If I had my tote bag—yes, there it was on the floor in the corner—I might have some useful objects. Because leaving things undone drove me crazy, I’d long ago gotten into the habit of carrying a few tools around in my tote, the better to take care of small maintenance issues when I spotted them rather than having to wait to take care of them. But none of the tools I ever carried would be much of an improvement over a knife—well, with the possible exception of a big hammer.
Aha! The closet contained the boys’ baseball gear, including Josh and Jamie’s matching bats. I picked up one of the bats and gave it a test swing. It was bright orange and metal, about two and a half feet long. It didn’t quite have the same feeling of solid weight that a wooden bat would, but still—a formidable weapon.
Of course, it wouldn’t be all that useful against a gun. But better than nothing.
I placed one bat by the door and the other beside the bed, so there was always one within easy reach, and turned my attention to the escaping part of the program.
I found myself studying all those lovely cabinets and drawers I’d been so admiring before, and wishing a few of them had been left out to make room for more windows. Even one window large enough to make it easy for me to slip out of. The caravan’s windows were only about a foot tall, and except for the one over the bed, which would be in full view of the truck’s driver, they were placed high up in the walls. The setup was excellent for maximizing both light and privacy but would make trying to wriggle out very difficult. Maybe I was even fooling myself to think it was possible. I held up my hands to measure the height of the windows and then matched that to my own body at hip level. Doable—maybe. If I could suck in everything really well. I wouldn’t hesitate to try it if the window was at floor level, but trying to climb up to the window and wriggle out in mid-air? And then add in the fact that I’d be eight feet or so up in the air on the side of a moving vehicle, exposed to the view of my kidnapper.
“Let’s try the other options first, shall we?”
Spike growled softly.
I considered, just for a moment, whether I should toss him out one of the windows if the truck slowed down enough that it would be safe. Not that I had any notion that he’d pull a Lassie and go running back to Biscuit Mountain for help, but at least I could get him out of the clutches of our kidnapper. But I vetoed my own idea almost immediately. If I did manage to heave him safely out of the trailer, he’d probably only get lost in the woods, or maybe eaten by some of the carnivorous animals Grandfather and his class had been photographing all week with such enthusiasm. Owls, foxes, coyotes, bears—Spike would look like a very appetizing little hors d’oeuvre to any of them. And while they might not find him quite the easy prey they imagined, you couldn’t expect an eight-and-a-half-pound fur ball, however fierce, to survive a trek of several miles through the wilderness.
“Sorry, Spike,” I said. “But you’re going to have to stay aboard for now.”
He had leaped back on the bed and was peering through the window, growling at our kidnapper’s truck.
“I agree,” I said.
I focused back on our escape. How about the skylight? It only opened about a foot or so, but that would be out onto the flat roof of the caravan—easier to crawl out of than a similar-sized opening in the side of the caravan. And maybe I could remove the inside portion of the skylight’s wooden frame and shove out the glass part of the skylight. That would leave plenty of room for me to escape, even burdened with Spike.
I found my tote and rummaged through it. Hammer. Pliers. Phillips screwdriver. Flathead screwdriver. A small folding saw. All of it potentially helpful. Then I rummaged in the drawers in the kitchenette area of the caravan. I could have sworn I’d seen … yes! A small battery-operated drill.
“Take that, whoever you are!” I muttered, brandishing the drill at the unseen kidnapper.
The only challenge was going to be getting up to the skylight. A further search of the various storage areas didn’t turn up anything like a stepladder. A folding canvas chair? Not much good.
I finally climbed up on the counter and managed to brace myself, one foot on the counter and one on the door of the closet. I began to study the skylight’s frame. No visible screws, so it was probably glued in. I could take the hammer, use the big flathead as a chisel and—
Just then the caravan lurched sideways, knocking me off my precarious perch. At least I landed on the bed, missing Spike by a few inches.
