His concentration was so focused on seeing his mom that he’d practically forgotten Pobiv was next to him, so his heart slammed against his ribcage, and he jumped when the man spoke again. ‘Oh, she’s going to find you, all right. I’m going to make sure of it,’ he said, turning the news off when the journalist moved on to another story. ‘Just as soon as I make sure everything’s ready.’ He motioned for Isaac to clean his bowl at the sink and then directed him to the door whose metal bar now rested against the wall. For a split second, he considered the possibility of lunging for it and swinging it against his captor’s head, but Pobiv stood between him and it, so he knew the attempt would be a futile one which could only get him killed or beaten, so he forced his hopeful gaze away.
‘Let’s go,’ Pobiv said. ‘I want to show you something.’
Isaac drew back until the man narrowed his eyes and slowly turned his head to a wicked butcher knife resting on the counter before poking him in the back to prod him forward.
And down the stairs into a basement that housed a bare mattress with posts at the bottom, and chains draped off the sides as well as all four corners of the bed. Isaac’s bladder loosened as he stammered, ‘Please, please don’t…’
The man laughed. ‘Oh, this isn’t for you. I just thought you’d like to see what I have in store for your mother.’
This time Isaac didn’t have time to swallow back the oatmeal breakfast because it was out and all over the floor before he even knew it was about to happen.
Enraged, the man kicked Isaac’s feet out from under him, and he went sprawling into his own mess. He rolled to the side to avoid the kicks. And just as suddenly as it began, it ended. Pobiv walked around a corner, and Isaac heard running water. A minute later, he emerged with a bucket and sponge. ‘Clean it up,’ he ordered.
Weakly, Isaac pushed himself to his knees, retching, tears blinding him, as he obeyed. When he finished, he was escorted back upstairs to his room where he was shoved roughly inside and the door locked behind him. He didn’t see the man again until last night when he brought him out for dinner.
The same routine was followed this morning, except for the visit to the basement. And now it was evening, and for whatever reason, Pobiv had either forgotten to bind his hands or simply chose not to. Either way, Isaac was grateful for the small oversight, if that’s what it was. But that wasn’t the only thing different; after Isaac had finished eating, the man had ordered him to the couch instead of dragging him back to the windowless room.
This terrified him because all day the man had oscillated from conversational to bouts of rage, and while Isaac hated being in the room, at least in there, he didn’t have to wonder when a fist would reach out of nowhere and punch him.
A beeping noise near the door dragged his thoughts away from the man’s motives and had his heart leaping into his throat as he imagined his mom had arrived to rescue him.
But when he turned his head, all he saw was Pobiv standing near the control panel that locked all the windows and doors in the house. Earlier in the day, Isaac had heard the front door open and close several times, so he assumed the man had been running in and out, and now he was re-engaging all the locks.
Or he was, until a crash outside the window caused the man to jerk around and to the side. It took a second before Isaac became aware the code was flashing on the screen – 0684. His stomach tensed and his face tingled as he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling so Pobiv wouldn’t know he’d seen it. Please, please let him believe the frantic pulse beating in my neck is nothing more than fear, he prayed. Carefully, Isaac squinted his eyes in time to watch the man hit ‘Enter’ on the keypad. Loud clicks resounded throughout the house as locks slid into place. And then, to his surprise, Pobiv walked down the hall to his own room which was tucked in the far corner of the house, down another hall Isaac had only seen once. His heart raced as he listened to the faint clicking sounds of a keyboard.
This was his opportunity, and it would likely never present itself again. But he was afraid to move, to make any sound at all in case the man remembered he’d left him out here. His hands were sweating, and he wiped them on his sweats as he stared at the control panel, trying to convince himself this was his only chance. But when he heard movement from Pobiv’s room, he knew his chance was gone. He’d blown it.
Except Pobiv didn’t appear. And then a toilet flushed, and the sound of running water in the sink reached his ears. And still he didn’t return to drag Isaac back to the room. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, placing his hands on his thighs and squeezing. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. The rhythmic clicking of the keyboard began once more, and Isaac told himself to move now while Pobiv was preoccupied.
