Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out (29 page)

I paused to rest for a moment, waiting for the pain in my head to subside.  Then I shifted to a kneeling position and rocked back onto my toes, only to fall over into a mound of stinking blankets.

Ugh.

I tried again, only to go lurching into another pile of blankets, thinking of Elsie and Nick.  On the third try, I made it up. 

The whirring was strongest behind me, which meant the door was in the other direction.  I hopped across the room, tripping once on a rolled-up blanket and coming down hard, on my shoulder.  I forced myself to my feet again, making it on the first try this time, and managed to hobble to the wall.  Shuffle-hopping along it with my back to the concrete, I groped for the light switch.  After about ten feet, I found it.  I listened for footsteps, or voices, but the only sound was the steady thrum of the machines in the next room.  Then I flipped it on with my shoulder, squinting at the bright bluish light that flooded the room.

As I scanned the room, the sound of voices echoed in the hall.  I ground my shoulder against the switch.  Had they seen the light? I was preparing to throw myself to the floor again and feign unconsciousness when the voices faded, and a door slammed shut in the distance. 

I didn’t bother turning the light back on.  In the brief moment it was on, I had confirmed that the only thing in the room was a pile of unwashed blankets.  Instead, I hopped through the doorway into the hall and turned right. 

Both the base of my skull and the foot I had hurt in the grass outside throbbed as a breeze of stale urine wafted over me from the bathroom.  Almost there.  At the next doorway I hopped inside and felt for the light switch with my shoulder, illuminating the tiny room with sickly yellow light. 

The pots stood on the stove, just like I remembered, and although a couple of ladles and spatulas hung from hooks beside the stove, I didn’t see what I was looking for.  My eyes swept the peeling paint of the small cabinets, stopping at the room’s two drawers.  I hopped over and turned around, grabbing the handle of the top drawer and leaning forward.  Something metal rattled as the drawer slid open.

The good news was it was filled with silverware.

The bad news was, the sharpest thing available was an ancient butter knife.  I squatted as best I could and opened the drawer beneath it.  Can openers, ladles, and spatulas. 
Damn
.

As I shoved the second drawer closed, a clanging sound came from the end of the hallway.  My eyes leaped to the light switch; there was no way to make it there in time.  I squeezed my eyes closed and waited. 

Nothing.

The breath shuddered out of my chest as I slid the first drawer open again, fumbling through its contents until my fingers closed on a knife handle.  After one last survey of the dingy room, I returned to the doorway, pushed the light off with a shoulder, and began the long hop back to the smelly room I had started in.  I’d work on freeing myself once I was back where I started. That way, if anyone came in suddenly, I could pretend to still be unconscious.

I moved back to what I hoped was my original position and dropped down to the floor.  Despite the smell, it was a relief to be off my feet again.  As things skittered around me in the darkness, I clutched the knife and clumsily shoved the dull blade into the tight gap between my wrists.  Then, as the water dripped and little feet pattered around me, I pulled the blade back and forth, back and forth, praying that it would make some impression on the taut tape.

As I sawed away at the tape, my wrists aching from the repetitive motions, I considered my situation.  I’d discovered that the president of the Junior League was using slave labor to produce her “Couture with a Conscience” clothing line, and that International Shipping Company was likely providing the immigrants’ transportation.  I guessed that Jones McEwan was working with ISC to cover it all up.

Now I was trussed up like a turkey in a disgusting warehouse, and I still didn’t know who had killed Evan Maxted.  The missing sixteen thousand dollars and the bomb that had destroyed my husband’s car were still mysteries.  And I hadn’t bothered to tell anyone where I was going, so my chances of an outside rescue were pretty much nonexistent.

Still, Carlos hadn’t killed me yet.  That was a good sign.  On the other hand, I knew enough about their operation that they probably weren’t going to just let me go. 

I thought of Elsie’s laugh and trusting blue eyes. I thought of the softness of Nick’s chubby face when he slept, and the heaviness of his downy limbs. Tears rose to my eyes.  Elsie hadn’t even started first grade yet!  That I would be robbed of sharing their childhoods with them, helping them with homework, struggling through the middle school and high school years, picking a college, getting married. It was unbearable.

