Full Mortality (17 page)
I surfaced from somewhere deep, aware of engine vibration, the motion of a car. Dirt, or maybe chips or gravel, dug into my cheek. I lay on my left side, listening to the sounds of the highway, some instinct whispering for me to stay still.
Thirst dried my tongue. I needed more air, because something covered my lips, and I realized I couldn’t move my hands. Memory rushed back, causing a wild hammering of heart. I slit one eye open. Metal parts, rubber flooring, the kind of trash that collects under a car seat. Clements’ truck.
I’d been folded into the fetal position, head shoved against the passenger door, wrists handcuffed against my abdomen. My bent knees blocked sight of my ankles, but I could feel something gripping them together. The odor of horse manure, dirt, and oil rose from the rubber mat beneath my face.
A wheezing cough brought both my eyes open. Clements’ legs, I recognized the brown boot on the gas pedal. Partial relief flooded me. Vipe wasn’t in the cab. It didn’t last. I was bound, gagged, woozy, and pretty sure Clements’ would kill me if he could.
The light outside the overhead windows slowly faded as I lay there motionless. Did he plan to dump my body in some dark, lonely place? Oddly, a mental image of Hellish bloomed, then faded.
The truck slowed, turning onto a bumpier road. My fingers scratched at the fleece vest I’d put on that morning. Something hard pressed into my side. I crept my fingers to it, recognizing the small object I’d felt in Carla’s car. Something from Dimsboro . . . something about Hellish. Memory flashed . . . the unused syringe of Acepromazine. Hellish had come around so well, we’d gone to the track that morning without the drug. She’d behaved like a pro, allowing me to dream. Tears stung my eyes. Not now, not with tape over my mouth. Clements flipped a turn indicator. It dinked as the truck slowed and swung onto a gravel surface. He switched on the radio to a pop station, cranked the volume up, and stopped the truck. I could smell fuel, but the radio blast locked away any sounds from outside.
I raised my head a bit, darted a glance and saw Clements going at it with his eyedrops. I lowered my head, and, above the wailing of some
American Idol
drama queen, I heard him blowing his nose.
A rush of cold air and the rocking of the cab told me he was getting out. For gas? He slammed the door closed and something fell on my knee and bounced near my hands. The damned eyedrops.
The idea hit fast. I closed my fingers around those drops, unscrewed the top and squirted the bottle dry. Set it down, then went for the pocket with Hellish’s syringe. Hard to reach in there with cuffed hands. My fingers fumbled and dug, racing against Clements’ inevitable return.
A dim thunking sound and vibration suggested Clements had shoved a gas nozzle into the truck’s tank. Would he sit in the truck while it filled? Please God, let him need the bathroom. I waited a few precious moments then scrabbled for the hypo. The radio song crescendoed into a shriek, then a man reported weather for the Chesapeake Bay area. I was still in Maryland. My fingers touched plastic, curled around the cylindrical shape, prying it out. I pulled it clear, gripped the plunger between one thumb and index finger, and removed the plastic needle guard. Slid the thin steel into the allergy sprayer’s opening and shoved the plunger. And just like that Clements’ eyedrops were loaded with three cc’s of Acepromazine.
I withdrew the needle, screwed the top on the bottle, tossing it over my bent knees, hoping it would land someplace he’d find it. Shoved the hypo in my pocket.
Not two minutes later another thump, chilly air, and that bouncing motion as Clements climbed into the truck. He cranked the engine, turned off the radio, and drove out. I waited, willing his eyes to itch, anything to make him reach for that medication. Waited a lifetime. Had Carla called for help?
A hand groped along the bench seat. “Where’d it go?” he muttered. He swung the truck to the right and stopped. Through my lashes I could see him bent over, reaching, grabbing for his drops. He set them on the seat. Didn’t use them. His next action startled me. He leaned over me toward the glove box, and I had to fight the urge to shrink from him. He grabbed something from the box.
A hard object jabbed my right hip. Impossible not to jerk and stare up.
