not'
'Can you move?' Nick's voice was stronger just then. He was being stronger for her.
'I don't think so. I think my legs are broken' She heard scraping sounds above. Maybe they were in a basement somewhere and someone above was moving furniture about the house. 'Where are we?'
She could feel him, his breath, his voice as his words came to comfort her. He was maybe five feet away. Close. The space wasn't as large as she'd first thought.
'I don't know. I think we're underground somewhere. I can feel dirt against the palm of my hand'
Jenna was shaking. 'I'm cold.'
'I know.'
'I'm scared, Nick.'
'I am, too,' he said. 'We'll get out of here'
'Who did this to us?'
'I didn't see,' he said. 'Did you?'
Just then, a brilliant flash of light flooded the space, and something skidded across the floor. She could see Nick, though her eyes were burning and she was crying. He was supine, too, about four feet away. In the same flash, she saw the walls were concrete for the most part, but bricked over in sections. It was so fast, like a flashbulb exploding in someone's face and blinding them temporarily, that she couldn't be sure of what she'd seen. She thought she caught a glimpse of a bucket, a hammer, and some baling wire. Maybe a ladder and some rope, but it all happened so fast it would be hard to say for sure.
In the same flash there was the echo of breaking glass. Someone had thrown something into their prison. Maybe a bottle shattering on the hard, stony floor? Then a strange odor. Jenna had smelled that scent. And then nothing. Everything was in the darkest shadow as though a heavy curtain had been hastily thrown over the entire space. The light was gone. The air was still.
Not far from Nick and Jenna, there was more scraping, followed by the rapid thud of hurried footsteps, and then absolute silence.
Chapter Thirty-three
Monday, exact time and place unknown
A pinprick of light like a tiny star came from the doorway. Jenna lay still and stared at it for the longest time, her mind trying to focus on where she was and how she got there. She felt woozy and nauseous. Look at that pretty little star, she thought. Twinkling. A nursery rhyme streamed through her consciousness, but she shut it out of her mind. She tried to concentrate on what she last remembered. But it was all foggy, drowsy.
'Jenna? You awake?'
It was Nick's voice, huskier and raw.
'Yeah. What happened?' Her voice was a whisper.
'Someone chucked something in here. We passed out. Are you okay?'
'I'm sick,' she said. 'I feel like puking.'
'Me, too. I've been awake for a while. Whoever put us here hasn't been back'
'Who is it? Where are we?'
Thinking, Nick hesitated. Then his voice pierced the darkness. 'I don't know. I'm totally messed up on remembering. Last thing I knew we were at Bonnie Jeffries'.'
Jenna dug through her memory, but between whatever made her sick and the fear that wrapped around her, she could recall very little. 'Yes, in her living room talking. She went to the back door, the kitchen door.'
'Yeah,' Nick said. 'I can't put it all together. Anything after that?'
'No:
'Me, neither. We have to get out of here. and I've been working on that. I might be able to cut this tape. I've found something sharp, a nail or something, and I'm kind of rubbing through it. I think it's working.'
Jenna couldn't move at all. 'We have to get out of here.' She shivered in the cold, damp air. She could not have been more frightened or more grateful that she wasn't alone. Nick was there.
'We will. And we're going to kill whoever did this to us ''
Another wave of nausea hit her. 'I feel sick. Going to close my eyes.' When she did, nightmares of the mining shack and the rats, the tornado, the bloody scene that Nick had seen back home came at her in a seamless reel, over and over. Blood. Gunshot. Bonnie. Angel's Nest. Dani's pregnancy. It rolled on through her strange, almost drug-polluted subconscious. It was a storm. Each memory shaking her, scaring her.
A flash of light. It jolted her. Her eyes snapped open. Then she slammed them shut. She was so scared. She just wanted to sleep.
Monday, 3:15 EM1, Tacoma, Washington
Dylan Walker's house was one of those grand-styled Victorians with a large bay window that at one time overlooked Tacoma's Commencement Bay. Trees and buildings had risen to block the water views in the decades since it was first built. It had a broad front porch that had been painted gray. The rest of the house was gray, too. But not by design. Years of neglect had allowed the dirt and grime of the city to steal the luster of the oyster-white paint. Flakes fell like snow onto the front porch. The place had been carved into apartments, a further indignity to what had been a fine, old home.
Emily parked the Accord around the corner, a half block away from the house. She looked at her watch. She thought that she might be early, but, in fact, Christopher Collier was late. Must be some trouble with the judge. She turned on talk radio and listened to some blabbermouth host yak about the rising price of gas and how the middle class would never recover from what the current administration had put it through. If she had been with someone she would have rolled her eyes. If she had been with someone she trusted, like Christopher, she'd have threatened to call in to the show.
Who cares about the price of gas when our lives in general are so screwed up? Who cares about anything when your daughter is missing?
Refusing to wait with her daughter's safety on the line, Emily knocked on the door marked with a black plastic label- 703'/2-and held her breath. She'd never seen Dylan Walker except in photographs. It had been a long, long time. Prison years were like dog years-times seven or ten. She doubted he'd still live up to his nickname: Dash.
'Are you looking for Dan?' A voice came from a graying man with rounded shoulders, a bright pink nose, and wireframed glasses that gave him the distinct countenance of a skinny Santa. He was cutting grass.
'Dan?' Emily looked puzzled.
'Yup. Dan Walker. He's not there'
Dylan Daniel Walker. She processed the information. It would be a violation of his parole if Walker had taken on an other name to hide who he was. But using his middle name was fair game.
'He's been gone for a while. Lost his job at the hospital a week or so back. Maybe he's out looking for work. Hope so. I'm his landlord, I can take a message'
'No message' Emily showed her detective's badge and the old man acknowledged it. 'Just waiting for another officer to arrive.'
'Let me know.' He didn't ask any questions, which surprised her. Instead he brushed his sweaty brow, nodded, and went back to his yard work. 'Might rain soon,' he said.
Emily was about to take a seat on the railing by the front door when her cell phone rang. She flipped it open. The voice wasn't familiar at first, but her words were.
'Can I put you on the air?'
It was Candace Kane, the reporter from the Spokane radio station.
'No, you cannot,' Emily said, wondering how the reporter got her hands on her cell number. The number she always gave out went through dispatch-a landline. 'I'm in the middle of something here'
'I know. I heard about Bonnie Jeffries. You found her,' she said. 'That's why I'm calling.'
Emily felt some relief. The call hadn't been about denna. 'Candace, I know you're just doing your job, so I know that you'll understand that I'm just doing mine. I can't comment on the investigation. For one thing, it's not my place to do so-this is a Seattle case'