“Sorry, Spike,” I said. “The Great Escape isn’t as easy as I expected.”
His disapproving stare spoke volumes.
“But I’m working on it.”
Chapter 31
I glanced out a window to see why we’d made such a sharp turn. Damn—we’d reached the junction where the gravel road to Biscuit Mountain met the main road. The truck hadn’t even slowed down all that much before turning right.
Now that was interesting. I’d have expected our kidnapper to turn left. Left led to the town of Riverton. Not that I expected the kidnapper to stop in Riverton, but when you were leaving Biscuit Mountain for just about anywhere else, the route led through Riverton.
Turning right would take us up into the mountains. I thought about that for a few moments and decided I didn’t like it. I had no idea what the kidnapper was planning to do with Josh, Jamie, and Eric up in the mountains, but it couldn’t be good.
Then again, the boys’ departure on their camping trip with cousins Lance and Jason hadn’t exactly been unobtrusive. So if the kidnapper was anyone staying at Biscuit Mountain, he’d know he wasn’t kidnapping the boys.
And not all that many people actually knew I was sleeping in the caravan. Maybe whoever was driving the truck just thought he was stealing the caravan.
No, if he was just stealing the caravan he wouldn’t have barred the door. Even if he’d heard Spike bark and wanted to make sure the Small Evil One stayed inside, what he’d done to the door was definitely overkill for any prisoner not equipped with opposable thumbs.
A pity. A caravan thief would have been a lot easier to deal with than a kidnapper. And if it was a kidnapping, I hoped the perpetrator still thought he’d be dealing with two little boys and their mild-mannered babysitter. Little did he know that he’d be dealing with their seriously angry mother—not to mention a small, fluffy, but very evil dog.
Still, in any case, my mission was to escape, and leave him to deal with an empty caravan. And, eventually, notify Chief Heedles and Sergeant Hampton.
But first, I needed to update what I was thinking of as my trail of breadcrumbs.
I pulled out my phone and opened my e-mail program. Unfortunately, my earlier e-mail was still sitting in the out basket, waiting for a signal. I tapped out another e-mail to the same recipients. “Update” the subject line read. “My kidnapper has left the Biscuit Mountain access road and is heading…”
Damn. In which direction were we heading? I tried to visualize the map. North? No, probably more like northeast.
Then again, if I wasn’t sure, would anyone else be? Did I want them studying maps and compasses or hurrying to my rescue?
“Heading away from Riverton on the main road. If you get this, please notify all authorities!”
I pushed SEND, waited until it gave me the usual message that said it couldn’t send now but would when possible, then tucked the phone back into my pocket.
I studied the skylight again. Unless I could find something sturdy enough to stand on, neither crawling out through it nor taking it apart seemed like the easiest way out.
If the caravan fell over on its side, the skylight would be a first-class escape route. I pondered that for a few moments. If I hurled myself from side to side, timing it for when the caravan was going around a curve anyway, could I tip it over?
Maybe. But then my kidnapper would probably come back to investigate. Did I really want to be caught half in and half out of the skylight?
I put the idea on hold. Though given the reckless way my k
idnapper was driving he might manage to wreck the truck and overturn the caravan all by himself. I’d make sure I was ready to hit the skylight if that happened.
I turned my attention back to the door. I pushed at the two top panels again. There was some give to them, so whatever was holding them shut was elastic. But not elastic enough to let me get my arm out.
I heard a rumble of thunder. Another band of thunderstorms headed our way. Spike growled.
“Shut up,” I said. “This time around, the thunderstorms might be our friend.”
I fished the hammer out of my tote. Then I looked back in the caravan’s tool drawer where I thought I had seen—yes! A roll of duct tape.