“Knew you were awake. Not for long.” His pale eyes frightened me. The waning light reflected a metallic glint from the gun in his hand. He tapped my hip with it and smiled when I flinched. “You got any more snooping to do, you can do it under the ground.”
My reaction amused him. No. He wouldn’t shoot me in the truck. He’d take me somewhere, get me outside first.
Clements set the gun in his lap, made a gasping sound and sneezed. He rubbed the knuckles of one hand into his eyes, then groped for the eyedrops, squirting a dose in one eye, frowning.
Fear nipped at me. Would he know what I’d done? I held my breath. He dosed the other eye. I’d gotten drops of the stuff on my hands before. It wasn’t oily, and I didn’t think it would sting. I took a breath, watching. Damn if he didn’t double-dose, squirting the stuff in each eye again. Irritation heated his face.
“The fuck you looking at, bitch?”
The venom in his voice made me cringe, snap my eyes shut. He pulled the truck onto the road, accelerating.
No choice but to lay on a mat that felt more and more like a rubber coffin. Time stretched and shrunk, stretched and shrunk.
He slowed to a crawl and bounced over what felt like a curb. Sudden bumps and dips, the sound of the tires told me we were off-road. I stole a glance at him. His eyes drooped, he looked dopey. A silent prayer whispered through my brain.
His head nodded. The truck rolled down what felt like a slope, gaining momentum. I reached my hands under the seat, grasping a metal rod, bracing myself. The rolling grew wild, the truck lurching and rocking until we smashed into something unyielding.
The crash threw me under the dash, then whipped me back into the seat. My grip on the rod lessened the violent contact to my forehead. I may have been stunned for a few moments. I remember a warm trickle down one side of my face. Blood. I had to get out of there.
I wiggled body parts, relieved things moved without much pain. Snuck a glance at Clements. His face pressed against the steering wheel. The dash lights were still on. Something dripped onto his legs. A cold gleam near my knees, the gun’s snout protruding from beneath the truck seat. I inched my fingers to it, closed them over the metal, aiming the barrel away from me as I dragged the thing closer. The revolver was heavy with bullets, the ends of their copper casings glowing dimly in the dash lights from the gun’s cylinder.
Clements moaned, started moving. I scrambled to my knees. Shuffled forward. Still clutching the gun, I got my hands on the door handle. Pushed it down. The door flew open, flinging me into the dark.
Pain shot through my hands and knees. I pushed through it, rolling into a sitting position, eyes searching and finding the gun nearby. I stretched my arms and fingers, reaching for whatever bound my ankles. Bailing twine. My kingdom for a knife, but fingernails would have to do. Pick, pull, pick. The handcuffs hindered me, sending waves of frustration. The knot loosened. Flying fingers forced the twine apart, while my ears listened for Clements.
Standing, I kicked the gun under the truck, ripped the tape from my mouth, sucked in fresh cold air. The scent of salt water and pine permeated the area. Evergreens, darker than the night sky, climbed toward the stars. One headlight still shone, highlighting a tall pine embracing the truck’s hood. I searched for other sources of electric light. Only the natural glow of a clear night appeared around me.
I heard Clements trying to open his door. It sounded jammed, which might give me a few seconds head start. The incline we’d raced down seemed the logical path, and I worked my way up it, picking my steps, trying to hurry, praying the crash and Ace would shred Clements’ ability to hunt me. At the top of the slope I could see farther. A distant glow of manmade light drew me like a beacon. I walked as fast as I dared, relieved to see a streetlight illuminating a small road and the curb I assumed Clements had driven over. Drawing closer, I made out some kind of entranceway with a closed gate and a sign.
The longer I moved through the crisp night, the clearer my head became, and by the time I got to the lights and sign, I was jogging. I stopped to listen for sounds of pursuit. Didn’t hear anything. The nearby sign read “Sandy Bay State Park. Closed until March 15.” Must be close to the bay, not far from Annapolis. Studying the dark horizon, I made out a glow of suburban light to my left. I stepped onto the pavement and made tracks down the road, hugging the shoulder so I could disappear into the pines if I heard Clements.
