by Debby Giusti
She squared her shoulders. “Seems to me only cowards would shove a pregnant woman around.”
The Latino struck her face. She reeled from the blow.
“You sit down now or the next time I aim for your belly.”
She gasped. Not the baby.
Her hand touched the back of the chair. She lowered herself into the plastic seat. This wasn’t the time for defiance.
The door opened and the other man stepped inside.
“I parked the truck out back and unloaded the food.” He glanced from her to Javier and raised his brow. “Trouble?”
“No way, Hank.” The smug look on Javier’s face belied the exchange he and Meredith had just had.
“He likes to hit women,” she said, hoping to pit one guy against the other.
Hank glanced at his partner. “What Mule said was true.”
Meredith raised her brow. “Is Mule as much of a coward as you are?”
His eyes narrowed. “Look, lady. We were told to bring you here, but we weren’t told to keep you happy. Any more lip and you’ll regret that God gave you a voice.”
“At least God gave me the ability to know right from wrong.”
He nodded to Javier. “Lock her up in the basement so we won’t have to listen to her.”
The basement? Memories flashed through her mind.
“No.” She pushed back in the chair.
Javier grabbed her arm.
She fought against his hold.
His grasp tightened, but she continued to struggle.
Fight, her inner voice screamed.
She lashed out, striking his arms.
His hand crashed against her head. The room spun.
He dragged her across the floorboards. The door to the basement opened, exposing a black pit. The terrors of the past flew around her as if demons had been unleashed from their underground lair.
She screamed.
His hands shoved her forward, and she stumbled into the darkness.
ELEVEN
A maze of roads surrounded the Old Buckhead Church, giving no clue as to where Meredith could be.
The sun had been high in the sky when Pete left Savannah. Now clouds darkened the day and warned of an encroaching storm. Not what he needed.
He needed to find Meredith.
If only she would send another photo.
A memory floated through his mind. He was young, probably eight or nine. Wanting to connect with the mother he’d never known, Pete had taken her gold cross necklace from the special box in the living room and had gone outside to the rose garden where his father said his mother had liked to sit.
Lounging on the grass, Pete had closed his eyes and imagined he could feel her embrace in the warmth of the sunlight. He spent the afternoon playing in the garden until storm clouds appeared in the sky, forcing him to run home before the rain started. When he dug in his pocket for the cross, all he found was a wad of lint that had lodged there from the dryer.
Frantic, he had called Eve.
“Pray,” she’d suggested. “I’ll pray too. God will help you find the cross.”
“Help me,” Pete had pleaded with God as he ran back to the garden. Fat drops of rain fell. Frantically, he searched for the cross.
Tears burned his eyes. When he blinked them away, he saw a yellow rose—his mother’s favorite color—lying on the ground. He bent down to touch the fallen petals and spied the necklace entwined among the dampened blades of grass.
Chilled and wet, Pete arrived back at the house just before his father stepped through the door, expecting the table to be set and the leftovers in the oven warming.
Pete had been spanked for not having dinner ready, but the punishment underscored what Eve had told him.
A human father’s love is limited, but our Heavenly Father’s love has no boundaries.
That night, he’d learned the difference.
But he was a grown man now. Could he rely on the God of his childhood? Especially since Pete had shut Him out of his life for so long?
Pete had nowhere else to turn, and he had to find Meredith.
“Help me,” Pete mumbled, his hands gripping the steering wheel.
The road narrowed, and the undergrowth in the surrounding woods thickened so that he could see nothing through the trees.
Hopelessness settled over him.
He pushed it aside.
Help me. The childlike prayer rumbled through his mind unbidden as if another had whispered the words.
At that instant, his BlackBerry rang.
He grabbed the phone and pushed the access button.
A photo appeared on the screen. A gnarled oak with a horizontal limb jutting out from the trunk, the perfect branch from which to hang a swing.
He’d seen the tree earlier as he’d maneuvered back and forth along the country road. But where?
Turning the car around, he retraced his route, trying to jar his memory. He’d been down so many roads.
Would he ever find the tree?
Would he ever find Meredith?
“Help me,” he said again and again, wondering if God was listening.
Javier turned the bolt, locking Meredith in the small basement room, not much larger than a closet. She’d staggered down the steps, tripping over herself, half falling, half being dragged before he’d shoved her into this corner nook, overriding her protests and struggles to get free.
His footsteps sounded now as he climbed the stairs. Overhead, the door to the main floor slammed shut.
Meredith tried to breathe, her lungs tight from the mold and mildew that hung in the air. Threads of panic stitched their way down her spine.
A tiny window allowed a sliver of sunlight to filter into the confined area. She repositioned herself in the light, finding comfort from the rays that managed to break through the grimy glass.
Night was fast approaching.
Hopefully, she would be able to free herself before then. But how?
The only good thing about being alone in the basement was that she could finally call Pete. Pulling her cell from her pocket, she tapped in his number. The screen displayed a pinwheel of color as the system roamed for a signal, then went blank.