 I attacked the tape binding my hands with new vigor, the blunt end of the knife digging into the soft flesh of my wrists.  A few minutes later, I was rewarded with a soft ripping sound.

Just then, footsteps sounded in the hall.  I froze.  A light flipped on in the hall, and I jammed the knife up in between my wrists and closed my eyes, struggling to slow my breathing.  Somebody turned on the light, and I heard Maria’s voice.  She said something in Spanish, and a low voice responded.  They seemed to be debating something. I heard the word
Mexico
, and also
camion
—truck? Then someone nudged me with a foot.  A moment later, the footsteps receded, and I worked furiously on the tape between my wrists. 

I had sawed through maybe a quarter of an inch of tape, and was attempting to tear it further, when the footsteps returned.  Then two pairs of rough hands grabbed me.  I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated on staying limp—and not dropping the knife—as they carted me out of the room.  The smell receded, and I caught the drone of a lone cicada in the distance, and the smell of hot asphalt, before they dumped me onto a hard, rough surface.

Then a door slammed, an engine rumbled, and the floor lurched beneath me.

TWENTY-FOUR

I had been right about the truck.  Except for a few bright pinpoints where the late afternoon sun leaked through the loading door, everything was dark, and suffocating heat bore down on me.  My new suit clung to my body like a wet towel as I eased the knife out of the tape and continued sawing away at it.  Where were they taking me? A shiver passed through me despite the heat.  I hoped their destination wasn’t an abandoned field on the outskirts of town. 

As I dragged the knife blade back and forth across the tape, blood trickled down my hands, mixing with sweat to loosen my grip on the blade.  Then the truck suddenly lurched to the right.  As my body slammed into one of the walls, the knife slipped from my grasp, skittering across the floor. 

Panic rose to my throat as I writhed on the floor of the truck, listening for the slide of metal as the truck turned again.  When my ears picked up a scraping sound over by the door, I inched toward the back of the truck like a caterpillar, trying to detect the flat piece of metal through the sweat-soaked rayon of my suit.  Finally, I found it.  But every time I got my hands into position to pick it up, the truck lurched again, sending it skittering out of reach.

Just as the knife had escaped my grasp for the fifth time, the truck made a sudden swing to the right, sending it right up against my hand.  I grabbed the handle just before the truck veered in the other direction, smacking me into a metal wall.

Ten minutes later, I ripped my wrists apart, gasping at the pain as the tape tore my skin.  The truck lurched again, but this time I was ready. I steadied myself with a numb hand, then set to work freeing my feet.  Now that I could grab the edge of the tape and pull, it only took a few minutes.  I flexed my hands and feet, encouraging the blood to flow through them, wincing at the prickly feeling that comes with restored circulation.  Then I fumbled with the latch on the back of the truck.  If I could open it, I could signal to the cars behind me, or even jump out when the truck came to a stop.

It was locked.  After testing the walls for weaknesses and finding none, I had no choice but to sit and wait.  The truck floor jounced beneath me as I leaned against the side, watching as the sunlight in the cracks faded, replaced by darkness and the white flicker of headlights. 

I don’t know much time passed before the truck lurched to a stop, but afternoon had long ago faded into night.  The engine sputtered and died, and I crouched by the back door, pepper spray in my hand.  My heart pounded in my throat as the front door opened and closed.  The whir of automobiles was distant, replaced by the chirr of crickets and the crunch of footsteps, and two men talking in Spanish.

A moment later, the latch jiggled.  Then the doors swung open.  I pressed the button on the pepper spray, swinging my arm in an arc before me.  I had a brief glimpse of two men staggering, clutching their faces, before the wind swept a cloud of the chemical back at me.

I leaped out of the truck, eyes burning like fire, and stumbled across a few feet of pavement into something that felt like grass.  A burst of Spanish sounded behind me, and a hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around.  I thrust the canister behind me and sprayed again.  A curse sounded as I struggled to regain my balance, but no one grabbed me.  I stumbled ahead blindly, tears streaming down my face.  I had been hit by the spray, but not as badly as the men behind me.  The moon was full, and I could make out what I thought was a clump of trees ahead of me.  When I glanced back, the two figures were falling behind. 

