by Paula Graves
“Three of our elders.”
“Names?”
He was silent for a long moment. “Colton Bradbury, Mary Partlain and Brantley Bradbury.”
She tried to place their positions in the Bradbury family. Asa’s parents were both dead, but Asa’s father had had two brothers, if she remembered correctly. “Colton’s your uncle, right? And Mary Partlain?”
“My father’s cousin. And Brantley is my uncle Bevill’s eldest son.”
“And in what possible way is this a fair tribunal?”
“You’ll have your say. It’s more than you gave Clinton.”
“Oh, he had his say.” Anger eclipsed fear as the images from that terrible night flooded her brain, driving out everything but rage at what Clinton Bradbury had forced her to do to defend herself. “He said a lot of profane and wicked things to me before he tried to pin me to my bed, strip off my clothes and violate my body against my will.”
“You’re wasting your breath on me, Susan. I am not the one you’ll need to convince.” Even as he spoke, the van pulled to a stop.
Kenny Bradbury cut the engine and turned around to look at Asa. “We’re here.”
Asa rose to his feet and reached across to open the panel van’s side door. Attached to him by the handcuff, Susannah had no choice but to rise as well, following him out of the van into the cold night air. Her ragged breath condensed as it hit the cold air, mingling with the misty swirls of Asa’s slower, calmer exhalations.
In silence, he led her to an angled door, well-hidden by high-growing grass, about ten yards from the small, silent cabin that slumbered in the clearing. Surrounded by towering evergreens and autumn-hued hardwoods already starting to shed their leaves for the winter, the clearing was overgrown and littered with fallen leaves that crunched beneath Susannah’s boots as she stumbled after him, tugged along by the handcuff and the sheer strength of Asa Bradbury’s determination.
He waited for Kenny to unlock the padlock holding the cellar door closed, then nudged Susannah down a set of cinder-block stairs descending into the dark belly of the root cellar. With a tug of a chain, he turned on the only light in the room, a bald bulb screwed into a fixture attached to an exposed wooden beam in the cellar’s unfinished ceiling.
He gave her a prod toward an old, battered sofa someone had pushed up against one of the cellar’s dirt walls. “Sit.”
She did as he ordered, gauging her chances at making a run for her life. Not good, she decided as he deftly removed the cuff around his wrist and slid it through one link of a chain hanging from a hook in the ceiling. “You should have enough chain to reach the toilet if you need it,” he said, waving his hand toward a portable toilet chair standing nearby. “And you should be comfortable enough sleeping. I suggest you try to rest. There’s not a lot of night left.”
Without saying anything more to her, he headed back up the steps and disappeared through the door, closing it behind him. She heard the rattle of the padlock being reengaged.
Then there was nothing but silence, broken only by the thunderous cadence of her own pulse in her ears.
She checked her watch. Only four hours had passed since she and Hunter had left Quinn’s cabin for their mission at the hotel.
Hunter, she thought, her heart sinking. What if she’d been wrong? What if he’d really been unconscious, or worse? She’d seen him breathing—she’d been able to reassure herself of that much, at least. But he might have sustained a closed head injury. His brain might be swelling right now, deadly pressure building in his skull.
Why hadn’t she made them let her check on him?
How could she have left him behind that way?
She had to get out of here. Yes, the cellar door was padlocked, and yes, she was handcuffed to a chain, but there were ways of getting out of handcuffs, right? All she had to do was find the right tool.
The cellar was mostly bare—probably cleaned out specifically to make sure she wouldn’t find anything to aid in her escape. But after a few minutes of searching, and stretching the chain to its limit, she found an old mesh bag of what looked to be desiccated, rotted potatoes. The blackened lumps only vaguely resembled their original state, and the smell rising from the bag was less than pleasant. But the bag itself was tied at one end by a metal twist tie. Susannah unwound the tie from the bag and stripped away the paper coating to reveal a thin, flexible wire.