I started with the panel on the right. It consisted of six little panes of decoratively etched frosted glass in a painted wooden frame. I crisscrossed all the panes with duct tape and then, when the next rumble of thunder rolled through, gave one of them a sharp tap. The tape muted the noise a bit and made it easier for me to collect all the shards and deposit them in the trash can under the sink. Not that tidiness counted for much right now, but given the way the caravan was jolting and lurching, I didn’t want to litter the floor with any sharp objects that could hurt me or Spike if they became airborne.
After a few more increasingly loud claps of thunder I had all the glass out. I was hoping that with the glass gone I could just knock out the sash bars, but the caravan’s makers had built it to last. To get past them, I’d have to saw them out with my folding saw.
But wait! Now that I had access to it, I could cut the bungee cord that held the windows closed. I felt a lot better with both tiny windows open. Although the resulting space was still a little small for trying to crawl through.
“Making progress,” I said to Spike. “Now all I have to do is cut through this two-by-four.”
Though it wasn’t going to be easy. The window opening was too small to fit more than my head and right arm through, and I could just barely reach the two-by-four with my saw. But just barely would do. I began to saw, making my cut as close as possible to the door opening. Eventually I could cut all the way through the two-by-four and the door would be openable.
Just as I was settling in to this task, the truck left the main road and began rattling down a side road. Not even a gravel road—a dirt trail.
What was this creep up to?
Spike didn’t like the change, either—especially once the heavens opened and the rain began falling in sheets. I had no idea why Spike was so distraught. I was the one whose head and arm were getting soaked. I’d closed the left side of the door window to keep it from flapping uselessly and I filled the small right side opening so completely that not many raindrops made it into the caravan.
“Shush,” I muttered. “We need to maintain the element of surprise.” Although come to think of it, if my kidnapper was targeting Josh and Jamie, he’d be expecting to encounter Spike.
And if they knew Josh and Jamie had gone on the family camping trip and were targeting me, they might still be expecting Spike. I didn’t like that alternative as much, but I needed to be prepared for it.
My steady sawing was paying off. Only half an inch or so left of the bar. I peered down and decided that I might be able to ram the door and break through the last bit. Then again, my shoulder still hurt from the last time I’d hurled myself against the door. I pulled my head in and resumed sawing.
Just then the caravan slowed. And stopped.
I paused so whoever was driving wouldn’t hear the noise of my sawing. I pulled in my saw arm and stuck out my head. We seemed to be in a clearing. The rain was easing, and though the sun wasn’t up yet, the darkness was beginning to give way to early morning gray
The caravan moved again. We were turning in a wide circle. Then the truck began to back up.
I twisted my head around to get a better view.
We weren’t in a clearing. We were on the edge of a cliff. Luckily the truck stopped with the caravan still on solid ground. But I didn’t like the looks of this.
I pulled my head in and scrambled over to the bed end so I could peer out the window.
Someone had hopped out of the truck and was bent over the trailer hitch, unfastening it.
He stood up.
Marty.
I sent another e-mail with the subject line “Marty is the kidnapper!” Though if he was about to shove me over a cliff up here in the middle of nowhere, would any of my e-mails ever reach their destinations?
I opened the window. Nothing to lose by trying to talk to him.
“Marty,” I called. “Stop now. It won’t work.”
“Should work just fine,” he said. “And it’ll serve you right.” He finished unhooking the caravan and gave it a slight shove. It didn’t budge. He nodded and turned as if to go back to the cab of his truck. I realized that he was probably planning to push us off the cliff.
“Why?” I called out.
“Because of what you did to her!”
Her? I mouthed it, but didn’t say it aloud.
Then I remembered. All those delicacies for the vegetarians. His surprising consideration when Gillian was in shock over Victor’s death. How many times had I seen him peering out the service hatch and assumed he was wondering if the diners liked his food. He wouldn’t worry about that—he knew his food was superb. But if he was trying to catch a glimpse of someone out in the dining room …
“Gillian?” I asked.
“You didn’t care that he was harassing her,” he said. “You just let him—you and her highness.”
“I didn’t even know he was harassing her.”
He snorted at that.
