And whoever it was could still be lurking.
Maybe even inside his house.
He'd made it easy for them, after all, leaving that front door open. He kept his Beretta at the ready, safety disengaged, a two-handed grip to give him maximum balance. Before even stepping up to his porch, he scanned his gravel drive, saw no one, peered under and around his van, got the same result, and waited a good two minutes anyway just to make sure. He could now detect the low rumble of the ocean below and to the west, but there was no other sound. Even the highway was quiet.
One step up. Then another. He eased open the door with his foot, waiting through the creak, waiting to see if anything would happen.
Nothing did. From the weak oven light, the only light that had been on, he saw the contours of his recliner, the edge of the kitchen table, and the vinyl flooring in the entryway that gave way to the carpet. He crept into the house, fully cognizant of all the blind spots, all the places someone could hide, and giving these places the bulk of attention. There were no surprises. The house beckoned, silent and dark.
He was alone.
Still, he remained cautious. What kind of foolery this was with the jewelry he didn't know, but someone was definitely trying to mess with him. Conscious that someone could surprise him from behind, he crept in a little more, saw no one, and shut the door with his foot. The wind slammed it shut, but he was expecting it and did not flinch. He waited a few beats, heard nothing but the normal creaks and whirrs of the house, and only then let himself relax—just a little. He'd still have to search the rest of his house.
Then his phone rang.
On the end table next to the recliner where he'd left it, the little black piece of plastic rattled and vibrated, the tiny screen glowing blue. The possibility that the caller could be Nora swept any other thoughts from his mind, and he sprang for it. He fumbled it open.
"Hello?"
His guard had been down for perhaps a tenth of a second. He'd never lowered his Beretta. He'd kept his attention on the room all around him, still expecting that someone was there. But the need to talk to Nora was so great that it did briefly overpower his better judgment, and that was it, that was all it took. The lapse wouldn't have been long enough for someone to get the jump on him physically, since he'd had a pretty good read on the room, but it was an opening and someone had been waiting for it.
The word hello was still ringing in the air when two pillows—his pillows, he had just enough time to see, with their white cotton pillowcases—hit him in the face. They'd been hurled from the hallway. They barely carried enough weight to knock him off balance, but they did distract him, drawing his attention in that direction. And that turned out to be just enough time for someone to spring from behind the recliner and sucker-punch him, a direct hit in the gap between his right eye socket and the bridge of his nose.
It was a hell of a wallop, and pain exploded across the side of his face. That would have been enough to bring down most men, even very strong men, but one of Gage's few useful attributes, at least as far as he was concerned, was his high tolerance for pain. His Beretta was up and firing even as his vision blurred and his mouth filled with blood, getting off one shot, two, shattering the lamp, spraying plaster from the wall, before someone else, the assailant who'd tossed the pillows, most likely, grabbed his gun hand.
There was a struggle. He saw Elliott's face flash in front of him, teeth gritted, before the other person—Denny, was it Denny?—slipped a black plastic garbage bag over his head.
The world was dark, shiny. Meaty hands clamped around his neck, holding the bag tight. Gage sucked the plastic into his mouth, choking. He clawed at the plastic and someone punched him in the gut. He doubled over, bouncing off the edge of the recliner before landing on the floor.
The fingers were tight but not choking him. He kicked out, landing his foot in his attacker's groin. The big man groaned and released his hold for just a second, enough time for Gage to get his hands on the bag and begin to pull.
Something hard knocked him on the head.
He instantly splayed out on the floor. The darkness inside the bag receded into a deeper darkness, consciousness fleeing as the pain flared up, white hot and intense at the back of his skull, before it, too, was swept into a void of nothingness. He tried desperately to cling to awareness, to not let go, but even Gage's high tolerance had its limits. He tasted blood, heard ringing in his ears, and felt tremors cascading across his skull, but it was all so distant and muted, like he was wrapped in layer upon layer of foam.
