The Lonely Mile by Allan Leverone
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are plenty of people who contributed to the writing of this book, and in a lot of different ways. First and foremost, my wife, Sue, who has been an unrelenting supporter, cheerleader and proponent of my work from the day I sat down and wrote my first word of fiction. Coming in a close second are my children, Stefanie, Kristin and Craig, who define the term “blind faith,” never doubting I would find an audience even when I was positive it would never happen.
Freelance editor Jodie Renner is everything an editor should be and more: knowledgeable, enthusiastic and ruthless with a red pen. This book is immeasurably better thanks to her hard work.
Aaron Patterson of StoneHouse Ink has identified a vastly under-served market, readers of “edgy Christian fiction,” and I thank him for the opportunity to introduce my work to these readers. Additionally, thanks to the entire StoneHouse/StoneGate family, from the editorial folks to the designer of my very cool cover art. This is a small press that is growing by leaps and bounds, thanks to a clear vision of the future of publishing and an extremely talented and professional staff.
As always, my personal weapons expert, Joe Serafino, answered all my questions—no matter how silly—patiently and fully. Dan Gravelle, my friend and a working EMT, helped me understand how an ambulance team might respond to the bloodbath in the basement of Martin Krall’s home. Thanks also to Jeff Zarella. ‘Nuff said.
Nearly a year ago, StoneHouse/StoneGate author Vincent Zandri very generously agreed to read an advance copy of my first novel, Final Vector, and provided me with such an enthusiastic blurb that my jaw is still hanging open. We became friends, and Vin was so effusive in his praise of his new publisher I became intrigued enough to check them out. Now I feel like I’m home.
Finally, and most importantly, thanks to you, the reader who has forked over your hard-earned cash for a copy of this book. It’s not an exaggeration to say you’re never far from my mind while I’m writing. I will never take you or your support for granted. You’re the best.
CHAPTER 1
May 1
AMANDA LAWTON SAGGED SIDEWAYS, groggy and disoriented, her blonde hair hanging in sweaty strings in front of her eyes. The heavy duct tape attaching her arms and legs to the wooden chair was all that kept her from falling to the cold, cement floor. She shot a pleading look at her captor, trying to focus on him through the disorienting effects of fatigue, hunger, and the drugs he’d forced on her. The thin man swam in and out of focus, moving around in her field of vision like a jittery Casper, although he was not a ghost, and he certainly wasn’t friendly.
This new room he’d moved her to—she thought it might be one of those aluminum-sided rental storage places—yawed and buckled in her watery eyesight. This must be what it feels like to be adrift on a small boat in heavy seas. Her stomach lurched. She thought she might puke. Please don’t let him gag me.
Her captor wrapped a final strip of the reinforced tape around each of her legs until they were completely immobile, then stepped back to admire his handiwork. Amanda knew this was her chance, probably her last chance, to beg for her life and her freedom. Maybe she could play on his sympathies, if he had any, and his humanity—if he was actually human—to plead with him to let her go.
She sat silently, though, trying to focus her gaze on him and failing, attempting to sit up in her chair and failing at that, too. What could she possibly say to him that she hadn’t already said? What pleas could she try? What promises could she make? Over the past week, the nightmarish seven days that had seemed like an eternity, Amanda had begged and reasoned, threatened and cried.
Nothing had worked. Nothing had made a bit of difference. He’d handcuffed her to a filthy little bed in the damp, nasty basement of his crumbling house, taking her when he wanted her in all sorts of different ways, feeding her when he felt like it, making her beg for the bathroom, in general, treating her like an animal or a piece of garbage while lovingly whispering words in her ear that were totally inconsistent with his treatment of her.
Amanda was in despair. Why had she let him grab her and throw her into his truck? How could she have been so careless? She would never again see her home. She would never again see her boyfriend or her parents or her college roommates. She would never hang out at the pizzeria in her tiny hometown, listening to music on the old-fashioned jukebox and teasing the local boys by wearing tight jeans and tank tops. She would simply disappear.
I guess I already have.
Amanda Lawton began to cry. She hadn’t thought it possible, she thought she had exhausted her tears at least three days ago. She had no words left to plead with her captor, but the tears came of their own accord. She cherished the tears. The tears meant that, somewhere deep inside the terrified shell of her former self, there was a sliver of hope, a dream that she might still escape the fate laid out for her by this awful man.
She was wrong.
Her captor stood and watched her cry, impassive and unmoved. He raised his arm slowly and pointed to one side of the tiny enclosure. Amanda tried to follow his gesture, which required intense concentration thanks to the cocktail of drugs she had been forced to take before he brought her to this new prison. “See the tiles on these walls?” he asked.
Amanda shook her head, trying to clear it. Why would he think she cared about the walls?
“Do you see them?” he repeated, the annoyance clear in his tone.
Amanda nodded, stifling a sob, still confused. “Yes, I see the tiles on the wall.”