Backwoods Page 17

  Brooke was alive.

  Nothing could keep them apart.

  Abby stumbled forward, intent on reaching her daughter. But the hunter shoved her sideways before she could get there. She would have gone sprawling if Wyatt hadn’t been there to catch her fall. Brooke made a whimpering noise, but Abby didn’t look at her again. Intuition told her that her captor would enjoy female distress. Every scream would be music to him, every tear a triumph. So she found her balance and stayed still.

  Wyatt didn’t smell as bad as his friend. The odor of smoke and fish clung to his clothes, unpleasant but bearable. When he released her, she realized he was just a teenager. Judging by his strong physical resemblance to the older man, they were father and son.

  “Maybe you were right about taking them both,” the father said, coming up beside her. He touched her cheek, making her flinch. “This one suits me. She’s all woman.”

  Brooke let out a strangled sob. Wyatt stared at the ground and said nothing.

  Abby didn’t know if the father liked her maturity or her softer curves, but she’d take it. Anything that kept him away from her daughter. She’d sacrifice herself for Brooke without a second’s hesitation.

  “If you want the other one, you have to earn her,” the father said.

  “How?” Wyatt asked.

  “Come on. It’s time to make your first kill.”

  Abby didn’t hear the boy’s response to this chilling statement. His father gripped her arm and guided her through the open door while Brooke continued to weep. They traveled down a short tunnel to another small dugout. There was a sleeping pallet at one end and a trapdoor in the ceiling with a wooden ladder beneath it. A strange-looking box, about the size of a large dog crate, sat in the corner. Her stomach lurched with terror as he dragged her toward it. He was going to cage her like an animal.

  She dug her heels in the dirt floor. “No, please.”

  The man smiled in response, his teeth tobacco-stained but straight. The more she fought, the more excited he’d get. Although Abby sensed that, she couldn’t control her panic or summon any degree of calm. Her detached docility had snapped. She started thrashing back and forth, kicking to get free.

  He grabbed her by the hair again and swept his foot in front of hers. She went down hard on her knees, gasping in pain as he opened the cage door and shoved her in. Her cheek slammed into the perforated metal floor. She collapsed on her belly, too stunned to move.

  Her legs were sticking out of the cage door. He made a chopping motion at the back of her heel that caused excruciating pain. Biting back a scream, she rolled onto her side and drew her knees to her chest to avoid another blow. He slammed the door shut and locked it, tucking a key into his pocket.

  The crate was made of stainless steel with quarter-sized ventilation holes along the sides and a barred door at the front. She couldn’t stand up or stretch out. She could probably sit up and turn around, but it was a very tight fit.

  The hunter crouched beside the door, squinting at her. “Give me trouble and I’ll make your daughter pay.”

  Abby was ready to tear him apart with her teeth and fingernails. He wanted an animal? She’d be one.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  She watched, her scraped face burning and her ankle on fire, while the hunter drank water from a gallon container. Thirst overwhelmed her, but she knew better than to ask for a drink. He might give it to her in a dog bowl.

  “Bring the shotgun and the crossbow,” the man said to his son.

  An icy hand trailed down Abby’s spine. They were going to hunt for Nathan and Leo, who were both unarmed, maybe injured, stumbling around in unfamiliar territory. The odds were stacked against them, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  This was all her fault. She’d been wrong to insist on a half-cocked rescue attempt. They’d taken a gamble and lost. She should have listened to Nathan and gone to the authorities. Now they’d die here, just as he’d predicted.

  The trauma she’d experienced during the San Diego earthquake had caused this predicament. She couldn’t have endured another agonizing separation from Brooke, uncertain if she was alive or dead. Those days had been the worst of her life.

  Until this.

  How sickeningly clear hindsight was. How cruel and precise. And how unfair to survive one horrific tragedy, only to be struck down by another.

  The hunters left the dwelling through the trapdoor, wearing camouflage from head to toe and armed to the nines. She was trapped and helpless, unable to move. Her arms ached from the uncomfortable position, and the sharp zip-tie cut into her skin. To her utter frustration, tears wouldn’t come. The emotional breakdown she’d been expecting remained elusive.

  She yelled for Brooke until her voice grew hoarse. There was no response. Her daughter was tied up and drugged, probably locked behind a door. Even if Brooke could get up, which seemed doubtful, she wouldn’t be about to get out.

  Abby was in a similar, impossible position. She couldn’t escape the cage with her hands bound behind her back. She couldn’t escape the cage, period. It was a heavy-duty piece of torture equipment. When she tried kicking the door, her left ankle screamed in protest. Grimacing, she braced her left foot against the corner and kicked with her right. The cramped space didn’t allow much range of movement, which made her blows ineffective.

  You’ll die here.

  Brooke will die here.

  A choked sob escaped her lips, as weak and unsatisfying as the escape attempt. Her ankle throbbed and her wrists hurt.

  The miserable confinement reminded her of the third day after the earthquake. There was still no word from Brooke. The entire city had been evacuated, and civilians were barred from reentering their own neighborhoods. In addition to massive structure damage, there had been secondary disasters in the form of fires, floods and landslides.