CALL FAILED.
Frustration and fear welled up within her. She coughed to clear her lungs. Her back ached. The cold cement floor added to her discomfort.
Climbing first to her knees and then to her feet, she slowly and methodically worked her hands over the rough walls, hoping to find a way to escape. All she found was an old coal shovel.
How had she gotten herself into this mess?
Everything had started when the plant closed, and Ben had been out of work. Sure, they’d had problems, mainly focused on Ben’s habit of spending more than they made. But he had been a good man, who was attentive and made her feel special. No one had done that before.
Somehow she’d equated that with love.
Although content, theirs had been a flawed marriage from the start.
Undoubtedly, Ben had sensed that, too. Maybe that was the reason he’d taken out the loan. Once again, he’d been too extravagant, too focused on material things.
Their problems escalated when the plant where Ben worked had closed and the thugs demanded payment. Then unexpectedly, they offered Ben a job on the fishing boat, which had seemed like the answer to Meredith’s prayers.
She never realized that the men planned to make an example of Ben.
The loan sharks were a shady bunch, and her husband suspected that the cops turned a blind eye to what was happening. “Don’t talk about the loan to anyone or things could get worse,” Ben had warned her the night before his death.
Things had gotten worse. First his murder, then, while she was still reeling from Ben’s death, the loan sharks had demanded the money in one lump sum. They’d upped the interest, and the final tally was far more than the original loan.
She told them she’d make good on everything after the baby was born, and once she could ge
t a steady job.
But they weren’t interested in her problems and planned to do her harm. That was why she’d run.
The light dimmed and a roll of thunder sounded outside.
She needed Pete—his strength and his determination.
Meredith pulled her cell from her pocket once again. If only she could pick up a signal. She clicked on the power source, but the screen remained black.
Pivoting toward the window, she wrapped her arms around her belly.
“Where are you, Pete?” she whispered as night fell, leaving her in darkness.
TWELVE
“Hoo-ah!”
The army cheer slipped from Pete’s mouth as he spied the old oak with the swing branch. If he hadn’t been searching so diligently, he would have missed the tree and the narrow path that wove back into the clearing. Peering through the foliage, he saw a two-story farmhouse, probably circa 1800, with twin fireplaces and a sagging front porch surrounded by a thick bed of kudzu. Tall pines and giant oaks tangled around the aged structure, nearly blocking any view of it from the road.
He passed by the gravel driveway and turned onto a dirt trail—hardly more than a deer path—farther down the road. Meandering back into the deep woods, he parked behind a large thicket of sweet gum trees and dense underbrush that offered protection from anyone who happened into the isolated backwoods.
Pete picked up his BlackBerry from the console and tapped in 911. Now that he’d found Meredith, he needed the help of the local police.
Pulling the mobile close, he expected to hear a ring. Instead, the pounding pulse of his own heartbeat sounded in his ear.
Lowering the phone, he glanced at the screen. His gut tightened.
No signal. No cell coverage. No way to contact the police.
Whether he liked it or not, everything rested on his shoulders. Meredith’s safety—perhaps her life—depended on him. He had to succeed. He had to save her.
Pete opened his glove compartment and pulled out a Maglite. Shoving it into his pocket, he climbed from the car and picked his way through the dense forest. The outline of the farmhouse came into view on his right. He glanced left, noting the crumbling remains of an outbuilding.
Keeping undercover, Pete circled to the front of the property and hunkered down in the brush, biding his time.
A short guy, dark skin—probably Latino—stepped outside.
Wouldn’t be too hard to get the upper hand on that one. What about his partner? Sheila had mentioned two men, but for all Pete knew, more could be inside.
He strained to hear some sound or snippet of conversation coming from the old farmhouse. All he could identify was the Latino’s attempt to whistle in the wind.
Time to scout out the rear entrance. Slowly and methodically, Pete edged around the house to where the pickup truck sat parked beside the back stoop.
He glanced at the second-story dormer windows. If they were holding Meredith in an upstairs bedroom, he’d have to risk climbing onto the overhang that covered the porch. As old and dilapidated as the house was, the thin metal would surely buckle, the noise alerting anyone inside.
Pete dropped his gaze to what appeared to be the kitchen window. A man peered through the glass panes, looking out at the backyard.
Had he spotted Pete?
He held his breath. Any movement might catch the other man’s attention.
Something slithered underfoot. Pete’s neck tingled. He glanced down. A copperhead, probably three feet long, swished through the brush.
Not the time to flinch.
The face in the window retreated. Pete mentally counted to twenty-five, giving the deadly snake ample opportunity to disappear into the thicket.
Turning in the opposite direction, he retraced his steps to the outbuilding he’d seen earlier.
