the wreckage when he came back and know she had gotten loose and she’d have lost her one last desperate chance.
She pulled the spread canvas into the middle of the floor and folded it together, then got down on all fours and crawled along the walls and the row of storage lockers, felt along the locked cabinets beneath the bench. No loose nails that had been dropped and forgotten; there wasn’t even a driven nail anywhere that hadn’t been hammered flush to the wood.
On her feet again. The ice chest? The latch handles and plates were tightly fitted. The door opened easily enough, but all it revealed was a smooth-walled emptiness.
The armchair? She felt the brass studs, found one that wiggled a little; she managed to work it free. Damn! Too short. What about the underside, the springs? She tilted the chair up from the back, over onto its arms. Torn cloth covered the inner parts. She ripped it all the way off, coughing from the dust that plumed into her face. Springs, yes, but they were thick, coiled together… useless.
An involuntary sound vibrated in her throat, half grunt, half growl. Her hate for Balfour flared hot again; he hadn’t only treated her like an animal, made her eat like an animal, now he had her sounding like one.
She started to pull the chair back into its upright position. Stopped when her eye caught and held on the edge of the frame where what was left of the cloth hung in tatters. The cloth had been fastened with tacks-thin, square- shaped, and two-pronged, the heads about half an inch wide and the thickness of a large paper clip. How long were the points that had been driven into the wood? If both were the same length as the head, that would make each an inch and a half when straightened out. Long enough and sturdy enough?
Kerry dumped the chair forward again, yanked and twisted at the remaining tatters. None of the tacks pulled out, but two were no longer flush against the wood. She tried wiggling one of them free, succeeded only in tearing a fingernail. What she needed was something to pry it loose. Yes, but what?
There wasn’t anything. She’d been over every inch of this hellhole… no tools of any kind, nothing, nothing.
The dust in the hot, stale air brought on another coughing attack. She stepped away from the chair, went to lean against the bench until the fit passed. Her mouth was like a wasteland again… a little of the water that was left? Just a sip. The temperature in here would be sauna hot by midday, whenever midday was; she’d need fluid more then.
She pushed away from the bench, leaned down to where the dog dishes were-and she was looking straight at the TV set.
The electrical cord, the two-pronged plug!
Kerry almost kicked over the water dish in her haste to get to the television. She dragged the TV around, tore off the tape holding the cord to the casing. Half a dozen yanks on the cord convinced her that she couldn’t disconnect it, and there was nothing she could use to pry open the back of the cabinet. The only way she could make use of the plug was to carry the set over to the upended chair.
Bulky, difficult to wrap her arms around so she could take firm handholds. She maneuvered it to the edge of the bench, slid one hand underneath, the other around to grip a back corner, set her feet, and eased it off against her chest. The set’s weight buckled her knees and she almost dropped it. Then when she turned, she nearly tripped over the dangling cord. She managed to hold on, her fingers slipping on the smooth plastic casing, just long enough to stagger to within a few feet of the chair. Thrust her body into a low, forward arch just in time: the TV was only a foot above the floor when it fell.
Even so, the crash on impact seemed as loud as a gunshot. Immediately, the dog began barking outside. Between yaps, Kerry heard the animal come running toward the shed, but she couldn’t tell how close it came to the door. She stood still, catching her breath as quietly as she could, until the barking subsided. Whirring sound then: the pit bull’s leash ring sliding over the ground cable. Moving away again.
Part of the cord was caught under the television; she pulled it free, saw with relief that the plug had escaped damage. So had the TV itself, except for a crack on one corner of the casing. She sank to her knees in front of it, worked it over close to the back of the chair, trying to make as little noise as possible. Still, the dog’s acute hearing set off another round of barking. But it didn’t last long this time, only until she had the set close enough so that it no longer scraped on the rough floor-close enough to reach the tacks with the plug.
The prongs were too wide and too thick to slip beneath tack and wood; she had to use the edge of one prong to work each tack up from the corners. When the first one finally came free, she saw that the spike ends weren’t quite as long as she’d hoped. The metal was fairly malleable; she was able to pry the ends apart. Good. With the help of the prongs, she straightened the tack out. If she could twist two of them together to make a longer, sturdier probe…
She tried it as soon as she had a second tack loose, again with the aid of the plug. It could be managed, another slow task hampered by arthritic cramping in her fingers, but when she had the two tacks wound together, the piece didn’t look or feel tensile enough to manipulate the lock tumblers and snap the deadbolt. She’d have to twist a third tack onto these two, and even then, it might not do the job. There were four more in the chair, enough to make two probes.
It would take time to pry them up, time to fit them together, time to work with them on the lock. Time, enemy time. She prayed as she worked that Balfour wouldn’t show up before she was finished, before she could at least try to get herself out of here.
17
Donald Fechaya was not the man we were after. We knew that five minutes after we found our way to 1600 Old Mountain Road.
The address was an old farmstead, not too well kept up. Green clapboard house, its near sidewall and part of the roof repaired with unpainted sheets of plywood. Vegetable garden, fenced in with chicken wire on one side, and a tumbledown henhouse on the other; a row of fruit trees and a small, dry-looking cornfield at the rear. Chickens and a fat red rooster pecked and clucked among the weeds and dirt in the front yard.
A thin, straw-hatted woman was picking green beans in the garden when we pulled in behind a twenty- year-old Ford pickup. She gave us a long look, put her basket down, and came out through a gate in the fence as Runyon and I quit the car. She looked to be about fifty, stringy and juiceless in a man’s faded shirt and Levi’s, her face a deep-seamed corduroy brown like old leather left too long in the sun. Up close, her pale eyes, steady and direct, told you that she’d had a hard, painful life, but that she’d made peace with it. Probably through her religion.
“Something you men want?”
“We’re looking for Donald Fechaya,” I said. “Is he here?”
“In the house. What you want with him?”
“Are you Mrs. Fechaya?”
“I am. Didn’t answer my question.”
“Was your husband here on Monday afternoon?”
“Why?”
“Please answer the question. It’s important.”
“Important to who? Who are you?”
Runyon said, “We’re looking for a missing woman. We thought your husband might have seen her.”
A mirthless smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “He didn’t see nobody on Monday.”
“He might have if he was in the vicinity of the old logging road off Skyview Drive.”
“He wasn’t. We didn’t go nowheres on Monday.”
I said, “No offense, but we’d like to ask him.”
Over at the house, the screen door banged open and a man rolled out onto the porch-a shrunken gray man in a wheelchair. “Martha, who’s that you’re talking to out there?”
“There he is,” Mrs. Fechaya said. “Go on over and ask him.”
“How long has he been in a wheelchair?”
“Ever since the good Lord seen fit to put him there six years ago. Tractor rolled on him and broke his back.