  She’d felt so helpless.

  Abby hadn’t broken down until later, however. She’d been reunited with Brooke, finally. The joy of seeing her daughter alive had lifted Abby’s spirits into the stratosphere. While the downtown area was being rebuilt, they’d stayed in a hotel. Brooke had to attend a satellite school. On her first day back, Abby had dropped Brooke off at the site, which was a big parking lot with trailer classrooms.

  After she drove away, Abby had experienced a debilitating panic attack. She’d pulled over to the side of the road and called Ella. She couldn’t remember much after that. Apparently Ella had picked her up and taken care of her for the next several hours. Abby didn’t know what she would have done without her sister.

  Unfortunately, Ella wasn’t here with her now. No man with a crowbar would free her. She couldn’t count on Nathan and Leo to return. Abby had only herself to rely on. And she couldn’t quit. Not after everything they’d been through.

  Brooke’s life was in her hands.

  It occurred to Abby that she knew how to break a plastic zip-tie. She’d seen a video demonstration on the internet. A friend of hers had shared a link to the clip on Twitter. Abby couldn’t resist clicking information about survival techniques.

  The self-defense expert had used leverage and body positioning to snap the plastic. He’d bent forward, pushing his arms down his lower back as far as they could go and pulling apart at the same time.

  Abby couldn’t stand up, like the man in the video. Her muscle mass was decidedly lower. But her motivation to succeed was unparalleled. She had to free herself and save Brooke. Failure was not an option.

  She didn’t get it on the first try. Or the second. After about ten minutes, she lost count of the attempts made. She flopped on her back, on her belly and on her side. Sweat dripped from her hairline and the plastic sliced into her wrists, which became slippery. Panting from exertion, she switched tactics, squirming
to slide her wrist out. That didn’t work, either. In a desperate burst of energy, she strained against the zip-tie until black spots danced before her eyes.

  It snapped.

  She lay against the grated floor of the cage, breathing hard. When she’d recovered enough to glance at her wrists, she groaned. They were red and swollen, cuffed in blood. She stretched her arms over her head and rolled her shoulders, grateful for the range of movement. Her hands were free. Now she needed to get out of the cage.

  The inside of the door offered no solution, and the bars were too narrow for anything but her fingertips to fit through. She couldn’t reach the lock or feel the keyhole. Without a tool of some kind, she’d be out of luck.

  She grabbed the broken zip-tie, struck by another wave of inspiration. It was skinny, sturdy and stiff enough to use to pick the lock.

  Score.

  Although Abby tried multiple angles and hand formations, the zip-tie didn’t work. It was too straight, and not quite long enough. She needed another tool. Or a miracle.

  “Brooke,” she shouted. “Brooke!”

  No answer.

  Abby didn’t think her daughter could hear her, let alone come to her rescue. She sat on the floor of the cage with her legs crossed, taking inventory of the situation. There was nothing near the cage she could try to lasso with a shoelace. There was nothing inside but her. She had hiking shoes. Jogging pants with no zippers, buttons or pockets. A tank top, because she’d taken off her jacket earlier today. Underwear.

  Underwire.

  Her bra had a thin, semiflexible piece of wire sewn into the cup. It was curved to follow the shape of a breast. She could use the underwire to pick the lock! A flexible piece of metal would be perfect for reaching the keyhole.

  Moving quickly, she removed her bra and tore into the fabric with her teeth. She preferred well-made lingerie, so biting through the material wasn’t easy. Thirst and fatigue assailed her. She tasted blood and gagged.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “You’ve got this.”

  She’d given Brooke that pep talk a hundred times. The difference was that Brooke had magic legs and a winning spirit. The girl never quit, never slowed, never let up. Abby smothered another sob at the thought of her, drugged and disoriented in this hovel. Growling like an animal, Abby ripped through threads and reinforced lace.

  When the underwire popped out, she removed one shoelace and tied the metal to her wrist. She was worried about dropping the tool and being unable to retrieve it. One false move with shaking fingers might put the object on the other side of the bars.

  Taking a deep breath, she extended the wire through the bars and found the keyhole. It was a contortionist exercise, destined to induce madness. She couldn’t see what she was doing. Her arms and shoulders were already tired, her muscles aching.

  Within minutes, her wrist cramped.

  She alternated between using her left hand and right hand. Neither felt strong. Sweat dotted her hairline and beaded on her upper lip. The tool kept slipping from her fingers. She stifled the urge to bang her fists against the cage.

  Instead of losing her cool, she experimented with different techniques. She chewed off the tiny plastic nub from the tip of the underwire and tried again. She used the strap of her bra to hold the wire in place with her left hand while she cranked it with her right. When she heard the tiny click of gears—finally—she almost wept with joy. After a bit more finessing, a spring released inside the lock and the door opened.

  Victory.

  She had no idea how long she’d been in the cage. It felt like hours, but her accelerated heart rate and spiked anxiety might have warped her sense of time. She stared at the square-shaped doorway, her pulse pounding with fear. Although freedom beckoned, she didn’t move. She was shocked and ashamed by her urge to stay put. This awful crate was a known entity, both a trap and a protective shield. Outside, she’d have to evade the hunters, maybe attack them again. She wasn’t sure she could do it.

