by Holly Quinn
Sammy stepped into the motor home, and her eyes scanned the small, narrow space. Muted gray wallpaper covered the walls, and gray pleather seats with back pillows upholstered in a hideous pattern ran along the walls of the kitchenette.
“Is this your camper?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Marty shoved her into one of the seats in the kitchenette. Before she had a minute to think, he was binding her ankles together with two long zip ties. After her ankles were secure, he proceeded to weave another zip tie in and out of her fingers in a way that made her hands virtually unusable.
“You really feel the need to secure my feet and hands this way? Where do you think I’m going?” She waved her tied hands animatedly. “And by the way, this is too tight! My ankle is throbbing!” She scowled.
His nonverbal answer was to add an additional zip tie and secure her legs tighter. A long pause ensued between them. Sammy decided that acting ignorant and befriending him would be a better option for getting answers than her previous accusatory stance.
“Oh Marty, I’m very sorry about all of this. How awful to lose your wife and be running from these crazy people! Do you know who they are? Do you know why they chose you and Wanda to harass? Are they extorting money from you? What is this about? Do you know?” Her eyes searched him for answers.
“I don’t know who they are. They ran my car into the ditch. When I got out to check and chew them out, instead of giving me an apology, the guy was wearing a ski mask. He covered my head with a potato sack so fast, I’d never recognize him in a lineup,” he admitted. “Anyone would be able to get away with wearing all that winter garb with the kind of weather we have around here.”
“And how did you get away from them? What did they want from you? Do you have a bad debt or something?”
“You really are incredibly nosy. Just like the rest of the Heartsford gossips,” Marty spat. “You people think you know everything. Do you know how close to death I came? I could feel the barrel of a shotgun held to my head through the potato sack, and then someone must have come into the warehouse and interrupted the guy, because suddenly I was being dragged out of there, and for a few short minutes I was left alone … why am I even telling you this?” He huffed under his breath. “I’m done talking to you. I don’t owe you any explanation.”
Sammy had to know; it was her only chance. “Did it have something to do with the papers you took from Craig and tossed into the fire the night of Fire and Ice?” she blurted.
His head jerked in her direction and his eyes blazed. “What did you say?”
“What were those papers? Was Cheryl trying to serve you papers and sue you over her back pain? I know she slipped a disk and blamed Wanda for it. Was that what it was about?”
Marty moved so close she could smell his rancid breath. He stood in front of her and pointed a finger a few inches from her face. “No! What went on between me and Craig was a work issue, and it’s nothing to concern yourself over, Little Miss Nosy, so why don’t you just drop it?”
Sammy swallowed. “My mouth is so dry, I’m having a hard time speaking. I guess you’ll get your wish,” she admitted, turning her head from his breath.
“Good. Maybe you’ll stop pestering me, then! Stay put,” he warned, flicking her nose with his finger before leaving her to sit alone in the motor home.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted relief from her parched mouth. But more than anything, she wished she was back home with Bara, cuddled in front of the fire with a cup of hot cocoa. She shivered again, missing the recent warmth of the Volkswagen, which was quickly becoming a distant memory.
Within minutes, Marty returned to the motor home, opened an upper cabinet, and began flipping dials.
“What are you doing?”
Sammy felt a rush of warmth into the small space, answering her question. She realized he must’ve turned on the propane. Gratitude overwhelmed her, as she wasn’t ready to succumb to the cold. She watched as he continued to dig through random cabinets. He plucked out an old can of peanuts and shook it in his hand.
“You hungry?”
Sammy felt her stomach churn at the question. “No, but I’m dying of thirst,” she admitted. “The least you could do is give me a drink before you kill me.”
“Wait here.” He exited and let the flimsy metal door slam behind him.
Like I have a choice? Sammy mentally responded, with a roll of her eyes.
