Without further delay, they were on the move again. Around a corner, into the mud room. The door leading to the garage growled slightly as he opened it.
The kidnapper’s boots pounded out a tune of determined strides as he descended the cement steps into the garage, followed by a half dozen strides across the decorative epoxy-coated floor.
Keys clinking. Vehicle door opening. The Hummer. The bastard was kidnapping her and using her own vehicle to do it! A few more steps. Tailgate opening.
Tossed with great force into the rear compartment of the H1, Jewels landed hard on her side, letting out a muffled moan in anguish.
Twisting her over onto her stomach, he hoisted her tethered legs up to meet her bound hands, cinching them together.
Hogtied, Jewels whimpered in misery. Fear blitzed her thinking. Why had Sharon’s confessed murderer kidnapped her? Where was he taking her? What was he going to do? Kill her, too? If so, why not just murder her now? And why was any of this happening? Because of that stupid map?
“You be good now,” he said with a chuckle, slamming the door shut.
Moments later her captor was behind the wheel of her Humvee. The garage door rose. He backed out, closing the garage door behind.
The Humvee sped down the drive, onto the street. Once on the highway, the kidnapper turned on the radio. The Oldies station. Jewels recognized the tune instantly: “Bad Moon Rising.” What was it with that song?
Just as her vibes had foretold, but far worse than she could have interpreted, Jewels knew she was in trouble. Big trouble. But she could have never anticipated this. Gagged. Bound. Blindfolded. Kidnapped by a knife-wielding maniac, who had butchered her dog and admitted to murdering her friend, and for who knows what reason. Ransom? That damned map? Was she about to learn the meaning of SPOF? Regardless, the possibilities were endless and shuddersome. Jewels’ tears intensified to unabashed crying.
The escalated sobbing clogged her nose, stifling her ability to breath. The intrusive gag eliminated the option of breathing through her mouth. Overcome by the sensation of suffocating, she coughed and choked. Desperately, she snorted oxygen, but only sucked in the thick stale air recirculated within the confines of the hood tied over head. If she didn’t want to smother, she had to gain her captor’s attention.
Frantically, she screamed for help. For relief. For his attention. But, of course, the gag prevented distinguishable words while the blasting music masked her muffled coughing and choking.
Next, she pitched her body back and forth and slammed it against the back seat, hoping her violent movement would rock the truck, get her kidnapper’s attention and cause him to pull over to take a look.
No response.
Was she going to die, right here, in the storage compartment of her Humvee? At least death would come to her in a place she loved. Though she didn’t want to die, she fantasized about a life-after-death reunion with Robert and Boo-Boo. But abruptly her thoughts of a peaceful spiritual rendezvous were eclipsed by the catechism schooling of hellfire and brimstone.
The nuns’ endless lectures about God’s will and His punishments overpowered her confounded mind. Could her horrible plight be God’s will? Punishment for something she had done or failed to do ... those so-called sins of commission and omission? If she relinquished her own desires and instead let go and let God, would she be spared? At this point, she had nothing to lose by trying.
It’s said in foxholes there are no atheists. Perhaps the idea of an all-powerful divine being springs a glimmer of hope for the absolute hopeless. Given the bleak circumstances and the fact she was powerless to help herself, Jewels surrendered. God would either help her or not. Ceasing to struggle for oxygen, she calmly allowed her eyelids to slide shut.
Moments later the blasting music faded to silence. The striations of pain coursing up her arms and down her legs from the wicked bindings all but dissolved. On the verge of losing her grasp on consciousness, she no longer fought to hold on. If draining consciousness could be rated like a gas gauge needle: full, three-quarters, half, one-quarter, and empty, Jewels’ consciousness was running on fumes.
Spending her last bit of alertness, she mumbled a desperate plea, “Dear God, please help me....”
Chapter Twelve
FRIDAY, 0200 HOURS. The burgundy Humvee rolled out of sight into the dense thicket, halting under the camo canopy.
Zip, anxious to hear how Tank made out with the bondage gear, rushed to meet the parked hypermasculine vehicle. Tank bailed from behind the wheel as Zip enthusiastically shouted, “Bitchin’!” A comment directed at Jewels’ tricked-out Humvee.
