35
Emma watched the tall man heavily pace in the small room as an occasional shudder ripped through her body.
Why am I here?
When he’d first appeared at her truck door after the accident, she’d nearly wept in gratitude.
The tumble down the embankment had been one of the most frightening moments of her life.
The old truck had slid and bounced and jerked its way down the hill as a cacophony of Ollie’s shouts, her screams, metal grinding, and glass breaking filled her ears.
And then Ollie had gone silent, his head whipping unnaturally with the truck’s movements.
Then total silence.
She had been upside down, both of them dangling from their seat belts, and Ollie hadn’t responded to her screams of his name.
She’d tried to release her seat belt, but the button wouldn’t respond, so she’d maneuvered her knife out of her pocket.
She’d started carrying the knife after being kidnapped two months ago.
When she’d finally confessed this new habit to her therapist, the woman had nodded, no judgment in her eyes.
“Does it make you feel safer?” Emma had thought for a long moment.
“It does.” She liked the feeling of the metal in her palm.
And it’d even come in handy a few times in the stable.
She couldn’t imagine using it on a person, but touching it calmed her racing heart when her thoughts ran rampant.
Emma had sawed through her seat belt and fallen to the floor—the roof.
Then lunged to Ollie. He was breathing but limp like a doll.
The truck roof had collapsed on his side, and his head was against what was now the floor.
She’d cut through his seat belt, supporting him as much as possible with her body as he dropped, but one of his legs was jammed under the steering wheel, and he was still unconscious.
“Hey! Are you okay?” A man pulled open her truck door.
“No! He’s not moving!” she’d shrieked. “Can you help me get him out?”
“Get out. Let me look.”
She’d scrambled out the door on her hands and knees. As she stood, she came eye to eye with a gun.
What?
“He’s hurt! You don’t need that!” she told the man.
He appeared to be in his forties. Very tall.
His shoulders wide. He might have been an athlete at one time, but now a heavy belly rested above his belt.
His cheeks were flushed, and his cap came down to his bulky eyebrows.
A thick white scar ran from the corner of his mouth and up nearly to his eye socket. The gun stayed in place.
Have I seen that scar before?
Do I know him?
“Let’s go,” he’d told her with a wave of the weapon. “That way.”
“No! We’ve got to get Ollie out!”
Why doesn’t he understand?
“The kid can rot for all I care. Walk. Now.”
Emma had stared at him. “What the hell! He’s injured! Help me get him out!”
“Actually, first I want his cell phone and yours. Get them.” His speech had a slow cadence, every word spoken as if calculated.
I’ll call 911. He’s crazy.
Emma had spun back to the truck, only to feel a gun barrel shoved into the back of her head.
“I’m watching. Don’t make any calls. And turn off his phone. Use his fucking face or thumb or whatever you need to do it. Then turn yours off.”
He’s not just crazy, he’s dangerous.
She’d crawled back in the truck, knowing Ollie’s phone was in a side pocket of his cargo shorts. She slowly pulled it out, relieved to see he was breathing.
Did his eyelids move?
“Turn it off!” The man had crouched at her door, the gun trained on her.
Her hands had shaken as she’d put Ollie’s thumb on the button to open his phone and then powered it down.
She’d noted there was no connection available.
They’d landed in one of the area’s many dead zones.
She’d handed it to the man, risking a look at his face.
He had small, dark, close-set eyes in a wide face that watched her every move.
“Is that one yours?” He’d pointed the gun at her phone on the floor (roof), which was covered with broken glass.
“Yes.” She spotted her knife a foot from the phone.
“Get it. Slowly. Touch that knife, and I’ll blow your head off.”
Emma had picked up the phone and handed it over. Every cell in her body had screamed for her to pick up the knife; she didn’t.
“Out. Now.”
She’d paused, not wanting to leave her knife behind. It’d become a part of her.
He’d shifted the gun to point it at Ollie behind her. “Get out or I shoot him.”
She’d scrambled out while he chuckled at her eagerness. He held her phone in front of her face and then shut it down. “Walk. Up the hill.”
“I can’t leave him behind!”
“Well then, I’ll take care of that.” He’d shoved her aside and aimed inside the cab.
“Nooo! Stop! I’ll go!”
“Good girl. Walk.”
She couldn’t move. Her feet were frozen in place, her gaze pleading with him.
I can’t leave Ollie behind.
Then he’d fired at the fender, the roar of the gun making her clap her hands over her ears. “Walk!”
Emma walked and he followed closely. But her ears were trained on the truck behind them.
Did I hear my name?
She slowed.
“Faster!” The barrel whacked her head.
I’m so sorry, Ollie.
Once they’d made it to the top of the hill, he’d zip-tied her hands and feet and put her in the back of the black SUV. The same one that had run them off the road. An hour later, she was in the small building with him.
Will he rape me?
She was uncertain. The big man hadn’t shown that type of interest. Yet.
Instead, he seemed distracted, constantly walking the room and checking his phone.
