The Trouble With Murder

by Catherine Nelson

  The complete absence of light was unnerving and incredibly disorienting. I’m not afraid of the dark. I don’t believe in ghosts. I’m not particularly upset by bugs or rodents, although I didn’t like the idea of either. But the impact of perfect darkness on one’s psyche is a well-documented phenomenon. Two minutes after waking up, I realized I’d be no exception. The panic I’d been feeling earlier was back and had increased exponentially. I was having more and more difficulty keeping it at bay.

  I may have been down, but I wasn’t ready to count myself out just yet. I knew I’d be as good as dead if I lost control and succumbed to the panic.

  All I really needed to do was stall for time. Time enough for a rescue or an escape. The exchange in the truck had been recorded on the tip line after I’d dropped the phone into my pocket; I was sure. Or, I had to hope, anyway. Of course, I realized it was stupid to bank on such a hope, considering it was my life hanging in the balance.

  I had a feeling I was no longer at Stacy Karnes’s house. That being true, if someone did eventually get my message and figure out it wasn’t a prank, the police would now have to track me down. In which case, I sincerely hoped they had more information than I did, more information than I thought they did, and that there were a limited number of places I could be right now.

  I was also sure my five o’clock deadline had past. I prayed Koepke would make good on his threat and come looking for me. Even if he showed up with an arrest warrant in one hand and handcuffs in the other, I’d be damn glad to see him.

  Struggling, biting my lip to keep from screaming in pain, I worked to sit up. Every time I pushed with my right arm, the cuffs pulled my left and made me dizzy, the pain in my shoulder white-hot. It was a real possibility the stitches had been pulled loose. Finally, I got myself sitting up, my arms cuffed behind me, my legs straight out in front of me. I sat bent forward at the waist, panting and sweating, trying to suck in air and fight off the vertigo and nausea.

  After a moment of recovery, I turned back to business. I wanted to know if the phone was still in my pocket. I thought the chances were good the phone had been discovered and taken from me while I was unconscious, which I guessed had come from a stun gun. If I still had the phone, perhaps it would be possible to make a call.

  Wincing at the pain, I reached down with my right hand, pulling my left along. I felt my pocket, finding it empty. I sighed and sagged forward. I hadn’t really expected it to be there, but I couldn’t deny the disappointment. The disappointment only served to fuel the panic, however, so I quickly switched gears.

  Time to start thinking about how to get out of here. A rescue would be great, but I wasn’t willing to put all my eggs in Koepke’s basket and sit around waiting for him to show up. For all I knew, he was all bark and no bite, and had no intention whatsoever of tracking me down and hauling me in for questioning.

  I needed to get up. Then I could feel around the room and perhaps find a door. There was always the chance they hadn’t bothered to lock the door because they thought I was unconscious. Or maybe they assumed I’d be too weak to get off the floor even if I did wake up. Whoever I had talked to in the truck outside Stacy’s house had seemed mostly cocky, until I’d cracked that confidence and instilled doubt. Cockiness would lead a person to make a silly mistake and underestimate an opponent. A silly mistake like leaving the door unlocked.

  It was thin, oh so thin, but it was all I had. Either that, or wait. And I’ve never really been much for waiting. I tried standing straight up, but the pain in my shoulder made balance all but impossible, and I kept falling back down. Instead, I tried getting to my knees. It took a couple tries, but I finally got it and was able to stand from there.

  I was panting, doubled over at the waist, sucking in breath. The air was stale and rank, and I felt like it was difficult to breathe. I decided this was the panic playing to my fears, so I quickly worked to put it out of my mind. Even if it was getting harder to breathe, if I was running out of oxygen, thinking about it—worrying about it—wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

  When I could stand upright again, my left shoulder sagging uselessly against the restraint, I began to move. My best interpretation of my senses was that this was some kind of cellar or basement. I got the distinct impression it was below ground, and I was definitely inside. Operating on that conclusion, I began moving very slowly.

  Being unable to see where I was going was a huge hindrance to the process. I was afraid to move, afraid I’d run into something I’d prefer not to. I was also afraid of knocking something over, or causing some other kind of noise that would alert my captors to the fact that I was awake. I shuffled forward inch by inch, leading with my right shoulder. Whatever I ran up against, I didn’t want to lead with my face.

  In order to keep the panic from settling in, I tried to keep my brain moving. Questions seemed the easiest way of accomplishing this. The first, most-obvious question was, who took me? The next was, why? I didn’t think the person who had appeared at the truck had come after me before. The way they spoke, the way they commented about my reported reputation, made me think they had no personal experience. I like to think of myself as memorable. At least, I thought I would be memorable to a person who had confronted me in the lobby of an apartment building, chased me through a restaurant with a gun, or showed up at the place I was staying in the middle of the night and tried to kill me. I supposed the most obvious answer to the “why” question would be my connection to Stacy Karnes and Tyler Jay. I had seen Stacy Karnes attacked, and I’d been looking for Tyler Jay. (Well, looking and finding.)

  I came up against something solid. The scent of dirt was stronger. I turned my back to it and touched it with my hands. It was a concrete wall. My cellar theory was looking more and more likely. Keeping my arm and hand on the wall, I shuffled forward slowly, still leading with my shoulder, on the alert for any sign of a door.