He was vaguely aware of his wrists and ankles being tied with a coarse rope, then bound together as if someone was going to hang him over a spit. The string on the plastic bag was pulled, knotted. Someone slit a hole in the bag and he breathed in fresh air.
Still, he swam in the distant ripples of consciousness, awake but barely. Someone hefted him onto their shoulders, holding him firmly with one hand on his leg, the other on his arm. He was aware that they were his legs and arms, but they wouldn't obey his commands. He heard a door slam, felt the night air on his bare arms, then other sounds: a beep, a click, the crunch of shoes on gravel.
He was dumped unceremoniously onto an uneven surface, carpeted but cold. Someone patted down his shirt and pants. Looking for another gun? Through the tiny hole in the plastic bag, he glimpsed the dark outline of a man, and behind him, the upper branches of his trees in the night. The man either missed the jewelry in Gage's pocket or didn't care. Some small amount of control was returning to his body just as a door slammed.
In a trunk. He was in a trunk.
Curled in the corner, his feet touched one side, his bound hands the sloped interior. He heard voices, laughter. Doors creaked, and the car wobbled as it absorbed the weight of a driver and a passenger. A faint whiff of gasoline tickled his nose. He tried to will himself back to alertness. Come on, Gage. Move, move.
An engine rumbled to life and he felt the vibrations through the metal chassis underneath the carpet.
Gage moved his legs, just a little at first, then pushed his tennis shoes against the side of the trunk. The rope cut hard into his ankles and his wrists. The car rolled forward, tires on gravel. Momentum carried him backward, then forward, a tilt as they headed down his driveway. Where were they taking him?
Somewhere to kill him.
Shoot him in the head and dump his body somewhere it wouldn't be found.
Not much time. What could he do? The engine roared, gravel spitting out behind them and pebbles knocking against the underside of the car. The tires hummed on bare asphalt. Highway.
A truck roared past, shaking the car. Think, Gage, think. There had to be a way out of this. He ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting blood. At least he had his teeth. That was something. What kind of car were they in? It was probably that white Ford Mustang, not more than a year or two old. The law required every modern car to have a safety release to allow someone to pop the trunk from the inside.
His wrists may have been bound, but he still had use of his fingers.
If he could pop the trunk, he might be able to jump out. Not when the vehicle was moving sixty miles an hour, maybe, but at some point it would stop, and that would be his chance. Maybe all he'd be able to do would be call attention to himself from a passing driver, but that might be enough.
First things first. Could he get the bag off his head? Unlike the ropes, it wasn't on all that tightly, being held there by nothing but the tie string. With his wrists and ankles bound, he couldn't get his fingers up to the plastic even if he strained, pulling his knees up as far as they would go, craning his neck as low as he could manage.
But if he rubbed his cheek against his shoulder, he could move the bag. He kept at it, loosening it little by little, rubbing the smooth plastic against his shirt. The draw string released its hold. He worked more furiously, his cheek burning, his spine torque at an awkward angle and screaming at him to give it some relief. And his right knee—the pain was so excruciating he had
to block it from his mind.
Finally, the bag slipped free.
He gasped for breath, blinking away the sweat in his eyes but not seeing much because he was still trapped in darkness. What was that sound? He heard music, a thumping bass, a crooning baritone. They'd jacked up the radio, those bastards. They were actually listening to music, enjoying themselves.
Or maybe it was to mask any sounds he might make, thrashing around in the trunk?
Smart, but he could use it to his advantage, too. It would make it hard for them to hear him.
He looked for the safety release. He knew the levers usually glowed in the dark, but he couldn't see it. Maybe it was small. Maybe the angle was bad. First things first: he had to do something about getting his arms free.
He still had Janet's jewelry in his pocket. Could that be of any use? No, he couldn't get to it, and even if he could, it was all too small and fragile. His wrists and ankles may be tied together, but it had been done in haste. There was still some slack. If he brought his knees up as far as he could and leaned forward … Yes, he could just get his fingers on the knots. The rope felt smooth but tough, the kind of thick twine someone might buy at any hardware store.