He wore heavy work boots and pants. He’d removed his cap, and his long, dark hair was in a simple ponytail at his neck, a few obvious silver strands mixed with the brown.
Even his head was oversize with a thick jaw and heavy eyebrows. Only his eyes were small.
He paced with intention, he gave off strength and power, every step slow and deliberate—almost like the way he spoke. If he physically attacked her, she had no chance. When he scowled—which was often—it chilled her soul. Something about him exuded evil and anger, and it came from his core.
He terrified her.
What will he do to me?
She wanted to cry but held back the tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was scared. And she was frightened for Ollie. She’d left him alone. No phone. His leg stuck.
Did he regain consciousness?
Emma wondered if she’d imagined him saying her name as the man marched her away.
How do I get out of here?
Her captor’s anger filled the small room.
The place he’d brought her to was old, its thick boards creaking as he walked.
He’d made her lie down in the SUV’s cargo area, so she hadn’t seen where they went, but she’d noticed the road had become extremely rough.
The severe jolts had made her tied arms hurt as she bounced, and occasionally the underside of the vehicle scraped against rocks.
When he hauled her out of the SUV, she knew this building wasn’t someone’s cabin.
It was simply a rectangular one-story structure, an old, rugged, solid one with heavy-duty thick stone walls.
It felt permanent, as if it could outlast time.
Its roof was durable metal and its door a heavy iron.
It was in a small clearing, surrounded by tall forest pines, and she doubted a fire could ever fully destroy it; it’d been built to withstand the elements.
As he pulled her closer, she saw a 1935 date formally carved into one of the stones.
He unlocked the door with a huge black metal key that looked like something from a movie.
She expected the door’s old hinges to creak as it opened, but they were whisper quiet and the door flowed open smoothly.
Inside, the building was dark; there were no windows, but there were two slits in every wall.
About three inches wide and two feet high.
He made her sit on the floor in a corner and then used a match to light an ancient-looking lamp hanging across the room.
I feel as if I’ve walked into another time period.
Six sturdy bunk bed frames lined two of the walls, stacked three high. They were small and cramped, as if people had been shorter back then. The two bottom bunks had thin mattresses with neat stacks of blankets and a pillow at the foot of each one.
Clearly there was no electricity, but there was a fireplace built from the same stones.
It was cold in the room; the heat from the sun did not penetrate the thick walls.
Surprisingly the fireplace was neatly prepped with kindling, paper, and wood, which he also lit.
Stacked on the hearth were more freshly cut firewood and kindling, along with a pile of newspapers.
He comes here often.
“Why—”
“You do not speak.”
He sounds so formal.
“My grandfather helped build this place with the CCC.”
I have no idea what that means.
He glared at her, and she closed her eyes to fight away the fear.
“Do you know what the CCC was? Open your eyes,” he ordered, his speech slow and without inflection.
She opened them. “A community college?” she asked hesitantly.
He scoffed. “Idiot. Kids today do not know their history. The Civilian Conservation Corps. The government paid millions of men to improve our lands and parks. It created jobs and helped our country at the same time.” He looked around the structure.
“This rugged structure was built with the strength and backbone of men. It was built for a fire crew and their tools to protect the forest. It will outlast me and you.”
She recalled the nearly hundred-year-old date she’d seen on the outside. “They no longer use it?”
“No. They use different techniques for forest fires now.” He ran a hand over the fireplace, admiring the rock.
“The Forest Service let this place fade into history. No one remembers it. My grandfather used to bring me with him to check on it, but after he died, I took over, so it’s been mine for a long time. ”
His?
“It’s very nice,” she said politely.
He took two fast, threatening steps her way, making her heart pound and her lungs seize. She hadn’t seen him move so fast. “You do not speak unless I give permission or I ask a direct question, understood?”
She nodded, her lips smashed together.
“You say, ‘Yes, sir.’” His angry, dark gaze held hers.
“Yes, sir,” she squeaked, wanting to sink into the floorboards.
He stared at her for a few moments, his eyes unblinking. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No, sir.”
A smile slowly filled his face.
He looks normal when he smiles. Except where the scar pulls up his lip.
“You’re bait, Emma.”
Shock filled her. She hadn’t told him her name.
I know where I’ve seen him before.
He was the coffee customer who’d recently asked her last name. Quickly the older woman behind him had snorted and then snapped, “That’s not a question you ask young women. It’s none of your business.”
Emma remembered his scar and the rage that had briefly flashed in his eyes from the woman’s rebuke.
She’d seen that anger a minute ago.
“I see you remember me,” he said, studying her face. “That’s right. I figured out that day that you’re a Chambers. Gage and Crystal’s daughter.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Your eyes gave you away. You look a lot like your mother.”
“I wouldn’t remember.”
“I remember,” he said thoughtfully, holding her gaze.
The intense stare from his nearly black eyes made her feel as if ants suddenly crawled up her spine. She fought back a shudder.
“She looked at me just as you are now. Sitting exactly in that spot.”
My mother was in this place?
She grew lightheaded as the floor seemed to tilt, as if oxygen had been sucked from the room.
What did he do to her?