Flashing a smile in agreement, “You oughta drive it. Fuckin’ charmed!” Tank dropped Jewels’ keys into his pants pocket and flung open the back compartment door, revealing the much-anticipated package.
With hungry eyes Zip surveyed the brutally bound woman. “Shit man. Couldn’t have done better myself.” Nothing excited him more than a woman unwillingly tied up. Helpless. “Well? How was she? Did she fight ya?”
A sly smile breached Tank’s tight walnut face. “Like a fuckin’ she-grizzly with cubs.” Pointing to his biceps, he bragged, “Even shot me!”
Raising a brow, “Shot ya, huh? Don’t see no blood,” Zip said with skepticism, scrutinizing Tank’s clothes for gory evidence.
“You asshole, blood doesn’t show on black material. Besides, I plugged the hole with a tampon I found in her purse when I was rummaging for her keys.”
With admiration on his face, Zip bobbed his balding head. “No shit! Good thinking.”
“Glad you approve,” Tank sarcastically returned.
Zip’s eyes cut to Jewels. Vigorously he rubbed his palms together, eyes bulging. A dirty grin sprouted. “Well, let’s see more of her,” he said anxiously. The mere anticipation stoked an obvious full blown erection that looked like a twelve-gauge shotgun shell chambered in his crotch.
Scowling, Tank bulldozed Zip aside with his shoulder. Addressing Jewels: “We’re here,” Tank sinisterly announced, unbuckling the belt binding her feet to her hands. Her body would be easier to sling over his shoulder with her legs straight.
Peering over Tank’s back, Zip stroked his crotch and shifted his weight from side to side, straining for a glimpse.
Once the connecting strap had been removed, Tank instinctively backed away in expectation of a violent thrashing of feet. But nothing happened. Not even a groan of relief. Her legs simply fell like a lifeless mannequin’s. Had the frenzied fight of the she-grizzly been tamed so easily?
Zip sighed with disappointment, the shotgun shell instantly retracting.
“So you’re gonna be a good girl now, huh?” Tank taunted, grabbing Jewels’ legs and dragging her closer to the opening in preparation for pick up.
“Want some help?”
“Nah, I’ve got her. Just get the doors,” Tank said, hefting her body over his shoulder like a sack of dog chow.
The prized package still wasn’t moving. Wasn’t even groaning.
Worry smeared Tank’s features. Had he been too rough? Had the bindings been too tight? Had she fought the restraints so vigorously she seriously injured herself?
Seeking words of comfort and reassurance that lifelessness was common, Tank turned to Zip. “I guess this tying-up ordeal was kinda traumatic for the bitch. Think I should let Callahan take a look at her?”
Zip, too, had noticed the eerie stillness of the body, though he had refrained from commenting for fear Tank would blame him for her demise. Experience had taught him kidnapped women, especially those severely bound like this one, were so full of fear they were anything but lifeless. Even if exhausted, they’d still feebly contort their bodies in search of freedom. Or relief from pain. At the very least, they’d whimper in dread whenever they were handled. But not this one.
She was silent. Corpse silent.
Furrows of concern gathered on Zip’s wide forehead. “I suppose being tied up was fairly traumatic for the bitch.” Pausing, he chawe
d on the inside of his cheek, thinking, then bobbled his head: “Yeah, Tank, maybe it would be a good idea to let Doc take a look at her before you pass her off to Watters.”
Nodding in agreement, Tank hustled into the depths of the underground compound. Urgently his heavy boots thumped down the stairs, echoing into the ten-foot wide hallways. Dirt granules dusting the stone flooring crunched like peanut shells beneath his feet as he booked it into the intersection and kept speeding straight down the long hallway.
As they neared the medical area, Zip jogged ahead, flung open the door, hit the light switch.
“Doc! Doc Callahan,” Tank shouted, his tone pressing, as he dashed into the infirmary whose overhead lights were lazily flickering to life.
In spite of the windowless stone walls, the medical wing was one of the few areas within the compound that looked somewhat normal. That is, if the words FLOWER POWER—in a psychedelic bell-bottom style of hippie lettering—chiseled deeply into the rock floor and spanning over thirteen feet in length were ignored.