After a few minutes, Marty returned with three frozen water bottles in his hands. He set one on the small table in front of her, and due to its expanded bottom, the bottle rolled to the floor. He leaned over, plucked it off the vinyl floor, and then handed it to her. She attempted to hold it in her bundled hands.
“That’s all I had in my trunk. You’re going to have to wait for it to melt a little,” he added as he rifled through nearby cabinets and drawers.
“Can you at least open it?” She hoped he’d have mercy. She couldn’t do anything the way her hands were tied together, and she was beginning to feel like Pavlov’s dog. She could almost taste the water.
He leaned over, uncapped the bottle of frozen water, and then Sammy brought the bottle to her lips and attempted to melt the ice with her tongue. She sucked on it for as long as she could but barely defrosted enough to quench her thirst.
“Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?” She licked the frozen water from her lips and looked at him.
“Sammy …” He slammed the last cabinet door after finding it empty and looked at her squarely. “This is the end of the road.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Marty had abandoned the camper, letting the metal door slam behind him. Leaving Sammy alone to stew over his parting words.
This is the end of the road.
The words hung in the air like a haunting mirage, ready to reappear at any moment.
The end of the road? Was Marty about to take her life? Her life flashed before her eyes. Images of Community Craft, downtown business neighbors, and the people she’d come to love and work beside filled her mind. Would she ever step inside the Sweet Tooth Bakery again? Indulge on Marilyn’s sweet treats and hear her neighbor sharing the newest gossip swirling around town? Or step inside Liquid Joy and smell the rich dark java and chat with Douglas? What would happen to all the vendors at Community Craft? Would someone take over the shop as she had in memory of Kate? Would someone carry on their legacy?
And what about Bara? Who would take care of her dog? A lump filled her throat, threating to choke her. Would she ever see Heidi marry, and would she miss out on the birth of her new niece or nephew? And what about S.H.E.? The club of their youth? Would Heidi and Ellie be able to move on without her? Suddenly she realized how much she loved her little town of Heartsford, and she wasn’t ready to leave it. Stamped on her own heart forever—Heartsford.
Then her mind filled with the image of Liam Nash. Would she ever feel the touch of his lips on hers? The warmth of his embrace?
Sammy’s heart thundered as she eyed the door, anticipating Marty’s return. Was he retrieving a loaded gun from the trunk of Wanda’s Volkswagen? A knife? Would he kill her in a humane way? Would it be fast … or would he make her suffer? Poison? She still couldn’t gauge whether Marty had told her the truth about not being responsible for Wanda’s death. Was someone out there singling him out and targeting his family? For what reason? Was this about the financial windfall from the card games he’d once had stashed in his house? Or was he involved in something shady? Was it a deal gone bad between him and Cheryl’s husband, Craig?
So many loose ends had her mind spinning for answers. Could she trip him up somehow to find out? She supposed it didn’t matter. If he told her the truth and she never escaped, what good was it anyway? She shuddered. The rushing thoughts were only exacerbating her fear and not doing her any good. She dropped her head and noticed her hands trembling in her lap. She tucked them between her legs to try to make them stop. Instead, her entire body began to
quake with terror. She needed to get herself together. This was not the way her life was going to end!
No!
Sammy was a S.H.E. And a S.H.E. would go out fighting, she resolved as she clenched her teeth hard. Her hazel eyes darted around the space, looking for a way to untangle her hands and feet. Her heart beat wildly. She maneuvered to her feet and hopped over to a nearby cabinet like a bouncing kangaroo, causing new pain in her swelling ankle. After lifting her frame as high as she could manage on her tippy-toes, she swatted the round metal knob with her knotted hands. A stack of Tupperware bowls shifted and fell out of the cabinet with a thud, nearly missing the top of her head. Sammy’s eyes darted toward the door to be sure Marty hadn’t heard the noise. She sucked in a breath. She was hoping for a pot or pan she could use to hit him on the head when he returned—not a plastic Tupperware container! She bent at the waist and slowly pulled out a lower drawer with her teeth. Her heart leapt with excitement as a serrated bread knife shone back at her.
