNYON

He was at Bryn’s, playing a science fiction video game with Bobby while she cooked dinner, when the call came in on his cell.

Nice little domestic scene, the sort he’d missed out on all his life. He and Andrea had fought most of the short time they were together, usually over her drinking, and Joshua had been a toddler when he’d left them and filed for divorce. Plenty of good evenings with Colleen over the twenty years they’d been married, but it’d been just the two of them-she hadn’t been able to conceive a child. These recent get-togethers with Bryn and Bobby were comfortable enough, but they were infrequent and had a temporary feel. He wasn’t married to her, or living with her, and the boy was her son, not his. But that was only part of the reason.