I crept along the road, fighting head pain and a longing to lie down and close my eyes. They’d taken my watch, and unmeasurable time crawled down the road with me as the pavement wound and curved through a pine forest. I heard a car approaching, saw its lights through the trees around a bend. Instinct and fear scuttled me off the road, into the trees and onto the ground where I remained motionless. The car swept past with a distinct rattle, as if the muffler were loose, leaving me to wonder if I’d been cautious or foolish to hide. My eyes were so heavy, the pine carpet so soft.
I don’t know how long I slept, but I awakened when a car with the same rattle returned, rushing past me in the opposite direction. My head felt better for the sleep, and once the car’s engine faded to silence, I moved back onto the road. Small night sounds surrounded me, a snapping twig, a rustle in the leaves shed by the deciduous trees among the evergreens.
Around another bend a small gravel road opened to my right. The chrome and waxed paint from a big SUV shone in the ambient light. The driver had backed the vehicle into the trees, as if hiding. The windows appeared foggy and music drifted out. The shadows of the road edge concealed me, where I remained motionless. Soft moans of a woman’s voice mingled with the music. Oh boy. I relaxed, recognizing the sounds of pleasure. These were not bad guys, more likely a couple out looking for love on a lonely road.
Hated to interrupt. . . .
I stepped from the shadows. “Help!” I called. Don’t think they heard me.
“Help!”
I yelled. Heard a small shriek, voices, rustling from within. Their headlights swept over me where I stood on the gravel, clothes torn, face bloody, shackled by handcuffs. A young guy rolled his window down, but only halfway.
“No,” he said, as I started toward them. “Stay where you are. You in some kind of trouble?”
“Yeah, I need help. Man’s after me.”
He gave me a weird look. After all, I was the one wearing handcuffs. He grabbed a cell phone.
“I’ll call 911.” He sounded irritated. Then he was talking to someone, giving a location. “They’re coming,” he said and took off, leaving me to hide in the pines.
When the county squad car showed up, relief hit me so hard my knees buckled. A young cop, about six-foot-two with wary eyes, called in for backup. Ten minutes later, Detectives Trent Davis and Charlie Wells barreled down the road, siren screaming. Hard to imagine I could be so happy to see them.
The evening stretched into a festival of flashing blue lights from county cop cars, a wailing ambulance and even a fire truck. I couldn’t see the need for the fire truck, but the more rescue types that appeared, the better I felt.
From inside the warmth of Davis’s car, I rubbed my wrists where the handcuffs had been, watching some cops search Clements truck — inside, outside, and under. I’d told them about the gun. They bagged a few items, spread out, apparently searching for Clements, but he’d disappeared.
A glance at the car’s dash clock told me it was only 8. Felt like 3
A.M.
to me. Davis and Wells came up from the truck, folded themselves into the car, and eased into a question-and-answer session. No more accusations. I told them everything I could remember, finishing with the car that had rushed in and out of the park.
“Maybe Clements was picked up,” Davis said.
I sagged into my seat, hating to think Clements was loose.
“How’s that forehead?” asked Wells.
“I’ll live.”
“Yeah,” said Davis, “but you need to have that looked at.”
“The ambulance medic already did,” I said. “Who do you think put on this bandage?” But they walked me to a squad car, urging me to go to the hospital with the young officer who’d first responded. I stood in the cold air shivering, arguing that I was okay and should get going.
Right about then Carla and Lorna showed up. Turns out Carla had hounded the cops ever since I’d disappeared. She rushed up to me, pulled off her jacket and hung the butter-soft leather around my shoulders. She started crying. Lorna looked fierce, like she wanted to fight somebody. The three of us started jabbering at once, until I noticed Carla was shaking with cold in a low-cut black sweater. I turned to Curtis, gestured toward Carla and asked if we could go.
His unreadable eyes swept over us. “You three think you can make it through the rest of the night without getting into trouble?”
We nodded and started edging toward Carla’s Mercedes.
