by Kaki Warner
She heard things crawling, smelled the rankness of the decaying meat on the plate, tasted acid from her own churning stomach. Trapped in blackness, she jumped at every furtive rustling, not knowing what was coming at her and from which direction. She wondered how the blind could bear it.
She tried to combat the terror with thoughts of Ethan, Father, all her new friends in Heartbreak Creek. Did they know now that she was missing? Were they looking for her yet?
Earlier, she imagined she’d heard hushed voices, but they were gone in a moment. They sounded like they had come from just outside in the corridor, or from somewhere overhead. But that was impossible. She had seen the stone walls of the passageway and this small cavern. If someone had been walking on the ground above her, she couldn’t have heard them this far underground.
Time passed. And as she huddled fearfully in the dark, arms locked around her knees and skirts tucked so the bugs couldn’t crawl up her legs, a horrible realization had come to her. They wouldn’t find her in time. Even if Ethan came to Weems’s camp, he would never think to look for her in this black pit. She would die here unless she found a way to escape.
But to do that, she would need light.
She knew Weems wouldn’t simply give her a candle or lantern. She would have to bargain for it. But all she had to bargain with was herself. The notion was so repugnant she almost vomited. There had to be another way.
Forcing the fear aside, she tried to think. What did Weems want most?
To kill me.
So why didn’t he?
He’s waiting for the full moon.
And what would spoil his plans?
If I killed myself first.
A horrifying thought. Yet, it might work if she could bluff him into thinking she would actually do it.
How?
I could tell him I’ll fling myself against the collar so hard it will break my neck.
Improbable that it would work, and doubtful that he would believe her capable of doing it.
I could hang myself.
From what? There was no convenient hook in the ceiling or a chair from which to take that final fatal step.
I could refuse to eat or drink.
Too long. She only had four days. Or was it three now?
I could swallow my tongue.
Was that even possible? What if he dared her to try it?
I could use the piece of metal in my pocket. Threaten to open a vein in my wrist.
And what if he called her bluff? Could she stick the tine in her arm? More likely, as soon as he saw what she intended to do, he would take it away from her, leaving her with nothing to use against him later.
So it would have to be something she could demonstrate if necessary, without doing permanent damage to herself. Something so believable he would give her a candle or lantern rather than miss out on the fun of killing her.
Like what?
For a long time, she played different scenarios through her mind. Most were implausible at best. All of it was implausible, in fact. Absurdly macabre—horrifying—that she would be sitting here in a living tomb, at the mercy of a madman, devising ways to end her life.
Perhaps she was trapped in a terrible dream.
Perhaps she was insane.
Either way, she wouldn’t allow Weems to defeat her. She would keep thinking and plotting, and as long as she didn’t let fear and despair take over her mind, a workable idea would come to her.
And finally it did. She remembered that several of her father’s papers on ancient cultures had dealt with ritual human sacrifice. She recalled one involving self-strangulation. The victim put a noose around his neck, tied the other end to a stationary object behind him, then knelt down at the end of the tether and leaned into the noose until he slowly ran out of air. Because the spine couldn’t bend backward, even if the victim fainted, he would hang there against the noose until eventually he died.
She sat up, hope building. She had the noose—her collar. And she had the stationary object—the wall to which the chain was bolted. All that was missing was the will to do it. Or, at least the ability to convince Weems she had the will.
It could work.
A faint glow of light showed through the opening. Shuffling footsteps.
Terror engulfed her, sent irrational thoughts careening through her head. What if it was already the full moon? What if he was coming to kill her early? What if he intended to force himself on her, torture her, beat her with Gallagher’s whip just for fun?
She buried her face in her knees, almost choking on fear. Then that voice of reason screamed through her mind. No! You can do this!
She had to. Or go insane. Or give up and die.
On trembling legs, she stood, smoothed back her tangled hair, and clasped her shaking hands at her waist. Hiking her chin, she stared at the opening and watched the light grow brighter with each shuffling step.
Then suddenly he was there, a hulking form in the opening, his rank odor wafting through the small space like a poisonous cloud. Breathing through her mouth, she squinted against the sudden brightness.
“Still alive, I see.” His laughter boomed off the walls. “The little buggies didn’t get you yet?”
“I want a lamp.”
He set the lantern on the high rock, then faced her, hands on hips. “Not a chance.”
“A candle then. Or I kill myself.”
He tensed. “Kill yourself how?”
“Self-strangulation. It was a practice among ancient cultures that indulged in human sacrifice.” Seeing he had difficulty following, she explained how she would go about it. “It’s really quite painless,” she concluded. “And most effective.”
“Why would you do that?”
“To ruin your fun. And because I’m afraid of the dark.”
She watched speculation flash in his pig-like eyes, and realized she would have no trouble driving the jagged point of the piece of metal into one of them. But he was too crafty to come within reach of her tether.
“I ain’t giving you no lantern.”
She didn’t respond.