“That’ll do,” she murmured with satisfaction, returning to the sofa and bending the wire in an L-shape. Before her grandmother had pulled her out of her father’s home, she’d learned a few lessons in, well, less-than-legal arts. One of those things had been how to pick a handcuff lock.
The wire her father had used to teach her had been a twisted paper clip, which was considerably stiffer and less flexible than the twist tie she was currently applying to the handcuff lock. But with some finesse and, she had to admit, a whole lot of luck, she managed to get the wire in just the right position to spring the lock. The cuff fell open and she pulled her hand free, elated.
But her elation seeped away almost immediately. She’d won only the first battle, she knew, her gaze sliding toward the closed cellar doors at the top of the cinder-block stairs. The next part of the war would be the hardest. She had to figure out a way to get rid of the padlock trapping her in place.
From the inside, without a single tool at her disposal.
Chapter Sixteen
Hunter parked near the top of the ridge and consulted the map application on the burner phone Quinn had provided. Based on a few calculations and some extrapolation of information he’d found online, he figured that Laurel Bald should be dead ahead as the crow flew.
He lifted the binoculars he’d packed and peered through the predawn gloom. The night was mostly clear, but cold and damp enough for mists to settle into the coves and valleys between the rounded mountain peaks, partially obscuring his view.
After a few moments, however, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and a faint paleness began to separate itself from the gloom. A mostly treeless summit, dun-colored due to autumn die-off—a bald, as it was known in this part of the Appalachians.
That had to be Laurel Bald, didn’t it?
He scanned the mountain beneath the bald, looking for signs of habitation. Most of the homes in Boneyard Ridge were scattered along the main road that wound its way around the mountain, denser in the lower elevations but growing more scattered where the road began to climb more steeply as it reached the summit.
There were a couple of houses located near the bald. He couldn’t make out any lights from within the cabin walls, but slender fingers of smoke rose from stone chimneys to mingle with the mountain mists.
He punched in the number of Quinn’s latest burner phone.
His boss answered on the first ring. “Still alive?”
“So far. Don’t suppose you’ve had any luck analyzing those herbs?”
“This soon? No. I’m going to make some calls come daylight, though. See if we can’t get the cop conference put on hold. I know some people high up in that law enforcement society—they’ll listen to me.”
“Why didn’t you just do that in the first place?”
“I wanted to see what you could come up with first. It’s a hell of a lot easier to go to them with all the information you and Ms. Marsh managed to put together than to go in there with nothing concrete to offer.”
There was a lot Quinn wasn’t saying, but Hunter didn’t have time to sort through his boss’s half-truths and lies of omission. “Any chance you could give me some insight on the Bradburys before I go running in there half-cocked?”
“I was hoping you’d put the brakes on long enough to ask a pertinent question or two,” Quinn said, grim amusement tinting his voice. “There are three main branches of the family, but only one you really need to worry about—Asa Bradbury, the younger of Aaron Bradbury’s two sons and the head of the family now that the old man and Clinton are gone. Old Aaron had two brothers, Colton and Bevill, but B
evill had a stroke several years ago and he’s disabled. His son Brantley has taken over for his father in the family business but he’s not that interested in getting his hands dirty. And Colton’s getting old now, so his son Kenny’s doing a lot of the work of transporting drugs and keeping their dealers from getting any ideas about branching out on their own. He’s more brawn than brains.”
“Asa must have been the one doing all the talking tonight.” Hunter pushed his hand through his short-cropped hair, wincing as his fingertips brushed over the painful lump at the back of his head. “He mentioned a tribunal tomorrow at ten. They’re actually pretending to put her on trial?”
“Some of these old hill families see themselves as the law in their own little enclaves. You ought to know that, growing up in Bitterwood.”
“So we have until ten in the morning to get her out of there.”
“You ready for that backup I offered?”
