The muscles don’t hurt. They just don’t cooperate, as if there’s an invisible line on the horizon and my arm can’t go higher. My chest starts to spasm. My lips stick together, tongue dry and coated.
Thirst. I’m dehydrated. I’ll be fine once I orient and get help. Whatever’s wrong with me can’t be as bad as what they’re about to do to Lindsay.
I have to stop them.
Squinting, I look at the sun again. I’m facing southeast. It’s about six p.m., give or take half an hour. Lindsay’s been gone for how long?
Someone has shoved a balloon up my nose and into my sinus cavity and is slowly blowing it up until it pops. I close my eyes and gingerly push myself up the wall to standing.
Shake it off, Drew, I tell myself. You’ve been through worse.
And it’s true.
I have.
Lurching like a drunk after a three-day bender, I stick to the wall, walking a few steps along the line of thick cement block, painted institutional gray. The bustle of the city is in the distance, the stench of urine and exhaust overwhelming my remaining open nostril. The last time I was this injured, I smelled ozone and dirt, sand and heat, the high temperature and blinding sun searing my nostrils.
By comparison, today is a cakewalk.
Getting out of this zip tie is paramount. Old training flashes through my mind. I pull my aching shoulders up and grab the end of the zip tie with my teeth. I tighten as much as I can, until my wrists scream. The plastic cuts my skin at the thumb joint.
I lift my arms over my head, forcing my right arm up, then flare my elbows slightly as I smash my cuffed wrists into my stomach, tightening my core. As I bring my shoulder blades close together during the sharp, sudden movement, I ignore the bones screaming.
Snap! The zip tie pops off my wrists.
Mission accomplished.
I grab the envelope and stagger down to the street.
At the end of this wall I’ll be able to grab a cab. My good hand holds my manila envelope. My wallet’s in there. Phone, too. I lean against the wall and pull all the items out.
My gun’s gone, of course.
Cash, too.
But my credit cards and ID are in my wallet.
I hail a cab. It takes seven tries before a guy who looks worse than me pulls over, grinning with a mouth full of seven teeth, total.
“You look like shit, man. Where to?”
I’ve never been more grateful for an insult.
And then I give him The Grove’s address.
Because, really, how much worse can this day get?
Chapter 3
Lindsay
Losing long chunks of time while you’re unconscious normally involves the added benefit of dreams. As someone’s rough hands slip my pants off over my hips, I wake up, my face itchy from rubbing against warm, wet cloth. My nose screams with a strange buzzing that makes me want to scratch all the flesh off and douse it with paint thinner.
All the skin along my inner thighs tightens painfully, as if I expect these hands to shove my legs open and pierce me. All that actually happens is that the black cloth bag stays on my head while my body is stripped of every stitch of clothing. Someone puts me in a skin-tight series of clothes, like a bodice with thick leggings. The searing shame ripples on my skin like an extinction burst.
I can’t control my body’s responses. If I keep reacting, though, I’ll lose energy. Focus. The ability to think and strategize.
All I can do is deaden my emotions. Reduce my reactions.
Go numb.
The less I react, the better. The less I do to draw attention to myself, the less likely I’ll suffer abuse.
I know it’s foolish to hope.
But hope and Drew are all I’ve got.
And Drew’s not here.
I don’t know exactly what my captors are doing. I try to be as limp as possible, pretending to still be unconscious. This won’t save me. I know.
But it’s the best I can come up with under the circumstances.
My mouth is dry and sour, tasting gross. I flash back to being bound, waking up with Jane over me, crying and babbling. Four years ago, I was just a body they played with.
And here I am again.
Where are you, Drew?
I slow down my breathing and try to take in my surroundings with my ears. The ocean laps in the distance, gentle sounds interspersed with crashing waves. The Island.
I must really be on the Island.
I inhale slowly, deliberately, as quietly as possible. On the Island, the constant start and stop of golf carts on the grounds was like a sitcom laugh track, punctuating the rhythm of the days.
No golf cart hum.
On the Island, helicopters came and went at least twice a day. So far, no helicopter other than ours.
And on the Island, ice cream trucks didn’t exist. The tinkle of a truck’s melody announcing its presence to kids and ice-cream-hungry adults shatters my theory.
No.
Not the Island.
My heart races as I take in the scent. It’s nothing like the Island, inside or out. All of the buildings there had an institutional, bleach-like scent. And outdoors was filled with salty ocean air.
This smells like someone’s home.
Oh, God, please don’t tell me I’m at John’s house.
“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” says a new voice, not John’s. It doesn’t sound like Blaine, who is California cool, inside and out, born and bred.
Must be Stellan.
How does he know I’m awake?
Before I can react, the hood comes off and I spasm out in a coughing fit.
“Hello, Lindsay.” I can’t close my eyes fast enough. It’s Stellan.
I say nothing.
He nudges me with his toe. “You’re being rude. You won’t like what we do to rude little girls.”
My jaw tightens. I couldn’t talk if I wanted to. I imagine Drew pulling Stellan away from me and punching him. My neck releases slightly at the image.
Time.
Time is my friend. The longer I can buy time, the better the chance Drew can get me before they, well...
Before they kill me.
A hopeless black hole takes over at my core. It expands, like a pupil dilating, taking over my bones, my organs, my flesh, my everything.
I’m about to be hurt badly.
Tortured.
Violated.
And I can’t stop it. Being drugged would be preferable to this. Maybe later, I’ll beg for that.