“But I guess a candle wouldn’t hurt.” Reaching up to the shelf where he had set the lantern, he retrieved a candle and a small box of friction matches. When he saw her expression of surprise, he snickered. “Poor little girlie. Spent all that time crying in the dark when she had a candle right above her head.” He tossed the candle and matches at her, laughing as she fell to her knees, scrambling to find them in the tangled blankets.
“They came looking for you today.”
She rose, the precious candle and box of matches in her hands.
“Didn’t stay long. Looked around some, then left. They’ll never find you, girl, not in this old mine shaft, so you can get that hope out of your head. You’re here to do with as I please. Or at least until the full moon.” He laughed and rubbed his crotch. “Now for some fun.”
Horrified, she sidled away.
He grabbed the chain and hauled her back. “Relax. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Not this time. Just want to see the goods. Take off your shirt.”
“N-No.”
Another yank almost pulled her off her feet. “Do it, girl. Or I will. In fact, you keep defying me and I may do more than look. Now take it off.” Grinning, he stepped back out of reach and slid a hand into his trousers.
Do what he says. Stay alive.
Shaking so much she feared she’d drop them, she slipped the candle and matches into her skirt pocket, then unbuttoned her blouse.
“Open it,” he said, hoarsely. “And pull down that underthing so I can see your titties.”
She did, her tear-blurred gaze fixed on the far wall, bile rising in her throat.
“Nice. I like ’em plump and round.”
Shivering with revulsion, she waited for him to touch her.
>
He didn’t.
But she heard his breathing change and the rustle of fabric grow louder as he fondled himself, and imagined the vile thoughts circling his maggot brain.
A few minutes later, he let out a deep groaning breath. More rustling as he righted his clothing. “Next time I’ll have a taste.” Picking up the lantern, he turned and walked through the opening.
With trembling fingers, she buttoned her blouse, then sank down onto the pallet. Nausea rolled through her stomach. She couldn’t stop shaking.
Yet, as the light and his footsteps faded, despite the loathing and fear, she felt a thrilling sense of triumph.
“I’ll kill you!” she screamed into the darkness, then cringed when her voice ricocheted back at her from all directions, building into a thousand angry voices. But instead of frightening her, they filled her with hope.
Now she had a weapon. And a light. She could win this.
* * *
Impatience ate at Ethan. Weems had been out of sight for too long. What was he doing? Where had he gone? Did he have Audra hidden in those rocks?
“I’m not waiting any longer.” He rose, then immediately dropped down when the prospector stepped back into sight. After pausing to do up his trousers, he headed down to his camp, the lantern swinging from his hand.
Apparently, the boulders were his latrine. Son of a bitch.
Beside him, Thomas muttered something in Cheyenne and shook his head.
So where was Audra? If she was here, why hadn’t Weems gone to her?
Unless she wasn’t here. Or someone else had her. Or Weems had no more use for her.
No. She’s alive. He could feel it.
Weems went into his tent. Before long, a thin wisp of smoke drifted up from the stovepipe, reminding Ethan that he’d left his bedroll tied to Renny’s saddle, and that the night would get colder. A few minutes later, the tent went dark and silence settled over the camp.
He had been so sure the killer would lead them to Audra. Now they would have to wait until dawn. If the bastard didn’t go to her then, Ethan vowed to go down and confront Weems himself. His only comfort was that Weems wasn’t with her now.
With a weary sigh, he lay back and watched the moon slide toward the western peaks. In the trees nearby, an owl hooted, and farther away, the howl of a wolf cut through the stillness. Lonely sounds on a cold, lonely night that conjured up thoughts of Audra, and another night not too long in the past when he’d held her in his arms and felt her shiver beneath his stroking hands.
Would he ever touch her again?
The waiting was agony—not knowing what was happening to her or what he should do. She could be within feet of where he sat, waiting for him to come. Not even those chaotic hours after the walls fell at Salty Point had been this bad.
He glanced over at the man dozing beside him, his hands folded over his belly, his chin tucked to his chest. The waiting didn’t seem to bother Thomas. Either the Cheyenne was made of stone, or he was unconscious. Ethan had never seen a man sit so long without moving. He wished he could doze like that, but somebody had to keep watch. Maybe if he closed his eyes just for a minute . . .
When next he opened them, the moon had disappeared, the sky was the color of pewter, and Thomas was sitting nearby on a downed log, eating from one of the packets of food Tait had given them.
Ethan sat up when a second packet landed on his chest. “Canteen?” he whispered.
The Indian smirked. “White people.”
Even though he had no appetite and his stomach was a mass of knots, Ethan made himself eat so he could keep up his strength. He was finishing off a slightly stale biscuit when Thomas suddenly appeared beside him—how did the man move so silently?
Bending, the Cheyenne whispered, “I will go now to check with the others. You will stay here and make no sound.”
“Tell them that as soon as it’s full light, I’m going down there.”
“Wait until I return. I will go with you.”
