Onto her knees first. Crawl over next to the bench. One hand on a storage door padlock, the other stretched up to the edge of the bench. Raise up, lift up onto her feet. The first time her legs refused to support her weight, even with her body braced against the bench, and she slid down hard to her knees. The jolts of pain increased her determination. She stayed upright the second time, held herself in place while she rested.
All right. Now walk.
Shuffling baby steps, both hands clutching the bench, trying to keep her weight braced and evenly distributed. Good. Another baby step. Another. Buckling knee that time; too much weight on the sliding foot. Rest. Go slow. Another step. Another. Turn at the end of the bench, walk back along it at the same slow pace to the far end. Turn again, come back. Four times, five times, until she could walk with minimal support. Every step had its measure of agony, but it was the kind of endurable, satisfying hurt you felt after a long run.
Ready then to explore the confines of her prison, look for a weapon she could use against her captor.
The switch for the overhead lights was next to the door. Risk putting them on? She’d have to; she couldn’t see much in the gloom, and with the canvas bunched up on the floor, there was a greater risk of stumbling, falling. Still daylight outside. Even if Balfour came back before she was done, he wouldn’t be able to tell from a distance that the lights were on.
Kerry felt her way to the end of the bench, around the end to the wall, then along the wall to the corner and from there over to the door. The sudden glare from the naked ceiling bulbs hurt her eyes; she narrowed them to slits until her vision adjusted.
The storage room seemed even smaller from an upright perspective—a twelve-by-twelve box, cramped, dusty. Across the back wall was a row of metal storage lockers, each door fitted with a heavy padlock. No help there. Nor from whatever was in the cabinets built in under the bench; the same kind of padlocks closed those off. The bench top was empty except for another piece of folded canvas and a thick-bodied television set. The rest of the enclosed space held rolls of insulating material, a pyramid of three one-gallon cans of paint, an old-fashioned standing ice chest, a brass-studded armchair bleeding stuffing from one dirty arm, some stacked cardboard cartons, not much else.
Could she use one of the paint cans as a weapon, hide behind the door and clout him with it when he came in? She tried to lift the top can with both hands … and couldn’t do it. Full, not empty. Too unwieldy anyway to swing with any accuracy, even if she could manage to lift it. The TV set? No good, either. It was at least twenty years old and looked as if it would weigh thirty or forty pounds.
The cartons were the kind with lids, none of them taped down. Old clothes, drop cloths, rags, more canvas … nothing she could use. In frustration, she yanked on a couple of the padlocks on the row of lockers, not thinking about the rattling noise until the pit bull’s lead ratcheted on the cable outside and the animal started barking again. How close to the door could the damn dog get? She couldn’t tell even when she went over to stand close to it; the wood was thick, solid, and the keyhole too small to see through. She moved sideways along the wall, looking for a peephole chink between the boards. There wasn’t one.
The window? Wire mesh screen bolted to the wall. Even if there were a way to pry it loose, the outer shutter, made of green-painted metal, was sure to be locked or bolted as well.
Still trapped, after all that effort to shed her bonds. No way out and nothing she could use to defend herself.
The fear rose in her again, a surge of it that came close to panic. Fighting it, controlling it, left her weak and shaky again. She hobbled to the door to switch off the lights, then sank down onto the canvas. Exhausted, pain-riddled, dehydrated, hungry. But her determination and her will to survive remained unshaken. As long as there was breath in her body, she would not give up.
She made a blank screen of her mind, sitting humped forward in the near-darkness, massaging wrists, ankles, feet to keep the blood flowing.
* * *
It was still daylight when Balfour came back.
The dog’s barking alerted her far enough in advance so that she was able to roll onto her side and wrap the canvas around her before his key scratched in the lock and the door opened. Again he put on the lights by reaching in from outside. Kerry had her eyes slitted so the glare wouldn’t blind her, saw him stand there looking in at her for a few seconds before he entered. Crazy, but not stupid. Even if she’d been able to lift one of the paint cans and tried to hide with it behind the door, she wouldn’t have taken him by surprise. Not that way.
She watched him move to within a few paces of where she lay, stop at the edge of the canvas. If he got close enough, bent down to check on her as he had that morning, she might just catch him off guard. Claw his face, kick or punch him in the groin, disable him long enough to scramble outside, then try to get past the pit bull and make a dash for freedom. She could see the dog through the open door, sitting on its haunches fifty or sixty yards away—far enough so that there might just be enough time to elude him. Desperate plan, with little chance of succeeding, but what else could she do?
Not even that. Balfour didn’t come any closer, just stood looking down at her with a funny little smile flicking at the corners of his mouth.
He looked different somehow. Red-faced and not a little drunk—she could smell the alcohol fumes leaking out of him—but not as grim or as tense. That smile … the secret kind, as if he were pleased about something. Or had made up his mind about something.
“How you doing there, lady?”
Maybe she could entice him into checking on her. She had the words, but it took three tries before she could force them out through the arid caverns of her throat and mouth. “How do you … think I’m doing, tied up like … piece of meat?”
“Your own fault. Should’ve stayed away from my truck.”
“Untie me, please.” The “please” tasted like camphor on her tongue.