He thought about it. “I’d like them in position. I’m parked at an overlook right now that could work as a staging area. It’s far enough from Laurel Bald that I think they’d be safe gathering here. I need to go in alone, see if I can get her out of there without raising a big ruckus, but it would be real nice to have backup close enough that they can help us get out of there if things go bad before we can get to safety.”
“Give me the coordinates and I’ll get everyone in position. You’re going in now, I presume?”
“Yeah. I’ve spotted a turnoff about a quarter mile from the bald that should give me a place to leave the SUV and strike out on foot.”
“You up to that? You took a hell of a knock to the head. I saw the lump. That wasn’t a love tap.”
“I’m fine,” Hunter answered. It was mostly the truth. His head hurt, yes, but primarily on the outside. He wasn’t dizzy or confused. The past few days of hiking had actually built up his stamina, rather than reduced it.
And even if none of that had been true, he would still be heading up the mountain after Susannah.
“Backup’s on the way. You have Sutton Calhoun’s cell number memorized?”
“I do.”
“He’ll be the point man, then. Call him and he’ll take care of getting the backup crew where you need them.” Quinn hung up without another word.
Pocketing the phone, Hunter started the SUV engine and pulled out of the overlook parking area and back onto the two-lane mountain road.
* * *
WHAT SHE NEEDED was an ax. She could chop through the weathered wood of the cellar door without worrying about the padlock if she just had an ax. Unfortunately, Asa Bradbury hadn’t seen fit to leave such a tool at her disposal. Nor could she have tried unscrewing the hinges—not that she had a screwdriver—because the hinges were on the outside of the door.
No ax. No screwdriver. No hope.
She backed down the cinder-block stairs and settled on the musty old sofa, tears of despair pricking her eyes. She fought against them, both the tears and the despair, determined not to be paralyzed just because she hadn’t yet found an easy solution.
A quick glance at her watch told her she still had several hours left before the tribunal. Part of her, the bleary-headed, gritty-eyed part, wanted to spend that time asleep. Surely the only thing worse than running out of time was spending what was left of her time on earth futilely beating her head against a cinder-block wall she had no hope of tearing down.
But what if Hunter needed her? What if he was still lying on the floor in the hotel basement, his brain swelling past the point of no return? What if she could save him if she could just find her way out of here and reach a phone?
A soft, swishing sound coming from outside the cellar door drew her attention back to her current problem. The sound grew closer, then stopped. For a long moment, there was no sound at all except for the thudding of her pulse in her ears.
Then she heard the faint rattle of metal against metal.
Someone had just moved the padlock.
Panic setting in, she reached for the handcuff dangling from the chain and slipped it around her wrist, stopping just short of clicking it shut. If her visitor outside was Asa or one of the other Bradburys, maybe they wouldn’t look too closely at the cuff.
As she waited, breathless, the furtive metal-on-metal noises continued, barely there, and she realized whoever might be working on the padlock outside, it wasn’t anyone who had a key.
Which meant it wasn’t one of the Bradburys.
Slipping the cuff from her wrist, she quietly crossed to the stairs and climbed until she could put her eye against the narrow slit between the double cellar doors. She could see almost nothing through the narrow space, the darkness outside nearly complete.
But she could hear someone breathing, a soft whisper of respiration that seemed so familiar she almost thought she was imagining it.
Was she hearing what she wanted to hear? Panic could play terrible tricks with a person’s mind, and she was about as scared as she’d ever been in her whole life.
But she had to take a chance. If she was imagining things, if there was nobody out there at all, what could it hurt?
“Help me,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
For a second, the world around her went thick with silence again. Then she heard a whisper in return. “Susannah?”
Her knees wobbled, forcing her to grab the inside handle of the door to keep from tumbling backward down the cinder-block stairs. “Hunter?”
“It’s me, baby. I found you. I just—I don’t have anything to pick this lock. Your friends took my gun and my knife, and stupidly, I didn’t pack another one.”
