Ramona Richards - Memory of Murder

The restaurant alarm blared through the night, the sirens radiating off every wall in the neighborhood. The man cursed and pressed his arm on the back of her neck. “Stupid woman!”

Lindsey fought for air as he yanked her arms behind her. Plastic ties cut deep into her skin as he secured her wrists. Finally drawing a raspy gasp, Lindsey tried to scream again, but a sharp blow to her ribs cut it off as she curled up in agony. He snapped her ankles together, wrapping the ties around them. He tossed her over one shoulder, her small frame no burden at all to him.

He bent to scoop up the money, then kicked Jeff twice as he passed the struggling deputy—once in the side, once on the back of Jeff’s skull. Jeff went limp.

Lindsey found more breath. “No!” She bucked against the man, but he ignored her, shoving her unceremoniously into the backseat of the GTO. “Scream away, darlin’. No one will hear you over this baby.”

The guy got in and gunned the engine. The fine-tuned rumble exploded into a roar that split the night air. The orange car spit loose gravel, and smoke bellowed from beneath its tires as it spun out of the parking lot less than five minutes after it had pulled in.

Lindsey pushed herself around, still fighting to breathe normally, regularly. Not an easy task with the pain throbbing through her ribs and head. She struggled against her bonds without success. Sweat coated her back and legs where they pressed against the vinyl backseat of the car. The fury and adrenaline that seared through her made Lindsey’s mind spin. Her muscles trembled, but terror and pain kept her sane and focused as the past few minutes played over and over in her head.

God, how do I get out of this? Help me.

Lindsey twisted until she could see her attacker over the low, split front seat of the GTO. His pasty face glowed in the glare of oncoming headlights, and rivulets of water dripped out of the man’s hair and trailed down his cheeks and neck.

He’s sweating! Despite the open front windows and light chill of the early fall night, the man’s hair remained plastered to his scalp. He fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and squirming in his seat. He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket to check it, mumbling directions to himself. Over the roar of the engine, Lindsey barely caught the words, “Go slow. Careful. Left after three miles.” He shoved the paper back in his pocket. He let up on the gas, and the car slowed.

He’s going to turn. Leave the main road. Lindsey knew the road he planned to take. It ran deep into an almost impenetrable Tennessee woodland. In that second’s realization, Lindsey knew she was about to die. No! Her mind screamed the word, and in pure desperation, a rough idea formed in her mind. An insane idea. He’ll be focused on the turn, the other cars...

As Lindsey slowly shifted her body into position, her assailant’s words repeated over and over.

Turn, three miles. Turn, three miles.

Lindsey frowned, then blinked the words away. She must get ready, no matter how crazy her plan seemed. You can do this. You can do this! Pushing over on her back, she ignored the agony in her hands as she braced her shoulders against the middle of the seat and cautiously drew her knees up to her chest. Her short, petite frame let her curl into a tight ball, and Lindsey had never felt so grateful for being so short—or for taking that Pilates class her sisters had insisted on.

Still mumbling, the man braked the car suddenly, shouting at an oncoming vehicle to get out of the way. As he stomped on the accelerator again, heading the car into the left turn, Lindsey shrieked with all her might. Startled, the man’s head snapped around to glare at her, just as she kicked both legs with as much strength as she had, thrusting her thick-soled, restaurant-durable shoes directly at his face.

His scream matched hers as blood shot from his crushed nose. He jerked, twisting the wheel to the right, veering the car out of the turn and straight toward the corner where the two roads met. He never had a chance to touch the brakes as the orange GTO crashed through the guardrail and soared into the air. The engine howled as the tires left the road. Lindsey felt weightless, her body floating above the seat as the car arced into the ravine. Then the car plowed into the rock and dirt, landing grill down with a deafening sound of sheared metal and shattering glass.

Lindsey plunged forward over the seat. Searing pain sliced through her as her shins hit the man’s head, which slammed forward into the steering wheel with a sickening crack. She crashed into the windshield, then down on the dash as the car rolled over on its right side. It slid another few yards before the weight of the engine pulled it upright again.

Lindsey’s head thudded into the dash a second time, and the darkness of unconsciousness consumed her.

* * *

Jeff groaned as consciousness returned. Rocks and dirt bit into his cheek, and he tried to raise his head, which throbbed with a deep, unrelenting pain. Lindsey! Oh, dear God, what did he do to Lindsey? The silent air around him deepened his sense of panic. What happened to the alarm?

He heard the crunch of hard soles on gravel and tried to push up, only to have a foot land in the middle of his back, shoving him back to the ground. With quick, efficient moves, the man plucked Jeff’s handcuffs off his belt and secured the deputy’s hands behind him.

“Relax, boy. She’ll be dead before you can get to your feet.”

Jeff clawed through his memory, trying to recognize the rough voice, but nothing registered. His brain felt as fried as his muscles.

But Lindsey couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t. An agony laced through Jeff’s chest that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. “No.” His voice croaked.

The man bent closer but deftly stayed out of Jeff’s line of sight. “Oh, yes. You’re worthless, boy. If that woman were still alive, she’d hate you for abandoning her. Sheriff Taylor should fire you. And he will by the time we get through with you. We’ll be watching and waiting for the next chance to make you fail.”

Jeff spit gravel out of his mouth and tried to speak. Then he heard the ominous buzz just before the spears of pain hit his shoulder. Lightning shots of current sheared through him again, and Jeff screamed in rage and despair.

* * *

Nothing smells like a wrecked car. Lindsey had been in more than one accident, and the smells always lingered in her memory. Hot oil, burnt rubber, gasoline and stressed metal. Acrid smoke burned her nose. It had startled Lindsey to consciousness, but now she just wanted to get away from it. She tried to move, but her shoulders felt wedged beneath the dash. A low moan escaped her as each and every inch of her body felt battered and bruised.

It was an old feeling, deep from within her childhood, and she pushed it away, mentally going over her body to survey her injuries. The coppery taste in her mouth and swollen cheek and lips meant a blow to the face, and the slick and sticky liquid coating her hands told her that the plastic ties had cut deep into her skin. Her right shoulder felt twisted. One ankle throbbed with a terrible ache, but nothing felt broken. Her father had dealt her far worse.

While her injuries were excruciating, Lindsey was even more terrified that she stared, face-to-face, at her attacker. Her small, limp frame had crumpled and wedged itself in the passenger floorboard. Unbelted, the man had toppled from behind the wheel when the car went up on its right side. He’d smashed headfirst into the passenger-side window, then slid down in the seat as the car settled back on four wheels. Even unconscious and bleeding from two major head wounds, he felt menacing. Though frightened, Lindsey forced herself to remain still.