by L C Hayden
He concentrated on the land. Dried. Undisturbed. No one had been digging around here in a heck of a long time.
The bushes, then. He had checked them before. Should he spend the time double- checking? Maybe, but not now. He folded his arms and forced himself not to waste any valuable time looking at his watch.
Concentrate on the terrain. What unusual items can I see? A pile of rocks. More than likely, man made. Not nature made. His stomach twisted and turned as he moved the rocks.
Nothing.
Shiiit!
Don’t give up. What else? What is it that I’m overlooking? It’s here. It’s got to be here some place.
His gaze went from item to item, his thoughts turning and twisting like a never-ending river. A cactus. A bush. The rocks. A cactus. A—he stopped. His gaze went back to the cactus. Why did it look different?
He headed toward it, his pace increasing with each step he took. My God! That’s a plastic cactus. Darn good imitation. He lifted it. In the spot that the cactus had occupied, he found a small box marked Geocache Number Two. He reached for it.
Chapter Forty-two
Carol lost all track of time. She couldn’t tell if she’d been here for hours or days. No, it had to be hours. Three, four hours? It didn’t matter. Her husband would find her. Just give him time. He’ll come.
She pulled at the chain—again—attached to her ankle. It was no use, no use, no use. She had pulled, she had wiggled, she had hit, jerked, done everything imaginable but the chain would not yield.
At least it was long enough for her to stare out the window. If she somehow managed to get away, she’d follow the tire tracks down the hill. As far as she could tell, there was no road leading to the cabin. How would Harry ever find her?
Loneliness and bitterness engulfed her until it became a physical pain. No! She wouldn’t allow herself to dwell in self-pity. Think. What would Harry do under these circumstances?
She sat at the edge of the bed and memorized every item in the room. Its shape. Its size. Its location. Its usefulness as a defense weapon or a tool to escape.
Her hearing picked up a familiar sound. She focused. She concentrated. A motor. Someone was heading toward the cabin.
She felt as if she had just swallowed broken glass.
* * * * *
The first thing Bronson saw when he opened the box was Carol’s wedding ring. Then the note, which he read:
Congratulations, Bronson,
I knew you could do it. How long did it take? Or more important, how much time do you have left—or should I say, how much time does Carol have left?
Bronson glanced at his watch: 3:34. He had less than two-and-a-half hours. He continued to read.
Read any Patterson novels lately? I bought one of his in Mesa, AZ. I recommend you read all of his books. You’ll need that information for your next geocache. The coordinates this time are N3249.321 and W110 00.935.
I won’t waste my time wishing you luck on your search. After all, I want time to creep away from you. But before I go, there’s one more thing. This time you found Carol’s wedding ring. Will you find her finger in the next geocache?
Fascinating concept, don’t you think?
Bronson let out a sound that was half moan and half animal sound. His tongue jammed back into his throat as he looked at Carol’s wedding band.
Small droplets of blood spotted the ring.
Chapter Forty-three
Deadly fear gripped Bronson as he bolted back to the car. He opened the atlas and gazetteer he had purchased and forced his mind to focus on the task at hand. His hand shook as he glanced at the note.
The words Patterson and Mesa jumped out at him but no numbers that indicated possible roads. He searched the area close to Fort Grant. A couple of miles up further, he located some nameless fishing spots. Could they be Patterson and Mesa?
He looked at the coordinates. A wide gap existed between the current ones and the ones that had brought him to Fort Grant. He extended his search.
Then he saw it: Patterson Mesa Rd., running east to west on the other side of the mountain. He studied the map. Shiiit, no roads connected one place to the other. He’d have to go clear back to Safford.
He simultaneously started the engine and slammed the door shut. He stepped on the gas pedal and watched the speedometer climb. He stole a peek at the dashboard clock. It read 3:41.
He had a bit over two hours to find Carol and almost one hour of that would be spent on the road. Why hadn’t he followed procedure and notified Quaid? Maybe he could have provided him with a helicopter. Now he only had two hours to find Carol.
What if he missed the deadline? Would L’ee really kill Carol? Was she that bitter?
A piercing pain as if thousands of needles had been inserted in him racked his body. He whipped out his cell. He should have called Quaid a long time ago. He was about to punch in the first number when he realized he had no service.
Shiiit! And double shiiit.
He thought of Carol and a feeling of apprehension engulfed him. He thought of God and felt a little better.
The scenery flew by and one cactus blended into another. He pushed down further on the gas pedal. He drove dangerously close to losing control of the car.
Once he no longer had the road to himself, he slowed down to somewhere between seventy-five and eighty. He pushed it back up to eighty-five, hoping the highway patrol would stop him. Then he’d be able to get word to Quaid, but as luck would have it, no one stopped him.
As he approached Safford, he checked service availability on his cell. As soon as he’d get some, he would call the sheriff’s department and ask to speak to Quaid. Less than five minutes later, the phone displayed three service bars. He punched in Quaid’s office number.
“He’s not in right now, but I can connect you to his voice mail, or I can take a message,” said the dispatcher.