Quietly, he stood and tiptoed to the hallway. He flattened his back against the wall, and cautiously poked his head around the corner, but couldn’t see Pobiv from where he was. So slowly he felt a snail would beat him in a foot race, Isaac shuffled to the keypad, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, almost drowning out the noise of the keyboard.
0684 enter. 0684 enter. He repeated the number in his mind over and over, afraid fear would cause him to forget it. He stared at the control panel, desperate to push the combination that might end this. He vowed never to make fun of the characters in scary movies ever again. Just do it, he ordered himself. He looked in the direction of Pobiv’s room one last time and raised his finger to enter the first number.
The loud squeak of a chair had him jumping back, eyes flying in the general direction of the noise. Oh God, I’m busted. When the sound of footsteps headed his way never came, Isaac stepped back so he could again see down the hall, trying to tune out every sound except that which would tell him Pobiv was still preoccupied. Silence was all he heard, and he was about to admit defeat and return to the couch when the sound of the keyboard started up again, and he decided to take it as a sign from God.
He inched his way back to the panel, each step forward lasting an eternity.
Here it was – his one and only chance. He knew that if he blew this, the likelihood of him surviving the night was zero to none. Knowing that, understanding it, he was frozen, lightheaded, faint, and sick with fear. He couldn’t get his hands to stop trembling long enough to push even one digit. If Pobiv suddenly decided to check on him right now, Isaac was dead, and he knew it.
You’ll hear him if he gets up, Isaac lectured himself. There’s no reason the guy needs to be quiet. I mean, what would be the point? It’s not like he’s trying to break out of this place. You just got to do it, man. You just got to! This might be the only chance you get!
Though he didn’t go to church often, he prayed to God to let him survive this, steadied his hand the best he could, took a deep breath… and pushed the first number. The beep of the keypad was like a gunshot in his own ears, but he knew it wasn’t as noisy as it seemed. After all, he’d listened to it several times now. However, when the locks actually disengaged… well, there would be no masking that cannon-like sound.
He fought down nausea, and in quick succession, entered the remaining numbers. He glanced behind him one last time before hitting Enter. He knew once he hit that key, he’d have to move fast, despite being sick, because his window of opportunity for a successful escape was narrow. Here goes nothing, he thought and jabbed the final button.
Chapter Forty-Five
Friday, April 5
Just like he figured, the unmistakable sounds of the locks opening had his captor racing down the hall. But, sick or not, Isaac’s leg muscles tightened as he prepared to run, and he made a beeline for the door, yanking it open. Once outside, he had no idea which way to go – all he knew was they’d driven through the canyon, so they had to be somewhere up in the mountains because they hadn’t driven long enough to have crossed the state line – so he headed for the trees, hoping he could somehow hide until he found a way to attract help. He didn’t hesitate when he reached the front porch; he simply soared off the top and bolted, sprinting like his l
ife depended on it – because it did.
His name was being yelled, but he didn’t stop, and he didn’t slow down, and as much as he wanted to, he didn’t turn around to see how close the man was. It doesn’t matter how close he is, he told himself. It just matters that you’re faster than him. He let his track coach’s words play in his mind, spurring him on.
He ran. And kept on running. Being sick sucked, but being sick while running was way worse. He had no idea how long he’d been running before he realized he no longer heard Pobiv’s footfalls or labored breathing behind him.
Still, he raced on. He kept up the pace until his sides ached, his legs and calves were on fire, and his lungs threatened to burst from his chest. Having no other choice, he slowed to a walk. Jell-O would be an accurate description of how his legs felt at the moment. And he tried not to think of the blister on the back of his foot.
Unable to take another step, he stopped near a tangle of bushes and brambles. Risking a look behind him, he was both terrified and elated that he saw no sign of his kidnapper. Sucking in a breath for the pain he was about to cause himself, he forced himself into the thick of the bushes and hunkered down. When the pain from a thorn scratching up his arm threatened to make him squeal, he reminded himself how much worse it would be if his escape attempt failed.