  Who would have cronies? I’d already seen Tyler Jay’s entourage. Maybe those people could be described as cronies. It seemed they were already doing his bidding, staying with him while he hid all over town, running interference for him when people wandered by (or knocked on the door). If Jay was as bad as they said he was, then it was entirely possible he was behind this. If it was Jay, I was having a hard time coming up with a reason. Who was I to Jay that he would want to kidnap me, possibly murder me?

  Where had that person at the truck come from? I’d only just parked and had enough time to put the phone to my ear before the gun was pressed against my head. I hadn’t heard anything through the open windows or seen anything in the mirrors. If that person had hid in another vehicle or behind a vehicle or bush, how did he or she know where I was going to park? I hadn’t heard any car doors after I parked; it seemed unlikely the gunman had come out of a car. So what, then? He or she didn’t just drop out of the sky or ooze up through the ground.

  I came to another corner. The cold concrete of one side met another at a ninety-degree angle. I changed my direction and continued with my chore, using the same approach. So far, I had come across nothing that could be a door or an outlet, no furniture or fixtures, no objects of any sort. I had also counted fifteen paces from where I had started to the corner. When I came to the next corner, I had counted twenty-three paces, give or take. Because I had nothing else, I adopted the working theory the room was square.

  I was ten paces along the next wall when I heard the unmistakable sound of a key in a lock. So much for the unlocked-door theory. I froze and listened as a doorknob turned, creaking from age or disuse or both.

  23

  The door, heavy by the sound of it, swung in, squeaking on its hinges. A long bar of dim light appeared on the floor and grew wider as the door opened. I now saw I was standing against the wall with the door. In the light, which was blinding after the total darkness, I could see a large shelf beside me, laden with jars and cans, pots and pans, and several glass vases. I hoped it would temporarily shield me from whoever had come to check on me, and that
whatever delay it provided me would be the extra few seconds I would need.

  The light pouring in through the open door was natural but dim; I’d been unconscious from the stun gun longer than I’d estimated. My five o’clock deadline with Detective Koepke was certainly long past. It also told me whatever room I was in opened to the outside, which supported my cellar theory. There were a lot of older homes in Fort Collins, and I thought it seemed likely any number of them had cellars. But something deep down caused me to doubt I was still in Fort Collins. Actually, it was the fact that the cellar was so cold—too cold, I thought, to be in town, where temperatures had been in the nineties for three days straight. Either way, it did limit the number of places I could be.

  The room was indeed square, made of cold concrete, and very dirty. There was nothing in it aside from several large shelving units near the door. And no source of artificial lighting.

  Around the edge of the shelf, I saw the muzzle of a gun first, then a black gloved hand. As the figure continued forward, obviously confused about not finding me on the floor, he or she began looking around, a large flashlight in a second hand. Now that I could see the figure fully, I saw the expected bad-guy uniform complete with ski mask. This was not someone I thought I’d met previously, however, because I didn’t recognize the gun, and it was held in the left hand. None of my other visitors had been left-handed. The figure looked to the left, shining the light into the deepest corner behind the shelf and seeing nothing. Then the figure turned to the right. I took a breath then closed my mind to the pain I knew was coming.

  I held my weight on my right leg and lifted my left, striking upward at the gun. There was a cry of surprise and the report of a gunshot. The arm flew up, the person pulling the trigger reflexively, the shot landing in the concrete ceiling. The figure stumbled backward but managed to keep hold of the gun. I was afraid he or she would kill me out of retaliation or self-preservation, even though he or she didn’t seem to have come down here for that reason. Before the shooter could aim, I kicked forward for all I was worth, the sole of my shoe connecting with the figure’s chest. There was the sound of air rushing from the figure’s lungs, and I was sure I also heard the snap of bone. I kicked again, this time sinking my foot into soft belly.

  The figure doubled over and stumbled backward. I moved with him (I now felt sure this one was male), keeping the distance between us minimal and my eye on the gun. The figure crashed to the floor, landing heavily, and I rushed for his left arm, stomping on it with a foot and pinning it to the ground. Now the gun was pointed harmlessly toward the wall. The figure had dropped the flashlight, and it rolled across the floor, coming to a stop against the wall with a flicker. His right arm was banded across his chest as he writhed in pain, trying to suck in a breath.

  I considered my next move as the light from the open door was interrupted. Looking at the door more closely now, I saw there was a very small slab of pavement between it and concrete steps leading up away from the cellar. I couldn’t see the top of the stairs, but I imagined they opened to a backyard.

  I saw black boots on the stairs. Then a second uniformed figure appeared, this one with a familiar gun held in both hands—the gun the shooter at the motel had used. It was pointed steadily at my forehead.

  “Back away,” the newcomer croaked. It was impossible to tell from the voice if the person was male or female, but based on the height, which I guessed to be about six feet, and the narrow hips, I was positive this person was also a man.

  “That doesn’t seem like my best move,” I said. I was panting, exhausted from the pain and exertion.

  “I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

  He was serious. Nothing about his posture, his dark brown eyes, or his demeanor gave any indication there would be a moment of hesitation.

