Jeff Abbott - Trust Me

Luke jerked awake. He thought for a moment he was on that ghost plane, flying with its suffocated corpses over the ocean until its fuel was gone. But it was just a dream. He was in a far worse situation as he moved his arms and heard the clink of the chains and remembered he was bound to the cabin bed.

Trapped in a death, just like his father had been, far from everyone he loved, beyond rescue. Except his father had no chance. Luke was going to have to make his own luck.

Betrayed. That son-of-a-bitch Henry betrayed me. The thought cut like a knife in Luke’s mind.

For most of the morning Luke had slept. Exhaustion, driven by the long dance with adrenaline, put a stronger claim on him than fear. He awoke in the late afternoon, bleary from his nightmare, twenty-six hours after Eric kidnapped him, his stomach knotting in hunger and thunder blaring outside the windows. He felt a childish urge to cry – a clutching in his jaw and his chest – and he kept it at arm’s distance until it passed. He tested the chains again, as though their strength had weakened while he slept, and then he dozed some more. When he awoke the rain dropped to a steady hiss, a white noise that allowed him to think.

The chain cuffs were blister-tight against his wrists and ankles. He found enough give in the chains to allow him to sit up on the mattress and stand up next to the bed.

He examined the room. The metal bed was pushed close to the wall and bolted to the wooden floor. The shackles were attached to the iron bed, not the wall. Under the bed sat a small plastic container. He opened it; it was a chemical toilet. It needed emptying but he felt a sudden relief that he wouldn’t have to soil himself or his bed. Crumpled peanut butter cracker wrappers and an empty water bottle were also under the bed. Under the heavily draped window, a table stood. On it was a small lamp, casting an anemic glow on the hardwood floor. A plain wooden chair. Another door was in a corner, maybe leading to a closet. He couldn’t get close to it.

Henry’s betrayal echoed in his head: I can’t help you. I’m going to hang up now.

Henry could have lied, he could have stalled. He didn’t. He left Luke at his kidnapper’s mercy. Henry was a Judas of the basest sort, and when Luke tried to summon an excuse for his stepfather, he could not.

So what would happen next?

The possibilities were few: the British woman, Jane, might come here. Either to get rid of him, or to try and force a change of heart from Henry. She might prove she meant business with violence.

The other possibility was that no one was going to find him, no one was coming, and a slow, lonely death from dehydration and starvation awaited him in the coming days or weeks. How long would it take him to die?

Luke had to find a way to escape.

He checked his pockets. He still had his wallet and he dumped the contents on the bed: Texas driver’s license. Forty-one dollars. A VISA card he used often, another MasterCard for emergencies. A University of Texas graduate student ID. And against his chest, the cool of the Saint Michael’s medal, his father’s last promise of protection. So much for promises.

Nothing to use against the locks.

He got up from the bed and pulled hard on its metal frame. It didn’t budge. He inspected the four legs of the bed. Three were bolted down tightly but one – the left rear – was a bit loose. Barely. He noticed heel scuffs marring the wall.

Aubrey hadn’t just laid here waiting for her knight to come rescue her. She’d tried to kick the bed loose.

Luke inspected the slightly loosened screw. She’d gotten it to give way from the floor just a hair. Not much. The screw was a crosshatch, Philips-style. He put the corner of the credit card in it. Tried to turn, gently, so the plastic wouldn’t shred. Careful. He felt eagerness, a cousin to panic, rise up his arm and he smothered the urge to hurry.

The screw wouldn’t budge. The plastic wasn’t stiff enough to turn it. He tried the driver’s license. Same result.

He needed something stronger. He had to look at the room with new eyes – seeing everything as a potential tool – but there was nothing. Panic churned in him and then he noticed the lamp. Lots of parts: bulb, base, cord, plug. It was a good six feet away, and he could see where it was plugged into the wall. Luke stood and took two steps from the bed. That was close as he could get; so he needed to get the lamp closer to him.

He had an idea.

Luke tore the blankets and sheets from the bed. He knotted them into a long rope, with the care of a Boy Scout testing for a badge. He double-checked the knots, then slowly fed the improvised rope, thick and awkward, through his hands.

He lay on the chilly hardwood floor and stretched as far from the bed as he could. His feet remained on the bed; the chains would not give farther.

He whipped the sheet-rope hard toward the table. He wanted to snag a table leg, with the other end of the rope back in his hands. First try, it missed. He tried again, putting more snap into his wrist: missed. He realized he needed the heavier section – the blanket – whipping toward the table leg; the sheet was too light. He reversed his makeshift rope. His arms ached. He threw the rope again. Missed. Again. His arms felt dense as stone. Missed. Tried again. The makeshift rope caught the right front leg of the table, part of it U-turning past the leg, back toward him. But out of reach.

He got to his feet and picked up the little side table next to the bed. He smashed it against the wall and jumped on the legs, splintering them from the base.

He picked up a leg that had a bent nail sticking from its end.

Holding the leg, he reached for the edge of the makeshift rope that was wrapped back toward him. He wanted to grab the blanket so he could pull the table toward him. He pretzeled his body to reach as far as the chains would let him. He turned the leg so the tip would face the blanket.

The cabin was cool from the rain, but sweat poured down his back; he didn’t know how else he could drag the table toward him if this didn’t work.

He aimed the leg, with its nail tip, toward the blanket rope. The nail caught an edge of the blanket. He let out a tense sigh; he ached as though pushing a truck up a hill.

He began to pull the blanket back toward him, using the jerryrigged table legs. The nail, trapped in the blanket, made a light hiss as he dragged it across the hardwood. Soon he had both ends of the blanket-rope in his hands. Slowly he began to tug at the rope. The table, with the lamp atop it, began to inch away from the window. He drew the table three feet nearer and the lamp’s cord went taut. He stopped.

He stood, holding the broken table leg with its bent crown of nail. He leaned as far as he could. The nail caught the edge of the lamp-shade and came free. He tried again, pulling the lampshade toward him, every muscle straining against his chains.

The lamp tottered and it fell to the floor.

Darkness. But he saw as the light died where the lamp fell. He groped in the dark, used the nail to catch the lampshade now on the floor. He could feel the counter tension of the lamp’s power cord, still mired in the outlet. If the lamp’s cord broke he was finished.

The lampshade crumpled, but he kept pulling on the top of the lamp. He heard the plug fall to the wooden floor. Breathless, he pulled the cord toward him.

His fingertips caressed the narrow edges of the plug’s metal tips. Thin and strong.

Luke inched to the bed leg. Groping in the dark, he wedged the plug against the groove in the bolt.

The screw turned.

He fought down the hammer in his heart. He worked with the calm of a jeweler setting a tiny stone. Don’t rush, don’t lose patience.

He pulled the first screw free. It worked. Four screws on each base of the cot’s legs. Sixteen screws total. Fifteen to go.