The sharp grass tore at my legs as I ran, and stickers and nettles dug themselves into the soft skin of my feet.  When I got to the trees, I paused for a second. I could hear the sharp retort of Spanish behind me. I blundered forward again, clambering through a wire fence and pushing through the other side of the trees before taking off across another field.  I finally stopped in a stand of sycamore trees, their silvery bark ghostly in the moonlight, and listened for sounds of pursuit.  The crickets chirred as a breeze stirred the leaves, and somewhere far above me an owl hooted, but the sound of the men had faded into the night.

I leaned against a tree, the air like fire in my lungs, my eyes still stinging from the pepper spray.  A shallow pool of stagnant water gleamed in the moonlight, and thirst gripped me.  I had been sweating for hours, with no food or water.  I was thirsty, hungry, and tired, and although I couldn’t hear the men, I was sure they were still searching for me.  I surveyed the land around me, looking for a farmhouse.  Nothing.  Then the distant rumble of an automobile floated to my ears, and a pair of headlights pierced the darkness in the distance.  Fear coursed through me.  Was it the truck?  

As the rumble faded into the distance, I limped out of the grove of sycamores and hobbled toward the road.  Roads lead to towns, and towns had phones.  And what I needed right now, more than anything, was a phone.

The cracked strip of pavement was further than it looked.  Although it felt like an hour, it must have been twenty minutes before I stumbled out of the field onto the gravel shoulder.  I winced as the pebbles ground into my wounded feet, feeling exposed.  What if the truck came back? Fields stretched out on either side of the road.  Would I have a chance to hide in time? And how far was the next town? In rural Texas, the distances between towns could be twenty miles or more.  I set off in the direction of the moon, hoping I was picking the right way—and hoping I would get to a phone before my captors got to me. 

I had walked for about fifteen minutes, alert for the sound of the truck, when the low thrum of an engine sounded ahead of me. 

There was nothing higher than a short clump of grass along the side of the road.  Where could I hide? I couldn’t even move off the road; barbed wire gleamed in the moonlight.  I scooted down into the furrow beside the road and lay down behind a tussock of grass.  A few minutes later, a pickup truck rattled by, and I realized I had just hidden from a potential ride to town.

I climbed out of the shallow ditch and hobbled down the road again, my feet stinging with every step, ears pricked for the sound of pursuit.  Tears still leaked out of the corners of my eyes from the pepper spray, and I was beginning to despair of ever reaching a phone when a yellow light twinkled on the horizon.  I ignored my feet and quickened my pace.

Almost a half hour later I teetered across a cattle guard onto a dirt driveway.  Old cars, their dulled metal gleaming in the moonlight, lined the rough track.  The old farmhouse sat about a quarter mile back from the road, its sagging front porch lit by a single bulb.  As I passed the remains of a fifty-year-old Chevy, a low growl froze my blood.

Fifteen feet in front of me, a dog the size and shape of a large wolf rose to its feet, yellow teeth bared.  I tore my eyes from it and looked away—I’d read somewhere that looking away shows submission—and hunched down in an attempt to look small and non-threatening. But the dog advanced, snarling.  Although I was focusing on a rusted bumper, I could see the dog in my peripheral vision—ten feet away, now five—and was about to squeeze the trigger on the pepper spray when the screen door slammed open.  My head jerked up as a man with a shotgun appeared on the front porch.

“Lucy! Heel!”

The dog didn’t exactly dash to its master’s side, but at least it hesitated.  The man on the porch squinted into the night and leveled the shotgun at me.  “What are you doin’ on my property?” His rough voice was anything but friendly.

I stared at the gun in his hand, then at the dog.  “I’m sorry.  Sorry for trespassing.”  I swallowed, and the dog growled, exposing another half inch of teeth.  “I know it sounds crazy, but somebody kidnapped me in a truck.  I managed to escape a few miles from here…”  As I recounted my story, it sounded ridiculous even to me. 

“Kidnapped?”

I nodded.

“Step a little closer, where I can see you.”

I glanced at the dog, which didn’t seem to think this was a good idea.

“Lucy!” the man yelled.  “I said heel! Now!” She reluctantly retreated toward the porch, her yellow eyes still trained on me.  When she had settled back onto her haunches, I shuffled forward a few steps.  The man’s eyes widened, and his voice lost its menacing edge.  “You look like hell!”