After he bound Rachel’s hands, he said, “Get up, missy. You and me are taking a walk.”
Rachel tried to make her voice stern. “You’re not listening,” she said, her hair falling down over her eyes. “I’m Rachel Mills—”
“And I’m Verne Dayton. So what?”
“I’m a federal agent.”
“Your ID says retired.” Verne Dayton smiled. He wasn’t toothless, but he wasn’t exactly an orthodontic poster boy either. His right incisor was totally turned in like a door off its hinge. “Kinda young to be retired, don’t you think?”
“I still work special cases. They know I’m here.”
“Really? Don’t tell me. There’s a bunch of agents waiting down yonder and if they don’t hear from you in three minutes, they’re all gonna come storming in. That about it, Rachel?”
She stopped. He had read her bluff. She had nowhere else to go.
“Get up,” he said again, this time pulling on her arms.
Rachel stumbled to her feet.
“Where are you taking her?” I asked.
He did not reply. They started walking toward the barn. “Hey!” I called out, my voice booming with impotence. “Hey, come back!” But they kept walking. Rachel struggled, but her hands were tied behind her back. Every time she moved too much, he lifted the hands up, forcing her to bend forward. Eventually she complied and just walked.
Fear lit my nerves. In a frenzy, I looked for something, anything, that would get me free. Our guns? No, he had picked them up already. And even if he hadn’t, what would I do? Fire with my teeth? I debated rolling over onto my back, but I wasn’t sure how that would help yet. So now what? I started moving inchworm-style toward the tractor. I looked for a blade or anything that I might use to cut myself free.
In the distance, I heard the barn door creak open. My head swerved in time to see them disappear inside. The door closed behind them. The sound echoed into silence. The music—it must have been a CD or tape—had stopped. It was quiet now. And Rachel was gone from sight.
I had to get my hands free.
I started crawling forward, lifting my butt, pushing off with my legs. I made it to the tractor. I searched for some kind of blade or sharp edge. Nothing. My eyes darted to the barn.
“Rachel!” I shouted.
My voice echoed through the stillness. That was the only reply. My heart started doing flip-flops.
Oh God, now what?
I rolled onto my back and sat up. Pushing with my legs, I pressed against the tractor. I had a clear view of the barn. I don’t know what the hell that did for me. There was still no movement, no sound. My eyes darted all over the place, desperately hunting for something that could bring salvation. But there was nothing.
I thought about going for the Camaro. A gun nut like this probably had two, three concealed weapons on him at all times. There might be something in there. But again, even if I managed to get there in time, how would I open the door? How would I search for a gun? How would I fire it when I found one?
No, I had to get this cuff off me first.
I looked on the ground for . . . I don’t even know. A sharp rock. A broken beer bottle. Something. I wondered how much time had passed since they disappeared. I wondered what he was doing to Rachel. My throat felt as if it might close up.
“Rachel!”
I heard the desperation in the echo. It scared me. But again there was no reply.
What was going on in there?
I looked again for some kind of edge on the tractor, something I could use to break free. There was rust. Lots of rust. Would that work? If I rubbed the cuff against a rusty corner, would it eventually cut through? I doubted it, but there was nothing else.
I managed to get on my knees. I leaned my wrists against the rusted corner and moved up and down like a bear using a tree to scratch his back. My arms slipped. The rust bit into my skin, and the sting ran up my arm. I looked back over at the barn, listened hard, still heard nothing.
I kept going.
The problem was, I was doing this by feel. I turned my head as far as I could, but I couldn’t see my wrists. Was this having any effect at all? I had no idea. But it was all I had to work with. So I continued moving up and down, trying to break free by pulling my arms apart like Hercules in a B movie.
I don’t know how long I kept it up. Probably no more than two or three minutes, though it felt like a lot longer. The cuff did not break or even loosen. What finally made me stop was a sound. The barn door had opened. For a moment, I saw nothing. Then the Hick with the Hair came out. Alone. He started walking toward me.
“Where is she?”
Without speaking, Verne Dayton bent down and checked my cuffs. I could smell him now. He smelled of dried grass and work sweat. He was studying my hands. I glanced back. There was blood on the ground. My blood, no doubt. An idea suddenly came to me.
I reared back and aimed a head butt in his direction. .
I know how devastating a proper head-butt can be. I had performed surgeries on faces crushed by such blows.
This would not be the case here.
My body position was awkward. My hands and feet were both bound. I was on my knees. I was twisting behind me. My skull didn’t land on the nose or softer part of his face. It caught him on the forehead. There was a hollowklunk like something out of a Three Stooges soundtrack. Verne Dayton rolled back, cursing. I was totally off balance now, in free fall with nothing but my face to cushion my landing. My right cheek took the brunt of it, rattling my teeth. But I was beyond pain. I slid my eyes in his direction. He sat shaking out the cobwebs. There was a small laceration on his forehead.
Now or never.
Still tied up, I flailed toward him. But I was too slow.
Verne Dayton leaned back and raised a work boot. When I was close enough, he stomped my face as if he were beating back a brushfire. I fell back. He backpedaled to a safe distance and grabbed the rifle.
“Don’t move!” His fingers checked the gash on his head. He looked at the blood in disbelief. “You out of your mind?”
I was flat on my back, my breaths coming in deep heaves. I didn’t think anything was broken, but then again, I wasn’t sure it was going to matter. He walked over to me and kicked me hard in the ribs. I rolled over. He grabbed my arms and started dragging me. I tried to get my feet under me. He was strong as hell. The steps to the trailer didn’t slow him down. He pulled me up them, shouldered the door open, and tossed me in like bag of peat moss.
I landed with a thud. Verne Dayton stepped inside and closed the door. My eyes took in the room. It was half what you’d expect, half not. The expected: There were guns mounted on the wall, antique muskets, hunter’s rifle. There was the obligatory deer head, a framed NRA membership made out to Verne Dayton, a quilted American flag. The unexpected: The place was spotless and what some might call tastefully furnished. I spotted a playpen in the corner, but it wasn’t cluttered. The toys were in one of those fiberglass chests with different color drawers. The drawers were categorized and labeled.