  “All right,” I said. “You’ve persuaded me.”

  Slowly, I lifted my foot off the first guy’s arm and took a step back. Step after step, I backed away. I was briefly worried the first guy would shoot me as payback. The second man seemed to sense the same thing.

  “Don’t,” he cautioned the first. “Get up.”

  “The bitch broke my ribs!” the first guy croaked. He was not trying to disguise his voice, however; he was simply in pain and out of breath. My guess as to gender was still only that: a guess. But it felt right.

  “Just get up.”

  We waited, watching while the first guy struggled to stand and leave the cellar. The entire time, the second man held the gun on me without ever wavering, displaying no doubt or hesitation. This man was certainly thin enough to be Tyler Jay, but I thought he was too tall. Of course, the last time I had seen Tyler Jay, we had not been on equal footing, so my estimations might have been off. Still, I didn’t think it was him. Based on the cool confidence, the level of control, I was considering this person to be the leader. The only reason I doubted it was because I thought for sure the leader would be someone I’d already met. With the mask, it was difficult to be certain, but I didn’t think I knew this guy.

  _______________

  The men left and secured the door behind them. Neither had bothered to collect the dropped flashlight. There were still parts of the cellar that were dark, but the light helped immensely in warding off the confusion and despair I had experienced before, in total blackness. Even if it was getting dimmer.

  I decided it was pointless to try to get through the door, because I’d clearly heard the lock engage. What would be more helpful would be to get the damn handcuffs off. I thought I could use the flashlight to search the shelves for something with which to pick the lock. Lock picking is something of a pastime for me. It had also been a required skill during my brief walk on the other side of the legal line. Picking the lock on the cellar door would likely be impossible from this side, but picking the cuffs was another matter entirely.

  Handcuffs have the type of locks that can be picked with any number of items. I wasn’t sure what I’d find on the shelves, but I thought I might be able to find something useful. A small knife, maybe, or a screwdriver, even a paperclip or—

  Oh!

  A hairpin. Like the bobby pins in my pocket.

  Already I felt the pain surge through my shoulder at trying to retrieve those pins. I walked over and stood in the beam of the flashlight. It blinked off then on again. I cursed the damn thing and the idiot who’d dropped it. Just like a kidnapper to drop a flashlight with shitty batteries.

  Leaning my left shoulder against the wall, I twisted my right hip backward as I pulled my right hand forward. My left arm screamed with pain, and sweat ran over my skin. I knew I was holding my breath, but I couldn’t seem to make myself exhale.

  My fingers found my pocket. Twisting a bit further, tears filling my eyes and squeezing past my pinched eyelids, I finally got my fingertips into the pocket. I began pulling up, working the fabric up and out of my pants. After what felt like forever, I had reached the bottom of the pocket. A bit of careful searching found the pins, and I pulled them out, relaxing. I resumed breathing, my chest heaving, as I leaned back against the wall.

  Soon, I sank to the ground, knowing full well I’d have to get the cuffs off if I had any chance of getting back up. The exertion so soon after being shot was draining me quickly. Soon I would be drawing on reserve strength and after that . . . well, I didn’t want to think about after that.

  I slid one pin into my back pocket for safekeeping then worked with the other. I held the pin in my left hand while I used my right to feel around the cuff, trying to locate the lock. If the kidnappers put them on with the lock facing away from my hands, then this chore would be much more difficult. After a moment of carefully searching the cuff, I felt defeat pressing in on me. Then, finally, my cold, nearly numb, trembling finger found the small opening.

  The second problem would be the double lock. I have made mention of my familiarity with trouble. So familiar at one point, it was appropriate to use the word “intimate.” This means I know a few things about a
few things. One of those things is handcuffs. What I know is, back in the day, after being handcuffed, people would try to get the cops to take the cuffs off so they had an opportunity to escape or fight back. One such trick was squeezing the cuffs tighter around the wrists. To stop this, handcuffs were later equipped with a double-lock feature. This type of handcuff prevents the cuffs from closing tighter after the double lock had been engaged. To release this type, the double lock must be opened first. Double-locked cuffs, for this reason, would be much more difficult to break out of with a hairpin.

  Fortunately, mine were not double locked.

  I retrieved the pin with my right hand and set to work. I pulled the two ends apart and stripped the plastic coating off the straight end. The most time-consuming step was actually getting the pin into the lock. Once in, I bent the pin and gently twisted it until I felt the tension on the piece I was trying to manipulate.

  The flashlight blinked again. I didn’t want to be stuck in the dark again, but I didn’t need the light for my current task. If I could stay focused.

  I had no idea how much time had passed since my captors had been to visit me. It seemed like an eternity. I didn’t know how long I’d been working on the cuffs, either. One minute? Five? Thirty? It was impossible to tell, and it felt like forever. I used to be much more proficient at this task. Obviously, some of my skills had slipped in the years I’d spent obeying the law.

  Beyond the door, I heard sounds, like muffled voices. My captors had returned. And I had a feeling this visit wouldn’t be as peaceful as the last. I twisted the pin firmly. Finally, the cuff popped off my wrist.