Sammy eyed the door before she reached into the drawer with both bundled hands to retrieve the knife. Her fingers were woven so tightly together that merely grasping the utensil was difficult at best. She thought for a moment. Marty was at least a foot taller than her—maybe more. Could he overpower her and take the knife? She wrestled with the decision before maneuvering the knife clumsily into her hands. She hoped she wasn’t making a grave mistake. But what other choice did she have?
A thumping sound stopped her in her tracks.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She held her breath to distinguish the sound. Or was it more like a knock?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A woodpecker, maybe? Off in the distance … out on the barn? Could it be?
Then a sudden loud bang hit the outside of the camper, as if someone had pounded the siding of the motor home with a large fist. Sammy looked at the knife trembling in her hands and wondered if she should quickly hide it or put it back before Marty returned, as she was ill prepared. Her objective was to release her hands and feet, not stab the man. But something in her will to live wouldn’t allow her to let the knife go, even though she didn’t have a strong, capable grip at the moment.
What had hit the side of the camper?
And then she heard a fluttering sound.
Sammy held her breath again and then began to pant. Her breaths were coming fast now, and if she didn’t settle down, she’d wind up having a full-blown panic attack.
The woodpecker or whatever had made that noise must be inside the barn too and must’ve misjudged the distance, hitting the side of the camper. What else could it have been? She stood nervously with the knife in her bundled hands, waiting to pounce, and she noticed again how hard her hands were shaking.
She stilled her breath by counting. One … two … three, out. One … two … three, in. She didn’t move a muscle until she was sure it was all quiet. When she felt confident Marty wasn’t near or on the other side of the flimsy door, she hopped back into her original seat in the kitchenette. She scanned to her left and right to see where she could hide the knife if need be, and decided she’d tuck it between the side of the seat and the wall and hide it with her leg. She just hoped she wouldn’t injure herself or be forced to use it on Marty. Truth be known, she wasn’t sure she could go through with it, even if she felt forced. She decided instead that she’d hit him on the head with a frozen water bottle and knock him out. That she could live with. She figured he had just stepped out momentarily to retrieve something from the car, so she didn’t think she’d have time to free herself, but the waiting seemed endless.
The minutes ticked by, and Sammy’s eyes watched the door eagerly. Waiting. Eyes wide.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Still waiting.
Sammy had no idea what was taking Marty so long to return. It seemed like at least fifteen minutes had passed, although she had no concept of how to gauge the time, except from the rapid beats of her heart, which seemed to easily outpace the second hand on her imaginary clock. She decided at last that she’d try to release her hands and feet. She attempted to pick the knife up off the seat beside her three times before she was successful. She jammed the wooden handle of the knife between her knees, pressing them together hard in an attempt to keep the sharp blade upright. She began to saw away at the zip ties that had bound her fingers and hands together. Slowly and methodically, she moved her hands back and forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The job was tedious, and if she wasn’t careful, she would deeply wound herself. She gripped her knees tighter to the knife handle to keep it from slipping. She kept sawing at the plastic strings on her fingers, simultaneously eyeing the door, looking for Marty to reappear and catch her in the act.
Sammy’s adrenaline pumped as she moved her hands back and forth on the blade until she accomplished her goal. The sight of her unbound hands caused her to squeal out in relief. She clenched and relaxed her fingers to get the blood flowing in them again and then rubbed them together until they felt workable.
If Marty reappeared, he’d notice her unbound hands. She’d have to be prepared. She eyed the door again before leaning over and setting to work on the zip ties binding her feet.
As soon as she released her feet, she sighed audibly. It felt like the first real breath she’d taken through the whole ordeal.