Second only in size to the cafeteria, the infirmary was a two-thousand square foot mini hospital. The twenty-by-forty foot triage area boasted half a dozen army green cots lined up against the right wall like obedient soldiers. On the opposite wall left of the entry, five floor-to-ceiling gray metal cabinets with double doors, like wardrobe closets, were butted together and neatly packed with basic patient care supplies from gauze to nasal cannulas. On the short wall opposite the entry door, a red crash cart, loaded with all the necessities pertinent to treat cardiac arrest—paddled defibrillator, endotracheal intubation equipment, central vein catheters and cardiac drugs—was parked next to a double-wide doorway that accessed the rest of the medical quarters. A half dozen large free-standing oxygen cylinders were nestled next to the crash cart. The compound was prepared for war. And casualties.
Zip rapidly tread over FLOWER POWER, jogging through the open doorway into the adjoining hall. “Doc, Doc. Come quick.”
Surrounded by the standard stone walls of the complex, the wide hallway revealed four doors, three in a row, like those hiding prizes in a TV game show, the fourth at the end of the passage. Behind door number one: Doc’s personal living quarters. Number two: Doc’s office. Three: a multi-station bathroom with shower. Four: the exam room.
The head of a sleepy-eyed black man popped out from his freshly lighted room. “How can I help you boys?” The question blended into a yawn as he curiously looked at the bundle slung over Tank’s shoulder.
“Doc, got a woman for you to look at. I think she’s unconscious or something.”
The doctor wrapped the gray, blue, and black striped terry cloth robe around himself, knotting the matching belt at his waist, shuffling out of his room. “Take her in there,” he instructed, pointing at the fourth door.
Tank hastily beelined it toward the room, pushing Doc aside.
Zip darted in front, opening the door and slapping the light switch.
The examining room appeared under wakening florescent and halogen lights. In the center of the room, a long stainless steel table waited. Wide black nylon straps dangled from the sides like a sinister skirt.
Tank dumped the motionless parcel of flesh onto the table, quickly backing away. Nervously he stammered, “She’s the Commander’s. I was ordered to bring her here ... not hurt her. I thought she was okay but, well, I guess maybe the restraints....”
Warm, molasses brown eyes shielded the contempt Doc Callahan felt for what he saw before him: a woman dumped on her side, torturously bound in leather belts, a cloth bag cinched over her head. Thrusting his hands on his hips, “Take that hood off,” Callahan hotly instructed from the doorway.
Nervously Tank fumbled to loosen the drawstring snugly gathered around her neck. Finally he pulled the bag off her head. Jewels’ long silky blond hair flowed over the edge of the table like a waterfall.
The sight of the egg-like gag in her mouth alarmed Callahan. “What the hell?” Rushing to the table he bent over her, pressed his fingers against the side of her neck, cocked his ear toward her nose, and gazed at her chest; performing the classic look, listen and feel for signs of life.
Breathing shallow and pulse steady, she was alive, but unconscious. Doc’s face was hard, abhorrence emanating.
Tank felt pressured to explain. “She was screaming. I had to ... I couldn’t let her....”
Glaring, “Get that goddamned thing off,” Doc demanded grinding his teeth.
Unbuckling the strap, Tank removed the gag, tossed it to Zip who caught it midair like a tennis ball. Her saliva had slimed the gag. Zip’s pudgy face brightened. Without drawing attention to himself, he rolled the oval ball gag around in the palm of his hand. Her spit coated his fingers like sexual lubrication. Drool turned him on.
“Don’t stop! Take the rest of that garbage off, too!”
Doc’s commanding voice jolted Zip from his saliva fantasy, motivating him to assist Tank in removing the leather harshly binding her wrists and ankles.
The severe tightness of the straps had turned Jewels’ hands and feet puffy.
Pointing to the dried blood on Jewels’ left hand and arm, “Uh, that’s not hers. She shot me,” Tank said, rubbing his arm, as if seeking sympathy.
Callahan glanced up at Tank. His eyes said it all: He couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Tank’s gunshot wound! Focusing his attention on Jewels, he gently rolled her over on her back examining her limbs for broken bones, soft tissue damage and oozing blood.
Motioning with his chin at her shredded T-shirt, “What happened here?” Doc quizzed with speculation.
