CHAPTER 21
I am not all right. My head feels like someone stabbed a hot poker through my eye and used it to stir around. My movements are slow, my limbs heavy, my thoughts scattered. And yet, I have to keep going.
Freeing my hands took longer than I’d hoped. After my wrists had been thoroughly twisted through the straps of my pack, my captor, whoever he is, had used the excess to tie multiple knots, further complicating my escape.
And though I wish I could say that I’d hit the ground running once I’d gotten loose, that would be a lie. I couldn’t even sit up, the weight of the bag on my chest too heavy for me in my weakened state. Finally, I managed to tip it off by rolling onto my side. Even then, functioning was a struggle.
My hands shook as I unzipped the pack and rooted around until I found the small pocketknife stashed inside.
My entire body trembled as I half crawled, half dragged myself over to the girls.
My muscles burned with fatigue as I used the blade to saw through the rope binding them.
Though it wasn’t that thick, he’d tied a number of knots, same as he’d done to me.
Between my addled state and the waning light inside the shack, it was hard to determine where I needed to cut.
What’s worse, once I finally did get through the rope, we discovered that it only freed one hand of each girl.
There was a second strand still looped through the knothole, holding them hostage.
Fortunately, they’ve been taking turns attacking the tie that still binds them with the ever-dulling knife blade. Eighty percent of the fiber is now severed. In another ten minutes or so, they’ll be free.
The brunette, Danielle, chugs from the bottle of water I gave her while the smaller girl, Donna’s granddaughter, Amelia, continues sawing at the rope.
A small bubble of hope forms inside me as I watch the strand get thinner and thinner.
It vanishes an instant later, popped by the buzzing sound of an approaching motor.
All three of us curse. Amelia works harder, her motions growing more frantic as I gather our bottles and shove them back into the pack.
“Keep working,” I say, turning toward the door. Though I briefly consider trying to lock him out somehow, I know it’s useless. He might have a key. Whatever he used to hit me could easily break the window. Not to mention that he has my gun.
Which is why trying to take him by surprise also isn’t an option.
If I was at full strength, I’d risk it. I’d take that tiny pocketknife and plunge it as deep as I could into his eye, or his throat, or whatever vulnerable spot I could reach.
But in my current condition I might not cause more than a flesh wound.
I can’t risk it, not when it’s not just myself I’d be putting in jeopardy.
The noise has grown louder, so close now that I can feel it in my joints. He’s almost here. Slowly, I lower myself onto the floor.
“Turn around like you were when I got here,” I tell the girls. “Pretend like your hands are still bound. Don’t let him see you messing with the rope, but whenever he’s not looking, keep trying to get free. I’ll do my best to distract him.”
Their faces fill with terror as I lie down on my side. Wrapping both arms around the pack, I roll over onto my back, lifting the bag on top of my chest again. The effort causes a fresh wave of pain to jolt through me, sending me into a sweat.
Whispering, I say, “Once you’re free, I need you to let me know. I want one of you to ask: is that a raccoon?”
I fight tears as I loop my arms back through the straps. As the engine stops. As I force my eyes to shut.
It feels like I’ve been shoved deep underwater as the door opens, my body not allowing my lungs to fill, my ears popping from the pressure.
A large shadow falls over me, bringing the sound of heavy breathing closer.
I flinch as the heat of that breath hits my cheek, the stench of it reaching my nose.
I flutter my eyes open, pretending like I’m just waking for the first time. But what I don’t have to fake is the fear caused by the face that fills my vision.
For a moment I wonder if I’m hallucinating. Maybe this whole ordeal has been nothing but a bad dream. Because the skin-covered skull leaning over me, his crusting sores oozing puss, is straight out of a nightmare.
“Oh, good.” The man sighs as he straightens, scratching at a scab on his arm.
Doesn’t seem to notice when it starts bleeding.
“I was afraid I hit you too hard. I tried to bunt”—he mimics the action with his other hand, a wooden baseball bat clenched in his filthy fingers—“but you turned at the last minute.”
I act like I’m trying to feel the injury on my scalp, struggling against the straps like they’re still tight enough to hold me.
“Who are you? Why’d you hit me?” I ask.
“I—I had to.”
“Why?”
“Because you were looking for me. You wanted to turn me in.”
The man is clearly an addict. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say meth. The sores that cover him are common among methamphetamine users. As is his paranoia. And though his accusation isn’t entirely wrong, I intend to use his muddled mental state to my advantage.
“I don’t even know who you are,” I say.
“Then why were you out here?”
“I was hiking.”
“With this?” The girls gasp as he pulls my firearm out and waves it around. “If that’s true, why’d you have a gun?”
“For protection. Not that it did me any good.”
His yellowed eyes dart between me and the girls. I act like I just noticed them.
“Who are they? Where’d you get them?”
“They were trying to turn me in too. They made a big arrow so the cops would know where to find me.”
No wonder I never found the marker made by the woman who reported the raccoon. This man, in his paranoid state, thought that it had something to do with him. And that’s why he took the girls. I swallow a lump of guilt.
“They’re children,” I say.
He squints into the shadows where they huddle, taking a closer look. “No.”
“They can’t be more than sixteen.”
“Um.”
“Do you need help?”
“What?”
The question seems to take him by surprise. That’s what I need to do—keep him off balance and disoriented.
Softening my expression, I say, “You seem like a really nice guy.”
He nods.
“If you’re in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help.”
He sinks to the floor beside me. I need to get him to turn his back to the girls so they can keep working to free themselves.
“How?”
“Can you help me sit up?”
He gives me a wary look but shifts his weight so he can grab the pack. As he lifts it, pulling me into a sitting position, I stretch my fingers until they’re lightly touching his arm. Repulsion rises inside me at the feel of his clammy skin against mine, but I do my best to ignore it.
Forcing a smile, I say, “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”
I refuse to glance at the girls. I can’t risk drawing attention to them—I’ll just have to hope that they’re using the opportunity to work on freeing themselves the rest of the way.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“They call me Worm.”
He looks like a worm. Painfully skinny, his body lax in a way that suggests he’s boneless, flesh slightly sticky to the touch. I tighten my muscles, bracing myself, resisting a shudder.
“I’m Cassidy. Why are you out here, Worm?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is this where you live?”
“Why do you want to know?”
He draws away, breaking the connection between my fingertips and his forearm. Scoots backward, putting distance between us as he stares at me suspiciously. I’ve messed up. Triggered his paranoia. But as a buzz sounds in the distance, that suspicion morphs into something else.
One of the girls whimpers and I realize what that something is—fear.
It seems I’m about to meet the other man who calls this rundown shack home, and judging from everyone’s reactions, that’s a very bad thing.