Gage felt each beat of his heart at the back of his head, like the tap of a mallet. They drove on for quite a while, Gage prying at the ropes, pulling and yanking, trying to get even the smallest amount of give. Which way had they turned? He'd been too out of it to know. But then, just for a second, he heard waves crashing on rocks to their right. South. They were heading south.
How far had they gone? Ten miles, maybe. Definitely out of the city.
Then the car slowed, coming to a stop. He heard the rhythmic clicking of the turn signal. A truck rushed by on the left. Now was his chance, but he was still bound. He pried at the rope, his fingers chapped and numb, and finally got the rope to move—just a tiny bit, but it was progress.
Come on, come on.
The car turned, picking up speed but slower than before. Gage moved the rope, only a fraction of an inch, but at least he was getting somewhere. The car tilted upward. Now he had the rope really loose and everything was coming undone. The uneven road, full of potholes, jostled him all over the place.
One hand was out, then the other.
He started working on the ropes around his ankles, everything coming faster now that he had full use of his hands. The car careened to the left, then the right, as they wound upward into some kind of hill.
Away from town. Not good.
The air felt cooler. He smelled fir and wet earth. He had a sense of where they were. The coastal range of mountains, for most of the Oregon coast, was ten or twenty miles east, but there were a few places that it jutted all the way to the beach. The Silverback River, and the estuary at its mouth, was one of those places. Follow the river a mile inland and there you were in the forested hills, ones that led to other, bigger hills, and eventually the mountains. Not big mountains by Oregon standards, but certainly big enough. Few people around, too.
A perfect place to murder someone and dump the body.
With renewed urgency, Gage kept at the rope until finally he got his ankles free. He rolled to face the back of the car. Where was the lever? He saw nothing glowing. He felt for the latch mechanism. The car slowed, turned to the right, and picked up speed again, even steeper now. He heard the caw of a crow. Asphalt full of potholes gave way to badly rutted dirt and gravel. His fingers, bleeding in places, searched all the nooks and crannies in the metal contraption. Where was the damn thing?
The car slowed again, turning left, right, rolling him this way and that, not making it easy to find the latch.
Then he had it.
There must have been a plastic lever, but it had been removed. Probably Elliott knew what it was and took it out. But the lever must have been fastened to a cord, because Gage could feel just a bit of what was left inside a hole. The car was moving, but not that fast, maybe twenty miles an hour as it curved left and right. Gage didn't know the exact road they were on, but he could imagine: dense forest all around, deep ravines on both sides. If he could get enough of his fingers on what was left of the cord, he could pull it, pop the trunk, and try for the forest. Maybe he could lose them there.
Or he could wait and surprise them. Pop the trunk before they did and leap out at them.
No. They'd be more ready then. Better to do it now.
It took some time, but he managed to work just enough of the cord out of the hole that he could clamp on to it.
He yanked on it.
Nothing happened.
Had he not pulled hard enough? He pulled it three times, forcefully. Still nothing. Broken? The car slowed, stopped. He pulled the cord over and over with his right hand, using his left to push up on the trunk, thinking maybe it was stuck. The music stopped. He heard the doors open.
Then, with a cold, sinking feeling of dread, it occurred to him: the mechanism wasn't broken.
It had been disabled.
Chapter 21
Of course. Of course Elliott would do that, take precautions. This was a professional, after all. What could Gage do now?
Surprise them.
Gage rolled the other way, facing the front of the car. He tucked the rope in front of them, out of view. There was no time to fix the ropes in place to better fool them, so he just had to keep his wrists and ankles together and hope that was enough. The doors slammed, shaking the car. He heard feet clomping on dirt and gravel. Laughter. This was all a game to them, wasn't it?
There was a beep and the trunk popped open, letting in a rush of cool air and the gray, dappled light of dawn. Gage remained still. He could imagine them standing back a few paces, guns leveled on him, waiting for him to try something.
"All right, Gage," Elliott said. "Get up and out of there."
