“Yeah, but . . .” Payne stopped his complaint in midsen tence. He suddenly remembered that Blount had just saved his life, so there was no way he was going to make him feel worse about his earlier actions. “Okay, Bennie, you’re probably right. You didn’t have a choice. But I’d certainly appreciate it if you filled me in now.”
Blount nodded. “We gotta be quick, though. I don’t want to be gone too long from the kitchen. I might be missed.”
“Fair enough.”
“So, what do ya need to know?”
Payne grimaced. There were tons of things that he wanted to learn about the island, but before the opportunity passed, he needed Blount’s assistance on something else. “Bennie, I know you’ve done a lot of nice things for me, and I really appreciate them all. But there’s something I need that’s even more important than information.”
Blount brushed the braided hair from his face, gazing into the box. “Like what?”
“Well, I was wondering if you could scratch me.”
“Huh?”
“I was hoping you could scratch me. I’ve been in here for a pretty long time, and I got a number of itches all over my body that I can’t reach, so . . .”
“You’s being serious, ain’t ya?”
Payne nodded, trying to look as pathetic as possible.
“You’s crazy! I want to help ya and all, but I ain’t touchin’ no man. Besides, there ain’t no way my arms can fit in that thing. The holes on the top be too skinny.”
Payne sighed, making sure that Blount could hear his disappointment. “Come on, Bennie, there has to be something you can do. These itches are driving me crazy! Every time I move, it feels like something is crawling on me-especially down there. It’s horrible!”
Blount examined the grate of the box, but his suspicions were correct. There was no way for him to get his arm inside. “Why don’t ya do it yourself?”
“If I could, I would. But as you can see, my hands are bound to the floor. I can’t even crack my knuckles, let alone scratch myself.”
Blount peered closer, shining the light inside. “Yeah, your hands is bound good. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless I can do somethin’ with your hands.”
Payne tried not to smile, but it was tough. Blount had just suggested the one thing that Payne was hoping for. In fact, it was the only reason that Payne had bitched to begin with. “Jeez, Bennie, what do you think you can do?”
Blount examined the shackles from several angles. Then he peered at the outside of the box. “You be in handcuffs, right? And the handcuffs is bolted to the floor?”
“That’s right.”
“And if I release the bolt from the floor, you’ll still gonna be in cuffs, won’t ya?”
Payne pretended to contemplate things. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
“And you can scratch yourself with cuffs, can’t ya?”
“Definitely! And it wouldn’t be like you were freeing me. I’d still be locked in this thing.”
Blount mulled over the situation. He didn’t want to do anything that would give away his role in this. “All right. I think I can unscrew the bolt from the outside. Once you pull your cuffs from the hook, I be putting the bolt right back. That way it looks like you did it on your own.”
Payne lowered his head and smiled. The servant didn’t realize it, but he had given Payne much more than an opportunity to scratch.
He had given him a way to escape.
CHAPTER 41
DAVID
Jones had no idea where his best friend was being held or what was being done to him, but the racial overtones of the island suggested he was probably in bad shape.
Despite the pain in his ribs and back, Jones squirmed until his hands, which had been bound behind him, were stretched beyond his feet and repositioned near his stomach. Though his hands were still bound, he had a lot more freedom to move about the cabin and search for a way out. He quickly probed the floor, walls, and ceiling, but each of them proved to be solid. After several minutes, it became apparent that his only option was the heavily guarded front door. Made of oak and finished with a light lacquer, the door was thick, too thick to knock down. It sat in a matching oak frame and was sealed from the outside with a steel dead-bolt lock.
Frustrated, Jones lay on his mattress and pondered his situation. “What would MacGyver do?” he wondered aloud, referring to the TV character who had a penchant for creative solutions. “He’d probably make a grenade out of chocolate pudding and blow up the door.”
He chuckled as he said it, but as he stared at the door over his outstretched feet, two things became apparent. One, a doorway explosion was within the realm of possibility. And two, he wouldn’t have to build a device because the guards had actually given him one.
The idiots had strapped it to his leg.
Forgetting the pain in his back and ribs, Jones leaned forward to study his anklet. The mechanism, attached below his shin, was encased in a silver, metallic shell that was no thicker than his hand. The gadget was streamlined and carried little weight; that meant the technology was pretty advanced.
he thought to himself.
Since the latest in incendiary gear was bound to be expensive, Jones wondered if the Posse had the finances to spend so much money on deterrents. If they didn’t, he figured they might be tempted to put dummy devices on the legs of their captives. To him, it made sense. The prisoners would undoubtedly accept the guards’ explanation of the anklets, and because of that they’d be too scared to run away or attempt to remove them.
To find out what he was dealing with, Jones looked for the safest way to penetrate the metal casing. He carefully explored the outside of the shell, realizing that there were only two practical choices. He could pick the lock on the front of the anklet, a difficult task without the proper tools, or he could pry the case open with some kind of wedge. The second option seemed the easier of two, but it also seemed much riskier. Even though there was a thin seam that ran along the top of the mechanism, one that could be pried apart with some effort, Jones figured it was bound to be booby-trapped. Most high-tech explosives were.
That meant he had to pick it.
The question was, how? If he had his lock-picking kit with him, Jones could open the clasp in less than a minute. Without it he had no idea how long the process would take-if he could do it at all. In order to try, he had to find something slender enough to fit in the lock but sturdy enough not to break. Jones scoured the walls for stray tacks or nails, but it was pretty obvious that there were none. Next, he examined his bed, hoping that there were iron springs on the inside, but the mattress was made of foam.
“Shit!” he grumbled. “What can I use?”
Jones glanced around the room for several seconds before his statement finally sank in.
He could use a part from the toilet.
With a burst of energy that masked his pain, he rushed to the porcelain throne and removed the back lid. Peering inside, he was glad to see the water in the tank was semiclear, tainted slightly with the orange residue of rust but better than he’d expected. Wasting no time, he plunged his shackled hands into the fluid, hastily searching for a tool that would fit into the lock of his anklet. After several seconds, Jones found the best possibility. The floater lever, which was shaped like an eight-inch-long barbecue skewer, was thin and made out of a hard plastic.
Dropping to his knees, Jones turned off the main water valve with a few rotations of his wet hands, then lowered the handle on the commode. With a quick flush, the murky liquid exited the tank, filling the white bowl like a wet tornado before dropping out of sight. Jones climbed to his feet, grunting slightly as he did, then removed the plastic rod with a twist.