  The same insecurities that had plagued her for years welled up, holding her captive. She had anxiety issues. She’d been abandoned by her father and her husband. She was broken, unworthy of love, incapable of keeping a man.

  Leaving this cage meant taking a risk. Fighting for her life, rather than accepting her fate. It was difficult to trust herself enough to move forward. Her rescue plan had backfired. Maybe cooperating would be safer. If she got caught trying to run away, she’d be killed. Like the other women who’d been terrorized here.

  Abby didn’t know anything about the previous victims. She didn’t know about their families or their romantic relationships. But it didn’t really matter. None of them deserved this. No one deserved to be locked up and abused.

  She scrambled out of the crate, tears stinging her eyes. She had to escape and survive, for those victims. For her daughter.

  For herself.

  * * *

  NATHAN HELPED LEO onto a higher branch, wincing at the familiar tug in his shoulder.

  Damned rotator cuff.

  When they’d climbed as far as they could go, they found secure hiding places. Leo chose a perch between two sturdy branches on the west side of the tree trunk. Sitting on the lower limb, he gripped the upper one with his right hand. Nathan settled onto a more exposed branch, facing the creek bed so he could keep watch. They were both wearing dark clothing, so they’d be hard to spot from a distance. The foliage wasn’t thick enough to cover them at close range. If the hunters happened to look for them up here, instead of following the footsteps downriver, they’d be in trouble.

  They had to be very quiet and very still.

  Getting to this point had been tricky. Nathan had stomped through the mud, with Leo hobbling alongside him. Then they’d entered the creek and doubled back. They’d traveled against the current until they reached the lower tree branches and climbed up. Now they had nothing to do but wait.

  Nathan glanced over his shoulder, evaluating Leo’s condition. His black hair was damp with sweat. He didn’t appear pale, but he rarely did. He had Lydia’s olive skin tone. The patchy stubble on this jaw reminded Nathan of his younger self.

  “I’m thirsty,” Leo said.

  “Me, too.”

  “I guess you were right about going to the police.”

  Nathan wished he’d been wrong. He’d have given his life savings for a better outcome. And he was quite rich, so that was a lot of money.

  “Now that we know where the hideout is, the girls don’t have a chance.”

  He’d already figured that. These men didn’t want anyone contacting the authorities. If Nathan and Leo got away, the kidnappers might kill the women and flee. Brooke and Abby could be dead before help arrived.

  There was a long silence. Nathan did another sweep of the area, keeping a close eye on the bloody rock.

  “They didn’t steal my pot,” Leo said.

  Nathan gripped the trunk for balance. “What?”

  “I lied about that.”

  “You lied about bringing it?”

  “No, I brought it. I lied about it being stolen.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought you’d take it away.”

  “I would have tossed it in the fucking lake.”

  “Right.”

  Nathan studied the water’s edge, his ire rising. He should have been too focused on survival to get angry. Somehow, he wasn’t.

  “I just wanted you to know. In case we die.”

  “If we don’t die, you’re in trouble.”

  “I’m too old to be in trouble, Dad,” Leo said in a calm voice. “I don’t live with you, and I don’t want your money.”

  Nathan could stop contributing to Leo’s trust fund, but it wouldn’t make much difference. Lydia was wealthy enough to care for him in style, with or without Ray. Le
o didn’t need anything from him. “So you don’t care what I think?” Nathan asked, glancing over at his son. “I don’t matter to you?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You know why I’m worried, don’t you?”

  “You think I’ll turn out like you.”

  The words were painful to hear, so plainly stated. Nathan hadn’t realized that Leo understood his greatest fear.

  “I won’t,” Leo promised. “I don’t even drink.”

  “Since when?”

  “I’ve never been drunk.”

  “You think being stoned is better? All natural and good for you?”

  “It’s not addictive.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Would you care if I was drinking a few beers here and there?”

  Nathan scowled, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Yes.”

  “Bullshit,” Leo said, tossing the curse back at him. “I’m not driving under the influence—”

  “Then why are there joints in the ashtray?”

  “There was one roach, not multiple joints. I don’t get all blasted and drive. I’m more responsible than you think.”

  Nathan didn’t mention Leo’s academic problems. Hopefully switching majors would help motivate him. “If you expect me to give you the green light on pot smoking, I won’t.”

  “That’s fine. I’m an adult. I don’t need your approval.”

  Nathan examined the hills in the distance, tamping down his anger. His natural instinct was to guide and protect Leo. To control him a little...for his own good. But maybe it was too late. Leo had grown up before Nathan had the chance to be a proper father. The missed opportunity weighed heavily on him.

  Then again, at least they had a relationship now. Leo had admitted to lying, which indicated a certain amount of maturity. This type of open, honest communication felt like progress. They were developing mutual trust and respect. They’d made headway. Nathan also had to consider his own tendency to be overcritical. Was he upset about Leo’s drug use because it was harmful, or because it didn’t align with his vision of an ideal son? Nathan couldn’t expect Leo to be perfect. Nathan sure as hell wasn’t.