“Uh-uh. Not yet.”
“When?”
“Won’t be too long.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll find out when the time comes.”
A dry cough made her say, “At least … some water.”
“Thirsty, huh? Yeah, sure, why not some water. You hungry, too?”
“No.”
“Sure you are. Tell you what. I got some beef stew cooking—Dinty Moore’s, best there is. How about I bring you some along with the water?”
“And what? Feed it to me?”
Balfour laughed, closed one eye—a wink, for God’s sake—and turned for the door. Went out and locked it behind him, leaving the lights on.
Kerry sat waiting, planning. He’d have to come close, squat or kneel down, to feed her the food and water. If she acted quickly enough, she could grab hold of his privates and twist them hard enough to hurt him, really hurt him. She repositioned her body, arranged the canvas over her hands and legs so that she could free herself with a quick flip and then strike with her right hand. Tried it three times to make sure. Then she was ready.
The dog didn’t announce Balfour’s approach this time. Her pulse rate increased when she heard the shuffle of his steps, the key in the door again. Adrenaline rush, with the added fuel of her anger. Her fingers, pressed together behind her, tensed and tingled.
The door opened and she saw him look in, then lean down to pick up two bowls from the ground in front of him and carry them inside. Not ordinary bowls, she saw then. Round metal dishes, old and scratched.
Dog dishes.
He came no closer than the edge of the canvas, where he set the dishes down again. “There you go,” he said. “Water in one, stew in the other. Help yourself.”
“… How?” It was all she could manage.
“Same way Bruno out there eats and drinks. Stick your face in the bowls and slurp it right up.”
Balfour laughed again, went away again, locked her up in darkness again.
And left her, for the
first time in her life, with enough seething hatred to want to kill another human being.
13
JAKE RUNYON
He was at Bryn’s, playing a science fiction video game with Bobby while she cooked dinner, when the call came in on his cell.
Nice little domestic scene, the sort he’d missed out on all his life. He and Andrea had fought most of the short time they were together, usually over her drinking, and Joshua had been a toddler when he’d left them and filed for divorce. Plenty of good evenings with Colleen over the twenty years they’d been married, but it’d been just the two of them—she hadn’t been able to conceive a child. These recent get-togethers with Bryn and Bobby were comfortable enough, but they were infrequent and had a temporary feel. He wasn’t married to her, or living with her, and the boy was her son, not his. But that was only part of the reason.
Since a family court judge had reversed the earlier court decision manipulated by her lawyer ex and awarded her primary custody, her focus was all on Bobby. On re-cementing a bond two years broken by her stroke, the messy divorce that followed, and severely restricted visiting privileges. The boy was what she lived for, always had been. Now that she had him back, she no longer needed Runyon to lean on; they saw each other half as often as they had before Bobby came to live with her three weeks out of every four. She seemed to want him in her son’s life—Bobby liked him, and they got along fine—but as a friend, not a father figure. And with restrictions.
He wasn’t allowed to spend the night when Bobby was in the house. The boy was nearly ten and no stranger to adult intimacy—most of the time he’d lived with his father, Robert Darby had had an out-of-wedlock, live-in affair with a woman named Francine Whalen—but Bryn felt a mother should set a better example, especially while Bobby was still healing from the effects of the physical abuse Whalen had inflicted on him, the woman’s violent murder and its aftermath. He had no problem with that. Sex was not a central part of their relationship; from the beginning, the connection between them had been built on loneliness and their damage control service to each other. Still, it added to his sense of being an outsider.
For a while, he’d thought that the kind of dependence they’d shared might eventually evolve into something more. But it was unlikely that either of them would ever be ready for that kind of commitment. What they had was still viable, so it would be status quo for a while yet; sooner or later, though, it would morph into a more casual friendship, one that would remain supportive, but no longer intimate. There’d be some sadness when that happened, but no regrets. His mental health was much improved from their time together, and so was Bryn’s. You couldn’t ask more than that from any relationship.
When his cell vibrated, Runyon left Bobby’s room and stepped into the hall to answer it. Figured to be Tamara, who seemed always to be working late these days, with some sort of agency business. No. The screen showed him Bill’s name. Back early from his vacation? No on that, too.
“Jake, how heavy is your caseload? Working on anything that can’t be put on hold or turned over to Alex?”
The sound of his voice, as much as the abrupt questions, put Runyon on alert. Tense, with a strong emotional undercurrent.
“Nothing pressing,” he said. “Why? Something wrong?”
“It’s Kerry. She’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“Since yesterday afternoon. Went out for a walk somewhere while I was off trout fishing, didn’t come back. Nobody’s seen her since.”
“Christ. You’re still up in … where is it?”
“Green Valley, in the Sierras. I got the local sheriff ’s deputy to put out a BOLO alert last night, and a search team in a section of woods where I found her sun hat this morning. No sign of her.”
“Lost? Some kind of accident?”
“That’s what I thought at first. Now … I’m afraid it might be something worse.”
“Worse?”
“I think she might’ve stumbled into a situation.”
“What kind of situation?”
“You know what kind. Wrong place at the wrong time. Damn world’s full of predators, even in remote places like this.”