Winded from fear, running, and the elevation, Isaac told himself he could rest for five minutes and no more before he had to go. He knew he needed to keep moving if he was going to be successful. Besides, he was afraid the sound of his own panting would give away his location.
When his heart rate slowed to as normal as could be expected, Isaac carefully moved out of the bushes. He was still clueless as to which direction to go, but he guessed down was as good a bet as any. Surely that would lead to a road or a house or cars or hikers or something.
Not running so much as walking briskly, Isaac kept a steady pace. He was parched, and his muscles cramped, letting him know exactly how much they definitely did not appreciate this abuse. He desperately needed water, and the food Pobiv had served – a slice of lunchmeat on toast – threatened to make a return. ‘Ignore the pain, just keep moving,’ he whispered to himself, so softly he didn’t even hear his own voice. He wasn’t sure how long it’d been since he’d left the safety of the bushes when he heard it – heavy breathing above the sound of snapping branches from fallen tree limbs. Someone was coming.
Isaac ran.
* * *
He couldn’t run another step. He was lost, scared, and Pobiv was closing in on him. He didn’t know how close behind he was, but no matter what, it was too close. He wanted to fall down and weep.
A voice inside his head told him not to give up, that he could do it. He had an urge to tell the voice to shut up, that it didn’t know anything. There was nowhere left to run, nowhere to go, and no one to help. He was done, finished.
The sound of his mom’s ‘danger’ advice rang loudly in his ears. If all else fails, just run, she always preached. Predators wanted easy prey, not someone who fought back. He knew this situation was far different, but the concept was the same: fight back no matter what.
A huge tree loomed in front of him. An idea leaped into his head, and as difficult as he knew it would be, he was determined. With a steely sense of single-mindedness, Isaac latched onto the lowest branch of the tree. He tried to pull himself up but collapsed to the ground with a thud. Refusing to give up, he went at it again and again, offering prayers to any god who would listen. After a few failed attempts, he was able to drape his arms over the limb, and carefully, painstakingly, pulled himself up.
Twice more, he made the climb until he was able to secure himself high enough to be out of imminent danger. Beat didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling.
He made himself as comfortable as possible, ignoring the ants traipsing up and down his arms like he was their personal playground. Though his plan was to hide only long enough for Pobiv to move on, to get far enough away that he could continue his escape, he was prepared to do what he had to if he was discovered because there was no way he was returning to that prison without a hard fight. After carefully adjusting his position a couple times, he waited for Pobiv. He didn’t have to wait long.
Chapter Forty-Six
Friday, April 5, 11:00p.m.
Alyssa paced, pausing at her window to peer out at the dark every time she passed it.
Isaac had gone missing on Wednesday. Now it was Friday night. No one in her family had slept for more than an hour at a time, and each time they did sleep, they woke with a start, guilt breathing down their necks that they’d fallen asleep while Isaac was in danger. Worried about his mom’s health, Brock had urged Mabel to go home and get some rest last night. After arguing for more than fifteen minutes, she’d relented, promising to be back first thing in the morning. And she had been, leaving only about thirty minutes ago.
Brock, Holly, and Mabel, with Liz and even Ruby’s assistance, had spent Thursday and today making posters and driving all over town, hammering them to telephone poles and taping them to store windows. Though Cord hadn’t been allowed to assist, he had supervised as Officers Alexander and Finley had gone through the vacant Zeller house. But other than crushed carpet where Hunter Jenkins had walked and the disconnected cable to the garage door, there was no evidence he’d been there, not even a gum wrapper.
For the hundredth time, she wished Mabel had purchased the house after all. Anything would be better than her son being kidnapped. And every time the image of Timmy’s lifeless body swam through her mind, she shoved it back. She refused to believe she’d lose her son the same way she’d lost her brother. She would find him.
Hal had come over to keep her company – or so he’d said. In reality, he’d driven his special van over to sit on her and keep her from storming over to the Zeller house herself. At least he didn’t placate her by telling her everything would be fine.