Bronson chose the voice mail. “Quaid? Bronson. L’ee Chalmers is the kidnapper. I have evidence that proves it. I could use a helicopter. Contact Tom O’Day. He has all of the details.” Bronson gave him the phone number and hung up.
Next he called Tom. He filled him in on all the latest geocache information.
“How many more geocaches will L’ee Chalmers have you find before she tells you where Carol is?” Tom asked.
Bronson had wondered the same thing. What if all he was doing was playing this game and it would never lead to Carol? Yet, he had no choice. He had no other leads. “No idea. I’m hopin’ this is it, but nothin’ tells me this is so. All I know is that I’m runnin’ out of time.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Get hold of Quaid. I don’t think I’m being watched but just in case I am, have him stay in the background. After I reach this third geocache, maybe I’ll know a bit more. I’ll need a helicopter in case there’s another geocache at the opposite side of the mountain and a car—preferably a four-wheel drive vehicle—to travel those roads. Don’t know if I’ll lose cell connection again, but a hand-held radio that’ll connect me to the sheriff would be nice.”
“I’ll go hunt Quaid down and get that done ASAP. Anything else?”
Bronson thought for a moment. Traffic had forced him to slow down to the mid-seventy’s. He couldn’t afford to waste more time. “Yes. I need a police escort to open the roads.”
“Where are you?”
“Approximately twenty miles away from Safford, comin’ in on Highway 191.”
“Hang on, I’ll contact Quaid about getting you that escort.”
They hung up and Bronson cursed the dash clock. It read 4:13. He had made good time so far, but he still had to drive through Safford and the other tri-cities. He forced himself to ease down to seventy-five. When had he pushed it back up to the eighties?
Seven minutes later he spotted a sheriff’s car parked on the side of the road. As Bronson approached, he watched the vehicle with interest. The deputy turned on his lights and siren and pulled in front of Bronson.
Half-way through town, Bronson’s cell buzzed. A cold, clammy fear gripped him. Did L’ee know he’d contacted the police? “Bronson speakin’.”
“Bronson, Quaid. Tom filled me in. This is what I have. The coordinates L’ee Chalmers gave you are on Patterson Mesa Rd. and Farm Road 156. We didn’t turn down the farm road just in case the area was under surveillance. But at least you know how far to go. That should save you some time. As you get ready to turn off the main road and onto Farm Road 156, you’ll see a boulder to your right. Beside it, on the side away from the road, you’ll see a hand-held radio. L’ee doesn’t know about it, so you can contact me any time by pushing the talk button, channel one. I also got a helicopter in the area on stand-by should you need it. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of. I just want you to know that I’m grateful to you.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m just an officer helping out another. I could get into trouble for letting you do this, so don’t mess up. Be careful out there.”
“I hear ya.”
A bit past Safford, Thatcher, and Puma—what the locals called the tri-cities—Bronson’s escort turned off his siren and lights. He pulled over and Bronson continued.
He was on his own.
Bronson looked at the clock. Even with all this help, time had slipped away. He only had one hour and fifteen minutes left, and the clock continued to tick.
Chapter Forty-four
Bronson spotted the sign for Farm Road 156. He slowed down, came to a stop, and took out the GPS unit. The readings fell right on target, just as Quaid had promised. He stepped out of the car, headed toward the boulder, and pretending to search for the geocache, he picked up the hand-held radio and slipped it in his pants pocket.
Following the GPS readings, he walked down the farm road, then turned left. The scrub brush cleared and Bronson saw a miniature replica of Stonehenge. He studied the eight-inch tall circular wall. A pile of stones lay in its center. If his memory served him right, large rocks similar to benches compromised the center of Stonehenge. This replica contained a pile of stones.
He scattered them and found an Altoid Tin. God, please don’t let me find Carol’s finger. He took a deep breath and opened the tin. He saw a note and Carol’s watch, no finger. He breathed easier. He pocketed the watch and read the note.
Hey,
Since you’re reading this, that means you’ve gotten good at the game.
Congratulations, but have you looked at the time? I bet it has just slipped away.
What a shame.
Bronson didn’t bother to waste precious seconds by looking at his watch. Every single nerve in his body tingled with the awareness of time. He continued to read:
By now of course you’ve found Carol’s watch. I got to thinking. I can chop off her finger, or I can do her entire hand. The hand is definitely better, don’t you agree?
But, oh, don’t worry. I’ll hand you her hand. Wow! I really like that expression: hand you her hand. Cute, eh?
Anyway, you will definitely find it in the next geocache. No maybe’s about that, but if you hurry, perhaps she won’t bleed to death.
Bronson felt his legs sway. He steadied himself. She’s bluffing. She’s got to be bluffing. He forced his mind back to the note:
Which takes us back to the next geocache.
Shiit! How many more geocaches will there be? Will he ever find Carol in time?
The coordinates this time are N3827.316 and W10949.391. If you don’t find this last geocache, you’ll be a real turkey and will fall flat on your face.
The word last jumped out. Last geocache. Is this the one where he will find Carol? But L’ee hadn’t mentioned finding Carol, only her hand. The thought filled him with fear.