“Latrelle,” said Davis. “Stay someplace different tonight.”
Wells stepped closer, the revolving blue lights reflecting off the lenses of his glasses. “Tell whoever’s in charge at Laurel to call me. We’ll straighten this thing out. You’re pretty much clear at our end.”
“I am?”
“Yeah, we’ve been doing our homework. Know more than you think.” He made me promise to come into the CID in the morning for a statement, then turned me loose.
We climbed into Carla’s car and she drove onto the deserted road leading away from Sandy Bay Park, past the place where the SUV had hidden, and surprised me by swinging onto Route 50 in mere moments. We headed west, passing the exit for Annapolis.
“Thought I was a million miles from anywhere,” I said.
Lorna leaned forward from the back seat, sticking her head between Carla and me. “So you think those detective dudes believe you now?”
“They’re starting to.” I fingered my forehead.
“Leave that bandage alone.” Carla’s eyes flicked on me, sharp and tired. I figured my disappearance had been hard on her and put my hand in my lap.
“Where to?” Carla asked.
Silence filled the car. We all knew I had no place to go.
“I should check on Hellish, so I guess back to Dimsboro,” I said.
“I don’t
think
so.” Carla stared at me like I was crazy.
“No way. Besides,” said Lorna, “I went, like, everywhere, looking for you. Including Dimsboro. That Mello guy was feeding your horse, around 5. Said you were in trouble. I’m, like, duh.” Lorna flopped back into the rear bucket seat. “Hellish was fine. Hay, water, clean stall, the works. I got an extra bed in my room. Mom won’t mind. You heard that cop — you should stay with me for a while.
“Done,” said Carla, speeding down the big highway. Though headlights and road lamps lit the wide pavement, the surrounding night encased the road like a soft black tunnel.
To tell the truth I was glad somebody else was making the decisions. I needed food, a good night’s sleep, a safe place to lick my wounds.
Lorna’s family didn’t live far from the Silver Diner. Carla dropped us off in the restaurant’s lot next to my car, making me promise to call her in the morning. Lorna found the extra Toyota key I kept in a magnetic case in the passenger wheel well and drove us to her house.
Lorna’s mom, probably in her late 50s, greeted us at the door, her head a halo of gray, overcooked perm. She fussed over me and made grilled cheese sandwiches, which Lorna and I inhaled. Slippers sat next to a kitchen table leg, glaring at me. By the time I swallowed the last crumb and finished a glass of milk, I was almost asleep in the chair. We climbed the carpeted stairs to Lorna’s room, where posters of heavy-metal rockers threw hard-ass stares from the wall. Pink flowered quilts covered twin beds.
I eased into one, and my cat hopped up, crouching near me, examining me like I was an unfamiliar creature. Just before I sank into sleep, Slippers relented into purr mode and Lorna asked, “Nikki, how’d that Mello dude know you were in trouble?”
* * *
During the night I remembered the voices. I drifted from a deep well of sleep, humming with anxiety, until I remembered I was at Lorna’s. The gentle rhythm of her breathing as she slept in the nearby bed reassured me. I inhaled a measured breath, then exhaled, trying to capture the memory or dream that had evaporated upon waking. Quiet filled the Doone house. Only the occasional sound of a distant car passing broke the silence.
Three men talking. A Spanish accent. My mind shied from the sharpening recollection, but I pushed back into it. With the park only a 45-minute drive from Laurel, where had they kept me from midday til dusk?
Concentrate.
My hands bound, my mouth sealed shut. Whatever drug Vipe had injected in my veins insulated the panic, but I could still feel it. The accented voice must have been Vipe’s. The other, Clements’. The nasal tone filled me with revulsion. Who was the third man? I listened to the memory. The voice was disturbingly familiar, yet surprised me with its cruelty, as if a mask of goodwill had loosened and tumbled from its place. My mind chased the sound, but the speaker’s identity danced out of reach. Vipe’s high-pitched laugh echoed in my head. I sat upright in the twin bed, wrapping my arms around my sides, rocking back and forth.