He was six miles away now—very close to where he’d left his own car along the shoulder of Carroll Creek Road. But Jordan could still hear that helpless, muted cry in his head. And he couldn’t help wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake.
He ducked deeper into the woods as the car sped up the road. He hadn’t been paying attention to that woman’s car yesterday at Rosie’s, and he wondered if this was her in the old Toyota headed toward Rosie’s. Was she really Meeker’s fiancee?
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Jordan watched the Toyota slow down as it approached his empty Honda Civic. But then it picked up speed again and finally disappeared around a bend in the road.
Jordan didn’t see any more traffic on the lonely highway. He didn’t think anyone saw him climb into his car and drive away. He didn’t spot any vehicles in his rearview mirror as he turned off the road onto the narrow, uneven dirt trail. It wound through the forest and had an array of dips, puddles, and rocks. At least it was easier to negotiate all the obstacles on this second trip.
But his hands were still sweating against the steering wheel, and he hadn’t quite gotten his breath back yet. Jordan wondered if he’d return to the old driveway behind the deserted Chemerica plant and find nothing—no BMW, no Allen Meeker. It was a stupid, impossible notion. He had the keys to the BMW in his pocket. He’d locked Meeker in the trunk. How could the guy get out or get away?
Jordan went over one last big bump before the dirt trail merged with the old access road to Chemerica Corporation. As far as he knew, it was the only break in the chain-link fence that protected the worthless property.
Though paved, the two-lane access road was full of potholes and divots. Everything from blades of crabgrass to small trees had sprouted through the pavement cracks. Hunched close to the steering wheel, Jordan picked up speed and did his best to avoid these obstacles.
The Chemerica Corporation building finally came into view—just beyond an open gate and the shell of a guard station. It was an old, ugly beige brick structure, decorated with graffiti. The front entrance and all the first floor windows had been boarded up. Nearly all of the second-floor windows were broken—some completely hollowed out so their ragged, brownish-yellow blinds flapped in the breeze.
As Jordan approached the lonely, decrepit building, it was hard for him to imagine there had once been an army guard in that little sentry post—and at least fifty cars parked in the now deserted lot. He followed the driveway as it wound around to the back of the facility. To his utter relief, he saw the BMW just where he’d left it. And the trunk was still closed.
He pulled up behind the BMW, shifted to park, and turned off the ignition. Then he heard the pounding. It was coming from the BMW’s trunk.
Reaching under his seat, Jordan pulled out Allen Meeker’s gun. He grabbed the tire wrench from the floor of the passenger side and climbed out of his car. Gravel crunched beneath his feet, and he knew Meeker heard him approaching. The pounding got more intense and frantic. The muted moaning sounded so pitiful, like a wounded animal.
Jordan tucked the gun inside the waist of his jeans—in the back. He dug Meeker’s car keys out of his pocket and pressed the trunk-lid button on the remote control. The trunk’s lid popped—and then Meeker gave it a fierce kick. He tried to sit up, but Jordan was right there with the tire wrench ready.
Wide-eyed, Meeker recoiled. His feet were still tied up, and his hands still bound behind him. He tried to speak past the gag, but it was just more muffled, indistinguishable pleading. He shook his head over and over again.
Jordan swallowed hard. He hit him with the wrench, the other side of his head this time.
Allen Meeker let out one last moan and then slumped back into the trunk.
Jordan stared at him. The guy was still breathing. But this blow broke the skin, and blood trickled along Meeker’s greying temple and down the side of his neck.
Jordan began to tremble, and tears filled his eyes. He still had some doubt. What if this man was totally innocent?
He gazed at the cluster of scuff marks on the left inside of the hood, where Allen Meeker had been kicking at it.
Wiping the tears from his eyes, Jordan noticed similar markings on the right side, too—just above Allen’s head. It didn’t make sense. Meeker couldn’t have shifted positions in that confined space.
That was when Jordan no longer had any doubt about what he was doing.
Now he knew. Allen Meeker wasn’t the first person to be locked inside that trunk.
Jordan had meant to drive the BMW to the edge of the swamp, but he overshot it. The area was so overgrown and muddy, it was hard to tell where land stopped and the marsh began. The front of the vehicle started tilting forward and sinking while he was still in the driver’s seat. Quickly climbing out of the car, Jordan found himself ankle-deep in mud that felt like quicksand. A panic raced through him as he struggled toward hard ground. All the while, Meeker’s BMW sunk deeper into the muddy water. Once Jordan reached the edge of the swamp, he leaned against the car’s trunk and pushed with all his might. The water made a strange gurgling sound as it started to swallow up the car. The front hood completely disappeared below the dark, murky surface. Backing away, Jordan watched as the mire enveloped the windows. It pulled the vehicle deeper into its depths. He couldn’t tell if it was the mud or some mechanism in the car, but he heard a strange, hollow moan as the vehicle finally sank out of sight.
Jordan hurried back to his own car, still parked behind the old Chemerica plant. He did his best to shake the excess mud off his shoes before climbing behind the wheel and starting up the engine. He drove around to the front of the facility. As he passed the decrepit little shack that had once been a guard gate, he heard a loud, startling wail.
Jordan gaped in his rearview mirror and saw a police car bearing down on him with its strobe lights flashing. It seemed to have come out of nowhere.
“Oh, Christ,” he murmured, a sudden dread overwhelming him. He automatically hit the brake pedal. Frozen, he sat there with a tight grip on the steering wheel, staring in the rearview mirror.
The patrol car pulled up behind him. Its eardrum-splitting siren ceased, but the strobe lights kept swirling. The cop sat in the front seat for a few moments. That seemed to be their routine: sitting in the cop car and letting the busted driver sweat it out for a spell. Jordan could see it wasn’t Cullen’s sheriff, Stuart Fischer. That was one solace, because Fischer was an asshole—and useless, too.
The Cullen Police Department consisted of Fischer, his deputy, and a clerk. So this had to be the deputy, who had been around for about two years. Jordan didn’t know him. And he didn’t know how long the deputy had been parked there in front of the Chemerica building. Had he seen anything?
Earlier, Jordan had stashed Meeker’s gun under his front seat. The tire wrench lay on the floor of the passenger side. If the deputy asked him to get out of the car, how would he explain the mud all over his shoes?
His stomach in knots, Jordan rolled down his window all the way. He watched in the side mirror as the deputy finally climbed out of his patrol car and moseyed up toward him. He was about thirty, with short, thick dark blond hair. He had the slightly worn good looks of an ex-jock just starting to let himself go soft. He still possessed a fairly muscular build—and the swagger that came with it. He had one hand poised on his gun holster as he approached Jordan’s window. “Hey there, dude,” the deputy said. “Turn off your motor, okay?”
Squirming in the driver’s seat, Jordan switched off the ignition.
“How about coughing up your license and registration for me?”
Jordan took his driver’s license out of his wallet and handed it to him. “Um, the registration is in my glove compartment, okay?”
“That’s where most people keep it, ace. Go for it.”
Jordan glimpsed down at the tire wrench—and hoped the deputy didn’t notice. It was too late to try hiding it. He quickly retrieved his registration from the glove compartment and gave it to the cop. He stole a glance at the deputy’s nametag:
“So you’re Jordan Prewitt,” the deputy said, grinning at him. “Well, I’ve heard your name bandied about. Your family has that place on Cedar Crest Way. Are you staying there this weekend with your mom and dad?”
Jordan cleared his throat. “Um, I’m here with—”
