Page 41 of Bitter Truth
“Wait until they give up and stop looking. Once they’re back inside, climb down and hike out of here. Once you hit the trail, run. He moved your car, probably mine too, so you’ll have to head back to town on foot. Stay near the wood line so you can hide if you hear his bike.”
“You’re talking like you won’t be with us.”
I shrug. “I might not. If that’s the case, try and remember how to get back here so you can send help. Can you do that?” When they don’t respond, I add, “We might only get one chance. Can I trust you to take it?”
“Yes,” the smaller girl says.
The brunette promises, “You can.”
I give them what I hope is a reassuring smile as Icontinue to work my wrists free from the straps. Because I know that talking about it is the easy part. The hard part is surviving it.
CHAPTER 21
I am not all right. My head feels like someone stabbed a hot poker through my eye and used it to stir around. My movements are slow, my limbs heavy, my thoughts scattered. And yet, I have to keep going.
Freeing my hands took longer than I’d hoped. After my wrists had been thoroughly twisted through the straps of my pack, my captor, whoever he is, had used the excess to tie multiple knots, further complicating my escape.
And though I wish I could say that I’d hit the ground running once I’d gotten loose, that would be a lie. I couldn’t even sit up, the weight of the bag on my chest too heavy for me in my weakened state. Finally, I managed to tip it off by rolling onto my side. Even then, functioning was a struggle.
My hands shook as I unzipped the pack and rooted around until I found the small pocketknife stashed inside. My entire body trembled as I half crawled, half dragged myself over to the girls. My muscles burned with fatigueas I used the blade to saw through the rope binding them. Though it wasn’t that thick, he’d tied a number of knots, same as he’d done to me.
Between my addled state and the waning light inside the shack, it was hard to determine where I needed to cut. What’s worse, once I finally did get through the rope, we discovered that it only freed one hand of each girl. There was a second strand still looped through the knothole, holding them hostage.
Fortunately, they’ve been taking turns attacking the tie that still binds them with the ever-dulling knife blade. Eighty percent of the fiber is now severed. In another ten minutes or so, they’ll be free.
The brunette, Danielle, chugs from the bottle of water I gave her while the smaller girl, Donna’s granddaughter, Amelia, continues sawing at the rope. A small bubble of hope forms inside me as I watch the strand get thinner and thinner. It vanishes an instant later, popped by the buzzing sound of an approaching motor.
All three of us curse. Amelia works harder, her motions growing more frantic as I gather our bottles and shove them back into the pack.
“Keep working,” I say, turning toward the door. Though I briefly consider trying to lock him out somehow, I know it’s useless. He might have a key. Whatever he used to hit me could easily break the window. Not to mention that he has my gun.
Which is why trying to take him by surprise also isn’t an option. If I was at full strength, I’d risk it. I’d take that tiny pocketknife and plunge it as deep as I could into his eye, or his throat, or whatever vulnerable spot I could reach. But in my current condition I might not cause more than a flesh wound. I can’t risk it, not when it’s not just myself I’d be putting in jeopardy.
The noise has grown louder, so close now that I can feel it in my joints. He’s almost here. Slowly, I lower myself onto the floor.
“Turn around like you were when I got here,” I tell the girls. “Pretend like your hands are still bound. Don’t let him see you messing with the rope, but whenever he’s not looking, keep trying to get free. I’ll do my best to distract him.”
Their faces fill with terror as I lie down on my side. Wrapping both arms around the pack, I roll over onto my back, lifting the bag on top of my chest again. The effort causes a fresh wave of pain to jolt through me, sending me into a sweat.
Whispering, I say, “Once you’re free, I need you to let me know. I want one of you to ask: is that a raccoon?”
I fight tears as I loop my arms back through the straps. As the engine stops. As I force my eyes to shut.
It feels like I’ve been shoved deep underwater as the door opens, my body not allowing my lungs to fill, my ears popping from the pressure. A large shadow falls over me, bringing the sound of heavy breathing closer. I flinch as the heat of that breath hits my cheek, the stench of it reaching my nose.
I flutter my eyes open, pretending like I’m just waking for the first time. But what I don’t have to fake is the fear caused by the face that fills my vision.
For a moment I wonder if I’m hallucinating. Maybe this whole ordeal has been nothing but a bad dream. Because the skin-covered skull leaning over me, his crusting sores oozing puss, is straight out of a nightmare.
“Oh, good.” The man sighs as he straightens, scratching at a scab on his arm. Doesn’t seem to notice when it starts bleeding. “I was afraid I hit you too hard. I tried to bunt”—he mimics the action with his otherhand, a wooden baseball bat clenched in his filthy fingers—“but you turned at the last minute.”
I act like I’m trying to feel the injury on my scalp, struggling against the straps like they’re still tight enough to hold me.
“Who are you? Why’d you hit me?” I ask.
“I—I had to.”
“Why?”