* * *
After Weems left, Audra lit the candle and studied her prison. Knowing she wouldn’t have light for long if she burned the candle continuously, she mapped every inch of the cavern in her mind so she would still be able to find her bearings in the dark.
Now that she knew searchers had come and gone, she gave up any hope of being found in time. And as much as she might want to kill her captor, she knew if Weems died, she would remain chained to the wall in this hole forever.
Her only hope of survival was escape. And her only hope of escape was to break her tether.
Working as quickly as she could in the flickering candlelight, she examined the chain. Rusty but still solid. The collar was too thick to cut through with her piece of metal, and the lock on it wouldn’t budge. If there was any weakness, it was where the chain attached to the wall.
Wishing she had her spectacles, she studied it intently. A screw with an open, looped top had been drilled into the stone. The chain was then passed through the loop and secured with another lock.
She yanked on the chain. Nothing. She tried to pick the lock, but the metal tine was too big to fit into the keyhole. Using her rocks, she struck the bolt again and again, trying to snap it off, but the rocks broke apart first. Sobbing in frustration, she sank down against the wall, trembling from lack of food and sleep, her mind dulled by hours of unrelenting fear.
I can’t do this anymore. I want it over.
How? A brutal death at the hands of Weems? Or a slow, agonizing death by starvation? Or . . .
Tears streaming down her face, she pulled out the piece of metal.
Or . . . end it herself.
The idea was abhorrent. An affront to everything she believed. But what choice did she have? They weren’t coming back. And if they did, they would never find her down here. Better to die on her own terms, rather than those of a madman.
Tipping her head back against the wall, she watched candlelight play across the rocky ceiling and thought of Ethan’s lopsided smile, his beautiful blue eyes, and those strong, gentle hands. It wasn’t fair that all her dreams should end like this. It wasn’t right. There had to be a better way.
Weeping, she looked down at the sharp metal in her shaking hand, wondering if she could stick it into her own flesh.
Then it came to her. A solution so simple it might actually work. Sitting upright, she swiped tears from her eyes as thoughts raced through her mind. Anything that could be screwed in could also be screwed out, right? The looped bolt was the key. And her piece of metal was the leverage.
Hope soaring again, she bounded to her feet, then staggered for balance as sparks flashed behind her eyes. Once the spinning stopped, she slipped the piece of metal into the loop and wrapped a wad of her skirt around it to protect her hands. Then, praying the tine wouldn’t break off, she pushed against it with all of her might.
At first, nothing. Then something gave—she was sure of it.
She pushed again. Harder. Slowly, in tiny increments, the bolt began to turn.
A sob broke from her throat. “Thank you, God.”
With renewed energy, she blew out the flame so the candle would last longer, then wrapped her hands around the bolt and set to work.
Thirty-two
Dawn came and went without Thomas.
Ethan’s nerves hummed like stretched wire. They had been watching all night, and still no sign of her. What if they were watching the wrong man?
Weems came out of his tent, stretched, scratched, coughed, and spit, then wandered over to piss in the bushes. After he buttoned up, he stoked the fire and set a pot to boil. Soon the smell of coffee and frying bacon drifted up the slope.
Ethan thought about going down there and working the bastard over with Gallagher’s whip. That would get him talking. Assuming Weems was the killer and he had Audra.
Damnit, where was Thomas?
He would wait just a little longer, then confront Weems on his own. He wouldn’t let Audra go through another day with this man.
After finishing his breakfast, Weems set out a bucket of water and grain for the mule, then headed up the slope toward the latrine.
Ethan sat back, indecision gnawing at him. Wait for the other men? Or go down alone? He was sick of waiting. They had been doing that for eight hours, and Weems had never once taken her food, or water, or done anything to give away Audra’s whereabouts. Either somebody else had her, or the prospector had no need to take her anything because she was already dead.
Dead.
His mind reeling at the thought, Ethan bent over and sucked in air, one hand pressed to his churning stomach. When the cramps eased, he straightened, determined to find out the truth. If she was alive, she needed him. If not . . .
He peered over the edge.
Weems was almost halfway up the slope. It was time to make his move. Deciding on the pistol rather than the rifle, he checked the load, then rose.
A hand clamped over his wrist and yanked him back down. “Not yet,” Thomas whispered.
Ethan rounded on him. “Where the hell have you been?” he whispered back.
Instead of answering, the Cheyenne pointed to the camp as Ash, Rafe, Brodie, and Tait rode into the clearing.
Weems saw them, too. He stopped on the trail, glanced up at the boulders, then down at the mounted men below. “What do you want?” he called.
Brodie motioned the others to dismount. “The newspaper lady.”
“I told you I ain’t got her.”
“Mind if we look around just to be sure?”
“Suit yourself.” Weems started up the slope again, faster than before. Escaping.
“Now,” Thomas said.
But Ethan was already up and moving to the edge of the slope, his Colt hanging in the hand by his side. “Going somewhere, Weems?”
The prospector stumbled to a stop. He blinked at Ethan, a look of panic widening his eyes. “What you doing up there?”