The only noise Sammy could hear was the thumping of her heart beating wildly, throbbing inside her ears. She jumped from the seat, sending a jolt of agony through her ankle. The pain didn’t stop her from rifling through cabinets for a pot, pan, or alternate hard object with which she could disarm her opponent upon his return. She moved quickly from cabinet to cabinet, looking for the perfect object. She decided she would knock Marty out, steal his keys, and make an escape in Wanda’s car. The potential of escape made her heart soar, as she felt this might be a doable task. It was her only hope.
When she finally found a cast-iron skillet and held it in her hands expectantly, Sammy heard the muffled sound of a car engine starting in the distance. Either someone else had arrived or Marty was leaving. She quickly realized he must’ve been digging the car out of the snow instead of preparing to brandish a weapon. A nervous giggle seeped from her lips. She waited a few minutes, her hand held to her thumping heart, as if she could manually stop its rapid beats. She flung the door open wide, banging it hard against the side of the motor home.
Sammy needed a few moments to adjust her eyes in the unlit barn. She blinked them a few times before rushing toward the barn door, causing a new thrashing pain in her ankle. When she slid it open, all she saw were the recent tracks in the snow, where Wanda’s old Volkswagen had been parked, and the sun sinking into the western sky, creating a beautiful magenta-and-purple backdrop.
A different type of panic began to rise in her throat. Where was she, and how was she going to get out of there?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sammy stepped out of the barn, and the bitter cold immediately needled her cheeks and caused her nose to drip. She had stood at the threshold of the barn door for a long time, numb with shock, contemplating her latest predicament. She wiped her nose as best she could with the back of her hand, but it continued to stream. The snow wasn’t yet falling as the radio broadcaster had earlier predicted, and the sky was turning inky and cloudless. She wondered if she was that far past the broadcast’s limits. The lack of sun would cause the temperatures to plummet even deeper. She realized walking any distance in the bitter cold, with a throbbing ankle, wasn’t even remotely an option. Especially with the farm isolated from any neighbors—at least from what her own eyes could see.
Hot steam escaped her mouth, sending her breath out like that of a heavy smoker. She’d have no choice other than to camp out where she had heat and wait until daybreak to figure out a safer plan of escape.
She covered her bare ears with her chapped hands to prevent the cold wind from causing them to internally ac
he. She should be elated. Marty hadn’t ended her life. Why? Maybe he hadn’t murdered his wife after all? Or maybe he was planning to return. She wasn’t sure, but her gut told her he was gone. Long gone—never to return.
Sammy’s eyes glanced toward the yellow farmhouse in the distance, which seemed to be vacant. Very little light emanated from the home. The farmer must be either on vacation or snowbirding down south in Florida or somewhere warm. Marty had been smart enough to take her somewhere no one was expected to return for a long time, of that she was sure. Not to mention, there were zero tracks in the snow around the house. Nearby were the tracks left behind from Wanda’s Volkswagen and Marty’s boots. The only other evidence of life Sammy could make out, in the light of the rising moon, was the trail of a deer or rabbit that had crossed the yard after the storm passed and left a winding track.
The cold wouldn’t allow Sammy to remain outdoors another minute, as mere breathing sent an instant throbbing to the lungs. She quickly made her way back inside the barn and closed the door behind her to keep the heat inside for the long night ahead. Her teeth chattered as she made her way through the unlit barn, a hand outstretched in front of her to help her find her way as her eyes adjusted to the dark. She followed the dim light emanating from the camper and was thankful that at least she wouldn’t be left alone in the dark or cold all night long. She wondered how much propane was left in the tank and if it was even safe to run it while inside the barn, but she had no choice but to reenter the mobile home. It would be her only refuge for the night.
Sammy looked at her surroundings, now seeing them through a different lens. She was no longer afraid for her life, and the adrenaline that had pumped through her veins the entire afternoon had left her depleted and a little hungry. The temperature had dropped within the confines of the motor home, and she wondered if her fears were already becoming a reality. The camper might be running low on propane. She shivered and ran her hands up and down the side of her coat in a pathetic attempt to warm up.