“I did,” she whispered back to him. “I found one at Quinn’s place, and I didn’t have room in my pack, so I stuck it in yours. But I forgot to get it before we hiked to the hotel. It’s in one of the inner pockets.”
She heard a rustling noise and then a soft murmur of excitement. “You wonderful, wonderful woman.”
“Don’t try picking the lock. Use the screwdriver blade and just unscrew the door hinges.” Tamping down the flood of excitement that threatened to swamp her senses completely, she added, “But be careful. The Bradburys may be on the lookout for an escape attempt.”
“I’m keeping an eye out. And I’m not alone. There are six other agents from The Gates out here in the woods behind me. I called in backup.”
She heard a new rasping sound, coming from the right side of the door. He must be attacking the hinges now. She settled on the steps, listening to the sounds of his handiwork, and realized she’d been wrong about miracles.
Being snatched from the hotel parking lot and hauled off into the woods by this maddening, marvelous man had been one of the most miraculous things that had ever happened to her.
Considering how slowly time had been passing since Asa Bradbury had dumped her in this cellar, it seemed only a few seconds later that Hunter whispered through the door, “Let’s give it a go.”
She turned to watch as Hunter eased the door away from the hinge. The padlock didn’t allow the door to move much, but the narrow opening provided enough space for Susannah to slide through and scramble onto the grass outside.
Before she had a chance to say a word, Hunter had scooped her up and started running with her. A heartbeat later, the sharp bark of a pistol explained his sudden flight.
Someone was shooting at them.
* * *
ASA BRADBURY HAD been eighteen years old when his brother Clinton broke into Myra Stokes’s neat little cabin with the intention of claiming Myra’s granddaughter for himself. Asa had had one foot out of town, a hardship scholarship to Tennessee in his pocket and visions of a life outside the claustrophobic rock bluffs of Boneyard Ridge when his mother had walked into the bedroom he shared with his older brother and informed him that Clinton was dead.
“You’re the head of the family now,” she’d said, her voice like steel beneath her tears. “You know what you have to do.”
Oh, he’d known. But he
hadn’t liked it.
Still didn’t.
But that’s what came from being trapped in a life he didn’t want. His choices had been stripped away that cold November night. Just as he had no choice now but to go after the McKenzie girl and the man who’d stolen her away.
He didn’t waste time wondering what would happen if he called off the pursuit. He might be the alpha dog in this pack, but there were hungry young curs circling his position, waiting for any sign of weakness.
There was no walking away from the life he’d inherited. No different path available to him, the way it had been available so briefly, a tantalizing prize just out of his reach, until Clinton’s death.
Murder, he thought. He should call it murder. That’s how the family still spoke of Clinton’s death, as if it had been an act of evil perpetrated by a selfish, venal, young temptress.
But Asa drew the line at lying to himself. He knew what Clinton had been like. The impulse-control problems. The colossal sense of entitlement that had come with inheriting control of the Bradbury family business long before he was ready for it.
Asa hadn’t been ready for it, either. But at least he’d been smart enough to do whatever it took to learn how to be a ruthless mountain drug lord before the circling wolves could take him out.
One of those lessons was about the folly of mercy. Mercy was a sign of weakness. There was no place for mercy in the world in which Asa and his family lived. So the girl had to face the tribunal. And her protector had to be eliminated.
That was the law of the hills. The law of the Bradburys.
Swallowing a sigh of frustration, Asa reloaded his Winchester .700 and followed his kinsmen into the woods.
* * *
A BULLET WHIPPED past Hunter’s ear and hit the tree beside him, sending wood and bark shrapnel flying. A splinter grazed his forehead but he kept running, pushing Susannah ahead of him as they scrambled through the underbrush, heading deeper into the forest.
The straighter path to the place where he’d left the SUV would have been to head right over the bald, but the dearth of trees would have made them easy targets for whoever was behind them taking potshots. They were lucky to have gotten a head start; if the person snapping off rounds at them were better with that rifle he was wielding, they might both be dead already.