Recalling other pre–Civil War farmhouses, Pete knew the one room constructed of red clay brick was probably an old smokehouse or freestanding kitchen where servants had cooked food to keep the heat from the master’s house in summer. Locating this building away from the main dwelling ensured that a fire sparked by grease or burning embers would never destroy what must have originally been the impressive home of a well-to-do Georgia farmer.
Focused on his target, Pete moved as silently as the snake through the thick undergrowth until he reached the outbuilding. Wiping away the film of cobwebs that barred the open doorway, he stepped onto the raised floor of the now-barren structure.
A large stone fireplace took up one wall, blackened with soot. Only a portion of the roof remained. A bird had made a nest in the crossbeams overhead and flew from its perch when Pete disrupted its solitude.
Floorboards creaked as he stepped toward a three-legged stool discarded in the corner. Pete turned it upright and lowered himself onto the seat.
Dropping his head into his hands, he closed his eyes.
How would he get inside the house to find Meredith? When he thought about her plight his gut tightened and anger bubbled up within him. Instead of focusing on her green eyes and raven hair, he needed to concentrate on how to set her free.
His first option? Make a disturbance to force the thugs outside. He could take one guy, maybe two.
But if there were more men—or if they drew their weapons—he’d be out of luck.
Which was exactly where he was right now.
Option two? Tiny windows at the base of the house established that there was a basement, which might provide an entrance. If Pete waited until night when the kidnappers slept, he could jimmy a window and gain entry without their noticing.
Thunder rumbled overhead, sounding like night fire on a maneuver range. The storm couldn’t be far away.
As if on cue, raindrops splattered against the roughly hewn floor and increased in intensity until a narrow stream of water ran across the uneven floorboards.
Pete scraped his shoe over the litter of leaves and debris, noticing a raised section. Wedging his fingers between the planks, he tugged, but the boards failed to separate.
He grabbed a fallen branch from outside the doorway and jammed the tip of the stick into the crack. Using it as a lever, he forced the planks apart and raised what appeared to be a trapdoor.
The smell of damp earth, mildew and Georgia red clay wafted past him. A cockroach scurried along the dirt and disappeared under the flooring.
A hand-hewn wooden ladder angled down into the darkness. Lightning ignited the sky, revealing a tunnel that headed in the direction of the main house.
Pete thought of the stories folks had told him about their ancestors yearning to be free. Had the old farmhouse been a stopping point on the Underground Railroad for runaway slaves journeying north? The tunnel would have provided a rapid escape route when less-than-sympathetic neighbors came calling.
If so, Pete may have found a way to reach Meredith.
Now all he needed to do was lower himself into the pit.
Hopefully the earthen walls wouldn’t collapse around him.
Meredith’s throat was dry and her muscles ached, but she thought little of her own discomfort. Ignoring the darkness, she focused instead on getting free.
When she’d finally gotten the courage and the opportunity to escape her adoptive father’s oppressive control, she’d vowed never to allow herself to be dominated by any man again.
And never to enter confined spaces.
Too many memories returned to her now, along with the fear she’d known as a child each time Sam Collins had locked her up.
Jamming her back against the wall, Meredith drew her legs toward her chest, forming a protective cradle for her baby.
Footsteps sounded overhead. The men who had forced her into this dungeon had killed Ben and planned to kill her as well.
More footsteps, then the sound of water running and cabinets banging.
If only she could find something that would serve as a weapon.
Where was the shovel?
In the dark, she used her hands to grope over the cement floor
until her fingers touched the metal handle. Clutching it to her chest, she walked around the confined area and stopped when she felt the hinges on the door. If she stood against the wall, she’d be hidden from view when it opened.
Would she be strong enough to strike a blow?
She had no choice. She had to escape.
Meredith backed into the corner. A dull pounding in her temples warned that she’d gone too long without water. Her legs cramped. She stretched out the tightness.
More movement overhead, followed by footsteps.
Another sound. Faint but persistent scratching. Perhaps a mouse or rat, scurrying to find shelter in the recesses of the basement.
As much as she didn’t like rodents, they were less of a fear than the man whose footsteps pounded down the stairs.
The scratching stopped, the creature no doubt frightened by the approaching human presence.
Meredith’s mouth was dry as cotton while sweat moistened her palms. She wiped one and then the other along her pants, before repositioning her fingers around the handle of the shovel. Raising it overhead, she mentally pictured herself striking a blow when the guy stepped through the door.
Her goal? To knock him out.
And then what?
She’d have to climb the stairs and face the other man. She gripped the shovel even more tightly.
Lord, I need help.
A light flipped on in the main basement area and shined through the crack under the door.
Meredith pulled in a steadying breath.
The lock clicked. The latch turned. Slowly the door opened.
“Hey, señora, you want some chow?”
Javier.
He stepped into the darkened interior, holding a plate of food before him.
Meredith swung the shovel downward. The blade caught the corner of his ear and cut into his flesh.
“Agh!” he screeched, stumbling forward.
She raised the shovel and struck again.
He dropped to his knees then crashed to the floor. The plate slammed against the cement, shattering.
