Vicious

station in front of the sprawling two-story plant. His car window was halfway down. He could hear the old window shades flapping and the wind howling through the dark, deserted building ahead.

Earlier this afternoon, Jordan’s Honda Civic had driven out from behind that lonely, decrepit edifice. Corey headed back there now. He switched on the driver’s side searchlight and studied the woods next to the driveway and loading area.

He noticed some tire marks in the mud at the edge of the cracked pavement. He remembered the mud on Jordan Prewitt’s shoes earlier. It was even on the cuffs of his jeans.

Corey switched on the strobe and grabbed his flashlight before stepping out of the patrol car. He made sure he had his nightstick and then checked his gun. He didn’t think he’d be running into anyone, but he wasn’t a nature lover, and there were bears and coyotes in some of the woods around here. Directing the flashlight on the ground, he followed the tire tracks along a mud trail though the darkened forest. There was only one set of tire tracks. It looked as if the car had made a one-way trip—toward a marsh that was dead ahead.

Corey kept looking for a second set of tire tracks. But all he saw were footprints, one set—probably belonging to Jordan Prewitt.

He picked up a few stones along the way and started to toss them in front of him—one after another—until he heard one hit water with a hollow thwunk sound. The swamp was in front of him, and those tire tracks went directly into the mire. He threw out another stone and heard another hollow thwunk. He tossed still another stone in the muddy water, just a little farther out. He saw it splash, but the sound it made was totally different—a hard, tinlike ding—as if he’d hit something metal just under the murky surface.

Corey had a feeling he’d just found a black BMW.

One more kick would do it.

Moira had been telling herself that for the last few minutes. The outside piece to the exhaust fan was a metal frame with slats. She’d tried pushing and pulling at it, but the damn thing wouldn’t budge from the wall. In the darkness, she’d discovered several pipes overhead. She’d found if she grabbed the pipe and hoisted her butt up on the fourth shelf of the metal unit, she had the leverage to give that slatted frame a forceful kick.

But it was more like twenty forceful kicks.

Her one good foot started to hurt like hell. Still, Moira kept kicking. The frame bent and shifted a bit more each time. But the shelving unit teetered with every blow, and her arms ached from hanging onto the pipe. One more kick became her mantra.

This close to the hole in the wall, she was pretty certain she could squeeze through to the outside. But once she was out there, she’d have to make her escape crawling or hopping. She prayed to God her abductor wasn’t anywhere out there. One thing at a time, she told herself, one more kick.

Gritting her teeth, she shoved her foot into the porthole with all her might. The battered metal frame finally flew off the outside wall. From the clanking it made, Moira guessed the thing landed on some rocks directly below the opening.

At last, she could see outside. A dried-up dead bush blocked her view of anything else—except a little patch of night sky. She breathed in the fresh air and allowed one hand to let go of the pipe above her. She shook it out to get the blood flowing again. She did the same thing for her other arm. Then Moira hoisted herself up—headfirst— through the porthole.

The opening was rough and jagged. Little sharp bits of concrete scratched her hands and arms as she squeezed through to the outside. She was halfway out when the tall shelving unit toppled over again and went crashing to the floor. Her legs flailed and kicked in the air for a few moments as she struggled through the hole.

Moira kept thinking that if her abductor was around, he certainly would have heard that last loud crash. Panicstricken, she clawed at the rocky ground and finally pulled herself outside. She rolled onto the dirt.

She’d been right earlier. Her dark little cell was in a basement. Moira found herself at the side of a rundown, deserted, beige-brick building. The flapping sound she heard came from some torn shades in the broken windows of the second floor. They looked like blinking eyes. The windows on the first floor were boarded up. Along the side of the building, among the dead shrubs, she noticed old beer cans, pop bottles, and other debris.

Moira tried to get to her feet. But she couldn’t put any weight on her left ankle, so she braced herself against the side of the building. She caught her breath and glanced around. The place was surrounded by woods, but up ahead, she saw a row of streetlights that were out. She guessed it must have been a parking lot at one time. And where there was a parking lot, there was a road out of here.

Leaning against the side of the building, she hobbled toward the old parking area. Every muscle in her ached, and she started to feel faint. But Moira pressed on. She glanced down at her sore hand and now saw all the little bloody cuts on her thumb and fingers from working that bracket to unscrew the fan box. She checked her jeans pocket to make sure she still had the bracket piece. But then she realized it wouldn’t be very effective warding off her abductor. So she bent down and retrieved an empty beer bottle.

Up ahead, she thought she saw a light sweeping through in the parking lot.

Moira staggered forward and watched the beams of light. Past the flapping window shades and the howling wind, she heard the purr of a car engine.

She was about to scream out for help, but hesitated. What if the car she heard was that black Jetta—the one driven by that man calling himself Jake?

Moira peered around the corner, and for a moment, the headlights blinded her. She ducked back and fell to the ground. When she peeked around the corner again, she saw the vehicle veer around a little guard house toward a driveway. It was a police car.

“WAIT!” she cried. She tossed aside the empty beer bottle. On all fours, she scurried onto the cracked, potholed pavement. She frantically waved at the patrol car. “Help me! Please, help me….” But her throat was so dry and sore. As much as she tried to scream, all that came out was this pathetic, squeaky little voice.

Helplessly, she watched the squad car turn down the driveway.

Moira got up and hopped on one foot to chase after it. She kept waving her arms above her head and trying to shout. “Please…please…stop….”

The patrol car’s taillights got smaller in the darkness as it drove farther and farther away down the narrow road. But Moira kept pursuing it, always on the brink of tripping and falling on her face. She couldn’t give up. It looked as if the squad car was about to disappear in the night. But then Moira saw the brake lights go on.

“Yes!” she cried, staggering down the road toward it. “Yes…please…dear God…”

Moira watched the prowler make a U-turn. Exhausted, she stopped and collapsed to her knees. She began to laugh and cry at the same time. She kept waving her arms.

The cop car slowly approached her, and its high beams went on. Squinting at the patrol car, Moira dragged herself up from the cracked pavement. The squad car came to a stop about twenty feet in front of her. Past the headlights’ glare, she saw the cop step out of the car and hurry toward her.

Moira smiled gratefully at him.

Then she saw him reach for his nightstick. And she saw his face.

“Oh, God, no!” she screamed, recoiling.

“How the fuck did you get out?” he asked.

Deputy Corey Shaffer didn’t wait for an answer. He cracked her over the skull with his nightstick.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Susan never packed so quickly in all her life.

With Mattie at her side and the pellet gun in the pocket of her russet cardigan sweater, she quickly gathered up all her clothes and toiletries, then shoved them in her overnight bag. At this point, she didn’t give a damn about wrinkles. She just wanted to get the hell out of this house.

Deputy Shaffer had told her to stay inside and keep the doors locked. He’d also said he would be back in forty-five minutes.