Beverly Connor - One Grave Too Many

The sudden voice in her ear made her jump. “You have one chance.” It was a hoarse whisper. “Do what I tell you and live. Don’t and die.”

“What?” she said, and gagged like she was going to throw up.

Her captor lifted the hood up just past her mouth. As she was trying to control her gagging reflex, he whispered to her, “When it’s dark, we’re going to the museum. You’re going to tell me where the bones are. That’s all I want.”

“Bones? We have hundreds.”

“You know which ones I mean. Don’t play dumb.” He slapped her on the side of the head. “I’m already pissed about what you did to the van. Don’t make it worse.”

“I don’t have the bones you’re talking about.”

He slapped her head again. “Don’t lie. You have everything but the skull.”

He pulled the hood down and retied the rope around her throat. He half lifted her and then dragged her for a ways, scraping her feet on the ground. She heard more noises that she recognized and dreaded. They were the noises of a car trunk being opened. She was suddenly lifted off her feet and tumbled, headfirst, into the trunk.

“Wait,” she called out before he slammed the trunk.

“What? Begging won’t work.” His words were barely above a ragged whisper.

“Unless you want me to suffocate, I need more air than this hood allows me.”

She heard rustling around as if he were fishing inside his pocket. She felt a tugging at the hood and heard a ripping sound. She could breathe. The trunk slammed shut. It was suddenly very quiet, and she knew without moving or touching the top or the sides that she was in a small, dark, enclosed place. It didn’t smell like a new car.

Doors slammed. The engine started. The car was moving. They were going again. She was on her side. She started working to get her hands down and around her feet so they would be in front of her. It was a painful strain on her shoulder joints, made many times worse by the bruising and soreness that had not yet healed from the last attack. But she shoved the pain aside and worked.

It took her less time than she had imagined. She could reach the ropes on her legs. It was a small-diameter hard rope, probably nylon. No chance of breaking it. Nothing to cut it with. She found the knots and started working at them with her fingers. Someone knew how to tie knots. They held if she strained against them, but were relatively easy to untie. Obviously, they wanted to be able to get the rope loose when they got her to the museum. With her feet free, she worked on her hand restraints with her teeth. That took even less time because they had used the same knot and she knew how to untie it. She pulled loose the rope that held the hood closed around her neck and jerked the hood off her head.

It didn’t help her vision, but she breathed more freely. She felt around inside the trunk. It was mainly empty. A spare tire, rags. She felt along the edges, in cracks. Her fingers wrapped around something metal wedged between the floor of the trunk and the side. It moved when she pulled at it.

It was too hard to get out, it wouldn’t come loose, it was taking too much time. The car was bumping down an uneven road. She could hear the sounds of the tires on gravel. She started to panic. She wanted to cry. Finally, the object slipped free. It was metal and felt like the blade of a screwdriver. No handle, but good enough. She wrapped the cloth hood around the shank of the screwdriver to improve her grip, felt with her fingers along the back ledge of the trunk lid until she found the hook that held the lid shut, pushed the screwdriver tip into the hook and pulled hard.

The screwdriver slipped, her knuckles hit hard on something sharp. It hurt like hell. Her fingers throbbed. She couldn’t tell if she was bleeding. She felt with the tips of her fingers and found the latch again, wedged the screwdriver tip in tight and pulled against it with all her strength.

The trunk lid popped open. The first thing she saw was the tree line streaming by against the twilit sky. She didn’t stop to think; she lunged out the back, landed on the dirt road, rolled, scrambled up and ran into the brush. The car hadn’t been going fast, but it didn’t matter; she would have jumped anyway. Better to get killed on your own terms. She had no doubt they’d kill her once they got what they wanted.

Tires crunched on gravel as the car slid to a halt-car doors slammed, muted shouts. She kept on running. Adrenaline must be deadening the pain, for she felt strangely invigorated. And she knew where she was: the back approach to the museum, going toward the loading docks. She stayed in the woods, running alongside the road.

A frightening thought-the museum was locked. Even if she got that far before they caught her, she didn’t have a key and there was no time to wait while she banged on the door, hoping the security guards would hear her. They could be on the third floor or in the basement, and she would be overtaken before they could get to her. She was close to the nature trail and she knew it like the back of her hand. There was a toolshed on the trail. If she could get to it, she could find a weapon.

They’d be looking for her near the roadway. She veered further into the woods. The trees broke into an open field; she sprinted toward the nature trail on the other side. Damn, she heard shouts behind her. Had they seen her? Her heart felt like it was going to explode.

She crossed a path. For heaven’s sake, don’t stick to the paths. She stayed to the woods. The shed was near the pond, and the pond was the center of the ten acres of trail. She wanted badly to stop and rest, but all she allowed herself to do was to slow. It was like running in the jungle, looking for Ariel, running from Santos’ men. Hate welled up inside her and she ran faster. Just ahead was the pond. There was a bridge over part of it. That gave her an idea.

As soon as she reached the edge of the pond, she quietly slipped into the water, ducked under and swam, coming up only briefly to fill her lungs with air until she got to the pilings that held up the bridge. She stopped behind a piling and rested, propping herself against a crossbar, holding herself still. Her lungs wanted desperately for her to gulp in air, but she forced herself to breathe slowly and silently. Sound travels over water.

The water was cool and it eased her aching body. Beams from flashlights swept through the undergrowth. Ariel. Where was Ariel?

“No,” she whispered out loud, and got a mouthful of water and choked. Shit, don’t cough, and don’t start having some kind of flashbacks. Not now. They’ll find you.

Calm down. Calm down. You can stay here until daylight if you have to. They won’t hang around that long. Someone will find the crashed van unless they move it. Someone will find the car on the road to the museum; they’ll have to leave to move it. Just stay calm and wait them out.

Sudden footfalls resounded across the wooden bridge and echoed across the water. She almost screamed, but remained quietly bobbing up and down behind the piling. The footsteps pounded overhead and turned toward the feeding dock, a walkway perpendicular to the bridge with a deck for watching the swans.

It was too dark to recognize anything but outlines. The flashlight beams searched for her like silent hounds on the hunt. They darted across the water, and she ducked under the surface as they sniffed under the bridge. She held her breath for as long as she could. She was pretty good at holding her breath. One of those fantastic esoteric talents, like being able to guzzle a quart of beer at once, that served no useful purpose other than to impress her friends when she was in college-until now, and now it might save her life. She stayed underwater to the count of 120. Two minutes. She forced herself to let her eyes come up slowly to make sure. . Good thing she was a caver. It made her strong. She needed physical strength right now. Emotional strength too. That was a lot harder.