He groaned, as if struggling to come awake, but otherwise didn't move.
"Gage?"
This time he didn't do anything.
"Maybe he's dead," Denny said.
"He just made a sound, you idiot," Elliott said. Then, to Gage: "Come on, buddy. Roll on over and we'll get you out of there."
Nothing. No movement. Elliott sighed.
"All right, lift him out," he said. "Be careful, though. I've got you covered."
"Where should I carry him?" Denny asked.
"Where do you think? In the house, of course."
"Right, right."
"Wait, give me your gun. I don't want him trying to grab for it."
"Right."
"Okay, go."
"Go where?"
Elliott sighed again. "Pick him up and carry him in the house."
"Oh, right."
There was a pause.
"Now," Elliott said more sternly.
Gage heard footsteps, the rustle of clothes, then a shadow fell over him. He had a second, maybe more, to race through the possible courses of action. So Denny had no weapon and Elliott had his gun trained on him. Not much chance here. Maybe better to play dumb a little longer. But wouldn't Denny see that the rope was missing? He had to chance it.
Wait, the rope.
It could serve as a weapon. He could choke Denny with it. No, Elliott would just shoot him. The rope could also be a whip. Smack Denny with his elbow, then whip out at Elliott with the rope and go for the gun hand. Best chance.
Gage felt Denny's big, meaty hands slide under his back and legs. Not yet. It was too early. Keeping his body slack and his eyes closed, Gage let out another groan. He pressed his wrists tight between his ankles, clenching the rope in one hand. It was balled up, ready to unfurl.
With a grunt, Denny lifted him out of the trunk. He started to turn, rotating. This was it. Now or never.
Opening his eyes, Gage swung out hard with his left elbow, aiming for the underside of Denny's chin.
Direct hit.
It felt like hitting wet clay. There was a loud smack. Denny cried out and staggered backward. Gage didn't have more than a split second to take in
his surroundings—a moss-covered cabin surrounded by sagging Douglas firs and thick ferns—before both he and Denny were toppling. The world whirled around him and Gage struggled to stay focused. Just maybe, he had a tiny opening.
They crashed to the ground. Gage's face bounced off a mixture of gravel and dirt. He rolled away from Denny, unfurling the rope, swinging around to bring it to bear on—
Elliott.
He was looking right at him. Or rather, Gage, on his knees, was looking up at the long barrel of the Sig 299 and its attached suppressor. The end of the barrel loomed large and dark just a few inches from Gage's nose.
"Cute," Elliott said. "What, you think you're Indiana Jones? Go ahead, see what happens."
His voice was playful, but his eyes were as lifeless as polished granite. As Denny moaned and wobbled back to his feet, Gage and Elliott stared into each other's eyes. He and his brother wore the same dark suits and white shirts as before, looking just as out of place in front of the dilapidated cabin as their shiny white Mustang. Out of place in Barnacle Bluffs, too. They belonged in glitzy cocktail lounges and smoky backroom casinos.
The morning sun broke through the dense upper branches of the firs to the east. He heard the trickle of a creek. There was nothing but trees. No houses. No one to hear him if he shouted for help, certainly.
"You'll kill me anyway," Gage said.
"Think so? I could have shot you at your place if that's what I wanted."
"What do you want?"
Denny staggered over, massaging his chin. "He hurt me!"
"Shut up," Elliott said. "You deserved it."
"But—but I did what you—"
"Quiet!"
Denny grumbled and rubbed his chin. Elliott's dead-eye gaze never wavered from Gage's face.
"The great detective," he said, grinning. "What the hell were you doing out there in the woods, anyway? Taking a leak?"
"What do you want?"
"Yeah, I heard you the first time. I want to have a conversation, that's all. You can still get out of this, Gage. Seriously, I didn't bring you up here to off you. Not my style. I brought you up here so we wouldn't be disturbed. Nice place, isn't it? Got a little porch there. Could have a glass of lemonade and enjoy the great outdoors."
A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5) Page 24