“You killed Edward Prine because he was harassing Gillian?” I asked.
“He had that embarrassing picture of her.” He’d stopped just beside his truck cab. Good—as long as he was talking, he wasn’t trying to push the caravan over the edge. “I overheard him tell her that unless she met him in his studio and slept with him, he was going to put the picture on display. He was going to force himself on her! So I made sure I got there first.”
Okay, that would have made me mad. And I wasn’t besotted with Gillian. And I didn’t have Marty’s Vesuvian temper.
“Did you have to kill him?”
“The man was a pig.”
“You could just have taken the picture,” I suggested. “Without the picture, he wouldn’t have a hold on her anymore.”
“I would have,” he said. “But Prine came in and attacked me for trespassing in his studio. We fought, and I killed him in the struggle.”
That might sound plausible if I hadn’t known Prine was stabbed in the back. I decided not to bring that up.
“And then I heard someone coming,” he went on. “So I hid in the closet. When I came out, the picture was gone. I finally figured out that Gillian had shown up, found Prine’s dead body, and managed to keep it together enough to take the painting away.”
Somehow I didn’t think keeping it together had been all that hard for Gillian. But probably not a good idea to tell Marty that.
“And Victor?” I asked instead.
“I figured another death would make them look less closely at people who had motives to kill Prine. I guess he must have been nosing around her studio. And now you.” From the way he scowled and clenched his fists, I decided maybe I was lucky to have the caravan walls between him and me. “You wouldn’t let it go. You had to find the painting and try to frame her with it.”
“I didn’t find it on purpose,” I said. “And I didn’t frame her. If she hadn’t run away—”
“Enough talk.”
He turned on his heel and began to climb into the truck cab. He started backing up slowly. I could feel the caravan moving—first backward, and then it began to tip downward.
Time for me to act as well. I shoved my phone in my pocket. I emptied out my tote, shoved Spike into it, and slung it over my shoulder. I grabbed the nearest bat. Then I took a deep breath and focused on the door, aiming at it w
ith my shoulder. The one that was already hurt—no sense damaging the other.
“Haiii!” I shrieked, the way my old martial arts teacher had taught me, and hurled myself at the door.
To my great relief, the last shreds of the two-by-four gave way—with a lot less sound than I’d have expected, so with luck Marty wouldn’t hear it over his straining engine. But when the door burst open, my momentum carried me out of it.
By this time the caravan was hanging precariously over the edge of the cliff. Luckily it wasn’t quite a sheer cliff—at least the first part wasn’t—though it was very steep. Spike and I slid for about ten feet and fetched up on a ledge. Below the ledge the cliff was where the sheer part started—looking down made me dizzy, just for a moment.
And then it made me mad.
I looked up to see that about the last foot of the caravan was sticking out over the cliff, and Marty was slowly easing it farther and farther over. No doubt he was going slowly to avoid damaging his truck. But eventually, the caravan would topple over and crash down on whatever was below it.
Spike and me. Even if it didn’t kill us, it would almost certainly propel us over the sheer part of the cliff.
I studied the slope between me and the cliff. Luckily it was getting light enough to see possible handholds and footholds. Unfortunately some of the best ones—a couple of tough-looking little shrubs and a small gnarled tree growing out of the side of the slope—were right in the path the caravan would take when it fell. This wasn’t going to be easy—especially not with the tote bag containing Spike dangling over one shoulder.
I began carefully moving sideways on our ledge—sideways, and slightly upward. The first priority was to get clear of the caravan’s path. And once it fell, I needed to be either out of sight or back on top of the cliff.
Some rocks and dirt spilled over the top of the cliff, landing on us. Spike whined slightly, but had the good sense to keep still.
“I agree,” I whispered. “Just hang in there.”
I’d managed to make my way clear of the caravan’s probable path and about half of the way back up to the top of the cliff when the caravan teetered and began to topple.
Gone Gull Page 25