Torn-out words that tightened Runyon’s fingers around the phone. He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say except to ask for details, and Bill would provide those when he was ready.
“The deputy, Broxmeyer, doesn’t agree with me,” Bill said. “Doesn’t have enough manpower for an investigation even he did. Jake … I’m about half out of my head here, and I can’t handle this alone. I need your help.”
“You’ve got it. I can leave right away.…”
“No need for that. Three-hour drive to Green Valley, and I wouldn’t be in any shape for talking by the time you got here. Half dead on my feet right now. Get some sleep yourself, come up early in the morning, we’ll start fresh.”
“How early do you want me there? Seven, eight?”
“Make it eight,” Bill said. “Little town at the south end of the valley, Six Pines … coffee shop called the Green Valley Café on the main drag. I’ll meet you there. Easier to find than the place where we’re staying, and I’ll need to get out of here in the morning anyway.”
“Right. Does Tamara know yet?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“I can call her, fill her in—”
“Better if she hears it from me. I want her to compile a list of known sex offenders and violent felons living in this general area, recent unsolved rapes and missing persons cases involving women. Broxmeyer won’t do it, doesn’t think it’s necessary. I’ll have her call with any hot leads, e-mail the rest of what she gets to you. Bring your laptop along—Kerry left hers at home.”
Runyon said okay, but he wouldn’t need it; the agency had bought him an iPhone a while back and he could use it to access his e-mail. “Anything else?”
“Not until you get here. Thanks, Jake.”
Runyon started to say “We’ll find her,” but there was no benefit in offering up hollow reassurances. He settled for, “Eight o’clock, Green Valley Café,” and let Bill break the connection.
He went down the hall, through the dining room into the kitchen. Bryn was at the sink draining pasta into a colander; steam plastered wisps of her ash blonde hair to her forehead, dampened the lower edges of the scarf she wore tied under her chin to hide the crippled left side of her face. The only time she removed the scarf in his presence was under the cover of darkness. He’d had only one clear look at the stroke damage, and that was on the night they’d met, when a couple of rowdy teenage idiots yanked her scarf off in a Safeway parking lot. As far as he knew, she’d never allowed Bobby or anyone other than her doctor to see it, either.
The uninjured side of her mouth curved in a smile. “Dinner’s almost ready. There’s a bottle of red wine on the counter.”
He said, “No wine for me tonight. I’m going to have to eat and run.”
“Oh? Why?”
He told her why. “I’m driving up there early tomorrow. Don’t know when I’ll be back—I’ll call you.”
“God, I hope she’s okay.”
“So do I.”
“Poor Bill. He must be frantic.”
Frantic was the word for it. He knew too damn well what Bill was going through. Kerry was the love of the man’s life. Her breast cancer diagnosis and the long months of treatment, and now this. If he lost her, it’d be as if part of him had been ripped out, leaving a bloody, gaping wound—the same as it had been for Runyon when the cancer tore Colleen, the love of his life, away from him.
But all he said was “He is,” and moved to help her get dinner on the table.
* * *
He was up and on the road at five o’clock. Early riser anyway, and six hours’ sleep was all he ever needed. A three-hour drive was nothing to him; he’d logged thousands of miles in the Ford since moving to the Bay Area, using up downtime and familiarizing himself with his new home turf. Driving satisfied his rest
less need for movement, activity; the longer he was behind the wheel, the better for him. When he stepped out of the car after a long drive, he was calm, focused, ready for whatever needed to be done.
Getting out of the city was no problem because he was traveling against the flow of early commute traffic on the Bay Bridge, and except for a quick stop in Vacaville for gas, he made good time on Highway 80 all the way to Sacramento. Middle of the commute rush there; he crawled for a while through the city and its eastern outskirts. But once he was on 50 passing through the long stretch of suburban towns, traffic thinned down considerably, and he was able to hold his speed at a steady ten miles per hour over the limit all the way to the turnoff that led him to Green Valley.
A two-lane county road took him on a winding route through a couple of hamlets at the northern end of the valley. Nice enough area, he supposed. Scenic. Good spot for a vacation or a second home. But a bad place for a missing-person hunt, with all the pine and fir woods. That was as much notice as he took of the surroundings. Colleen had had a keen awareness of the environment, talked him into periodic trips to wilderness regions in Washington and Oregon, and some of her enthusiasm had rubbed off on him to the point where he looked forward to those getaways with her. But after her death, he’d lost interest. Rural settings, urban and suburban places … they were all the same to him then and now, colorless, devoid of any real distinction. Bay Area neighborhoods, roads, landmarks had all been filed away in a corner of his mind, but only for necessary business-related purposes. Until he was given specific reference points within a locale like Green Valley, the surroundings registered as little more than visual blips.
It was ten minutes shy of eight o’clock when he reached Six Pines. The Green Valley Café was easy to spot: painted bright green with a big sign, in the second block on the main drag. Bill was already there; his car was parked out front. The café was moderately crowded with breakfast trade, but Runyon spotted him at once, bent over a cup of coffee in a corner booth at the rear.
Hellbox (Nameless Detective) Page 10