In fact, he’d helped her contact the media and set up a briefing in front of her house yesterday. She clutched her fist to her heart as she remembered staring into the camera, praying her son could see her, and promising, promising him she’d find and bring him home safely.
Twin tears streaked down her face, and she roughly wiped them away as she continued her pacing. She went to snap the rubber band on her wrist until she remembered it had broken, and she hadn’t replaced it. She stuck her thumbnail in her mouth and chewed.
She needed to do more, needed to act. Needed to find and kill Hunter Jenkins. Yes, that was exactly what she wanted to do. He’d taken her baby, and she wanted to hurt him. Everyone, Cord included, told her, ad nauseam, that she needed to let others help, that she was too close to the situation, that she could jeopardize evidence. As if she would be so inept when it came to her son.
She wanted him home safe; she wanted to hug him until he couldn’t breathe.
She bargained with God as she weaved a worn path in her carpet from pacing. God, if only you let us get him back, safe and alive, I swear I’ll go to church on Sundays as often as I can. I’ll make the whole family go. Or, God, if you’ll just bring him home safely to us, I’ll help at the soup kitchen every Thanksgiving.
When Isaac didn’t come rushing through the door after her pleas with God, she cursed Him for allowing this to even happen. My brother wasn’t enough; you need my son, too?
And now it was Friday. Cord had called twenty minutes ago to give an update. They still hadn’t been able to find the string that would unravel the whereabouts of Hunter Jenkins, nor could they trace the car, and Alyssa had wanted to hurl the phone just to see it shatter against the wall. Why couldn’t they find this man?
Brock and Holly were in the kitchen, and as she glanced that way, she realized that somewhere between Wednesday evening and now, she and her daughter had switched roles; Holly had become the consoler, the calm one. Alyssa knew it was wrong, that she needed to be the one consoling her family, to seek support with them. But she couldn’t. Because her flaws loomed
like beacons inside her. She’d failed Timmy, and he’d ended up dead; she’d overlooked Hunter Jenkins on the security footage, and Callie McCormick had died – and possibly others – and now, because she’d been preoccupied with her job, her son had been abducted, quite possibly by a serial killer.
The pain in her stomach at the thought nearly doubled her over as she fought to catch her breath. She was supposed to protect Timmy. Protect her son.
No, Isaac was not dead. He was missing, yes, but he was still alive. She knew it. She’d feel it if he was dead.
You didn’t feel it when Timmy died. Stop it! She ordered herself. Isaac would come home. He would be found. And no matter what, they would deal with it together, as a family. She was going to get her son back!
‘Mom!’ Holly snapped Alyssa’s attention away from her disintegrating calm. She looked at her daughter with a blank look. ‘Mom, your phone’s ringing.’ She nodded at the cell sticking out of her mom’s front pocket. ‘Answer; it might be about Isaac.’
Automatically, Alyssa glanced at the clock. A little after eleven p.m.
Brock appeared in the doorway as Alyssa yanked her phone out and answered. This was what happened every time someone’s phone rang. Everyone gathered around. Usually it was someone asking for an update or wanting to say they were thinking of her and her family. Each time the realization hit that Isaac was still missing, faces would droop, and shoulders would sag.
Alyssa felt the weight of her daughter’s stare, as well as her husband’s.
Anxiously, she answered the call. ‘Hello?’
Chapter Forty-Seven
Friday, April 5, 10:30p.m.
Bishop, red-faced and sweating, swore as he kicked up leaves, making no secret of the fact that he was searching for the boy. He held a large branch he’d picked up along the way and swung it wildly, hitting all the surrounding bushes and trees. His arm throbbed from the gash caused by a low-hanging branch he hadn’t seen when first chasing the boy. He wished he’d had time to grab his knife because he was surely going to kill him. But it would have to wait until he captured him and dragged him back. He’d kick him down the basement steps, and then he’d carve him up and mail the pieces to Alyssa one at a time, starting with the boy’s head.
All His Pretty Girls Page 23