He ran back to the car, took out the atlas and gazetteer, and looked at the coordinates: N38. The coordinate by Fort Grant began with N37. He began his search close to Fort Grant. It didn’t take him long to find it, Turkey Flat. As expected, no direct route existed. He would have to drive back to Safford then down Highway 191 to Road 366. According to the atlas, that road eventually deteriorated but it would take him to Turkey Flat. That meant at least another wasted hour on the road—or he could chance it and fly.
Bronson took out the hand-held radio. “Bronson to Quaid.”
“Quaid, go. What’s going on?”
“There’s one more geocache. Supposedly the last one. Coordinates are N3827.316 and W10949.391. That should put it on Turkey Flat.”
“I’ll have one of my men locate the general area like we did this last one. Anything else?”
“Yes, driving time is a little over an hour. That will put me there past the time I’m supposed to find Carol. I’ll need to use a helicopter to get there.”
“I’ll have one pick you up in less than five minutes.”
“Thank you. Over and out.” Bronson stared at his watch: 5:03.
He had an hour and three minutes left.
He cursed time.
Chapter Forty-five
Bronson and the pilot, an officer named Steve Paulson, had been in flight for a bit over fifteen minutes when Bronson heard Quaid’s voice coming from the hand-held radio. “Quaid to Bronson.”
Bronson keyed the mike. “Bronson, go.”
“You’re right,” came Quaid’s voice over the radio. “The coordinates you gave me are indeed in Turkey Flat. I figure that if we drop you off on Trail 329, you’ll have no more than a five minute hike to the geocache’s location.” Quaid hesitated for a second, then added, “I hope you find your wife.”
“Me, too.”
Minutes later, the helicopter landed in its designated area. Bronson jumped out and ran down the road, closely following the GPS readings. He located the north coordinate and headed west. Several feet ahead, he came to the right readings and started his search.
No pile of rocks.
No Stonehenge. No plastic cactus or trees.
He walked around and searched the base of the trees.
Nothing.
Maybe he was looking in the wrong direction. L’ee could have put the geocache on top of the trees, in its branches. He walked around, looking up.
Still nothing.
With each passing second, Bronson’s anxiety level grew. Shiiit! What was wrong with him? This was a simple game. Why couldn’t he find the stupid geocache?
He stepped back, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and forced his nerves to settle down. Think logically. What do you see? What do you not see? He opened his eyes and concentrated. He saw some ground plants, some oaks and pines. One mighty oak stood by itself. He’d begin with that one. He studied its base, then its trunk, and finally its branches. Nothing there.
He moved on to the next object.
A red squirrel, indigenous to only this part of the world, dashed from tree to tree. Bronson watched it and moved on to the next item. Three pines in a cluster. He compared their bases, their trunks, and their branches. Something caught his eye. The branches on the middle tree seemed unusual. Bronson hurried toward it.
As he approached it, he realized that those weren’t pine needles. What was this branch doing sticking out of the middle of a pine tree? He pulled it out, revealing a hole in the almost dead pine. He looked inside and saw a Tupperware container. He reached for it and pulled it out.
As he did, he realized the container was the right size to hold a hand. The plastic would of course prevent any blood from dripping out.
He reached for the lid.
And hesitated.
He couldn’t open it.
He had to.
Oh, God. Help me.
Nervous fingers pried the lid open.
A see-through plastic bag revealed a hand.
Bronson dropped the geocache and let out a heart-wrenching moan that stemmed from deep
within his gut.
Chapter Forty-six
By now Carol had memorized every item in the tiny one-room cabin. She had seen glasses and plates on top of the small kitchen counter. That probably meant that one of those cabinets contained a pot or a pan. They would make good weapons.
The problem that faced her centered on finding out which drawer contained what. “I’m getting hungry. Do you have anything to eat?”
L’ee turned away from her surveillance from the window. More than an hour ago, Balthasar had left and had not returned. L’ee looked worried. Her beady eyes flashed Carol a stern look. “What do you think this is? The Holiday Inn? I’m not about to prepare you a meal.”
“No, but I could do it. I’m sure you’re hungry too.”
“There’s nothing to eat. Quit being a pest.” She turned her attention back to the window.
So okay. She wouldn’t find out which cabinet contained the pots and pans. At least not while L’ee was still here, and she didn’t seem to have any plans of going away.
But Carol had found something else. Perhaps it wouldn’t work as well as a pot or a pan, but at least it was something. An eighteen-inch long branch rested against the fireplace. Its smaller branches had been cleared so that only stubs remained. This particular branch had obviously been used to stir the fire whenever the fireplace was used to warm the room.
The best thing about this branch was that it remained within reachable distance. At the first opportunity available, Carol planned to grab the branch and slip it under the bedspread of the metal bed she was chained to.
Maybe now would be a good time. L’ee seemed to be so preoccupied watching for Balthasar’s arrival. Not that Carol didn’t feel concern about that. As far as she knew, he had the only key to unlock her chain. She had watched him chain her ankle, then attach and lock the opposite end of the chain to the metal bed frame. He double-checked the locks to make sure they were secure, before slipping the key in his pants pocket.