Tank twitched his head. “Nothing really.”
Doc snorted at the lame explanation, knowing full well the poor woman had endured savage manhandling at the very least ... and probably much worse. Using a damp cloth, Doc cleaned the blood off her hands and arms. “Ligature marks,” he mumbled, gazing at the red stripes of tormented flesh encircling her wrists; evidence she had been brutally restrained and strenuously resisted.
“She gonna be okay?” Tank inquired, his voice thick with concern.
Eyes seething, Callahan answered coolly, “Only if you haven’t managed to smother her will to live.”
If Jewels’ will was the determining factor in whether or not she would survive, Tank knew she would pull through. Grinning widely, “Trust me, Doc, this woman will be just fine.” With his confidence back, he bragged, “By the way, make sure you take extra good care of her. That’s Julia Andrasy.”
Callahan shot a wary glance down at the woman, then over to Tank. His eyes grew wide, begging for confirmation of what he just heard.
Tank gave it to him, served with a ghoulish grin. “Yes, Doc. That Julia Andrasy ... the Commander’s very own.”
“But I thought Phase One wasn’t going to happen for a couple more weeks?”
“Change of plans,” Tank said without emotion, motioning to Zip they should leave Callahan to his work.
After taking a few steps toward the door, Tank turned back to Callahan, “A word of advice, Doc. This bitch is a real wild one. Better keep her strapped down if you don’t want your eyes raked out or your balls shattered.”
Doc winced at the last remark, instinctively reaching to his crotch.
Tank and Zip laughed as they meandered out the exam room door.
Callahan watched them exit, listening for the closure of the main infirmary door, a sign that they had left.
Alone, just the two of them now, he surveyed Jewels’ body. A real life Sleeping Beauty. Caressing her flawless lightly-tanned cheek with the back of his manicured walnut hand, he admired her outer beauty while imagining her inner strength.
Wagging his head in disapproval, he mulled over the Commander’s plans for Jewels. “Not right. Just not right,” he mumbled.
A vision of his daughter glided into his mind. Pursing his lips, he furrowed his brows. “I’m sorry...,” Callahan whispered to Jewels, tenderly dusting the stray strands of hair from her face, “bu
t better you than my little Lexi.” And with that, he sucked in a deep breath and began engulfing her body in the wide nylon straps.
Chapter Thirteen
FRIDAY MORNING. “Robert?” Jewels stirred on the verge of regaining consciousness.
Except to slip away long enough to change out of his sleepwear, Leo Callahan, M.D., had remained vigilant at Jewels’ side since Tank had dropped her off hours ago. Dozing off in the black vinyl waiting room chair he had dragged from his office and stationed next to the exam table, her moaning perked him up. Rising to his feet, he arched his back and stretched for a moment. Hovering over her, he gently tapped her cheeks with an open hand. “Julia? Miz Andrasy?”
“Robert. I’m home....” A sweet smile glided across her face. Her eyelids fluttered open and closed.
“Miz Andrasy? Julia? Come on. Wake up.”
Jewels’ eyelids rose slowly. The figure before her was backlit in brilliant light, making it impossible to distinguish the face. “Robert,” she muttered wantonly, desiring nothing more than to throw her arms around him, but she couldn’t muster the strength to do it. Her eyelids slid shut.
“Julia? Come on, Julia. Open your eyes.”
Slightly pinching her brows, she stirred. It was that unfamiliar voice again. Drawing her away from Robert.
“Wake up, Julia.”
The insistent voice angered her. Robert was fading. Frustration was mounting. “No, no,” she softly muttered, her head slightly twitching, eyes fluttering. She wanted Robert to stay ... but, no ... now the kitchen. Boo-Boo’s body convulsing. Head about hacked off. Crimson life juices spewing. Giant man. Hideous black mask. Blood-drenched knife. Charging her. The chase. The fight. The capture. Jewels’ eyes saucered open. “No!” she screamed, violently jerking her head forward and wildly contorting her body.
“Julia? Julia, settle down,” he said reassuringly, his hands firmly planted against her shoulders to prevent her from attempting to sit up. “You’re okay. My name is Doctor Leo Callahan. You’re in a medical facility. You’re going to be just fine.”
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 12
