I kick again, harder, and this time, my boot heel connects hard with the man’s groin. I hear my knee click, and I get a flash of pain, but I don’t care, and when he yells and lets go, I start running. I can hear the sirens. I can see dust coming up in the air just on the other side of the hill. They’re almost here.
He hits me from behind with something before I’m more than half a dozen steps away. I stagger a couple of steps, and then I fall down.
Everything goes gray and soft, and then red with pain, and I can’t think. I can feel him dragging me by the feet.
I hear the siren get louder and louder, and I think it’s just in my head until I see Kezia’s black car come flying over the hill and barrel toward us, with built-in blue-and-red lights flashing in the front grille.
I can’t let him get me in the van. I know that. I twist and try to jerk the man off balance as he pulls me.
I see Kezia throw open her door and lunge out almost before the car stops. She has her gun drawn in the next second, and she’s aiming, and shouting, “Police officer, let the boy go!”
The other door is opening, too, and Lanny hits the ground running. She shouldn’t come at us, but she does. She’s running straight for us.
She’s getting in Kezia’s way.
Lanny is screaming my name—Brady, not Connor, because she’s so angry and so scared—and she tackles the man trying to pull me so hard it knocks his grip loose, and I bang my head hard into the road from the recoil. Everything goes soft. I scramble up, but the world keeps moving, and I can’t get to Lanny because she’s fighting with the man in the coat. I see Boot; he’s trying to stand up on shaking legs now, and he’s barking, but it sounds frantic, strangled, and he can’t help much, either.
Kezia fires into the air and yells, “Lanny, goddammit, get down!”
Lanny tries, but then the man grabs her by the hair and yanks her backward to hide behind her. He climbs backward up into the open doors of the van and pulls her in with him. I hear the sizzling sound again. He’s shocked her.
I try to get to her, I do, but he’s dragged her all the way up front, and now he’s dropping into the driver’s seat, and I can’t reach my sister . . .
The van screeches away. He hasn’t even closed the back doors, and they flop around until they slam closed as he accelerates around the turn by Sam Cade’s cabin. He’s going around the lake.
He’s going to get away.
Kezia is suddenly there, and I feel her warm hand on my face, turning me to see how much I’m hurt. I think I’m bleeding. I don’t know. All I can think is, I did this. I must say it out loud, because Kezia presses her hand to my forehead, and says, “No, baby, you didn’t. You’re okay. We’re going to find her. You just relax, it’s all right.” Her voice is shaking, and she takes her cell phone and dials. “Goddammit, where’s my backup? White van, heading around the lake! Confirmed child abduction, I repeat, confirmed child abduction, victim is Lanny Proctor, white female, fourteen years old, wearing jeans and a red down jacket, black hair, do you copy that?”
My head hurts so much I throw up. I can feel Lanny’s old book digging into my ribs.
I can feel when Boot limps over and starts licking my face.
Then I don’t feel anything else.
22
GWEN
Pain comes in a slow, thick wave.
It’s just a red wall at first, an announcement by my entire body that things are not okay, and then it recedes a little, and I begin to identify specifics: my right ankle, throbbing in hot pulses. My left wrist. My right knee. My jaw, and I don’t remember being hit there, but you don’t in a real fight; it all becomes a blur. My shoulders ache horribly.
There’s something in my mouth, tied tightly enough that it’s forced between my teeth. Cloth. A gag. That’s why my jaw hurts.
I remember . . . what do I remember? The motel room. The man in the Melvin mask. Taser. Van. It all feels distant and smeared, but I know it’s real, because it terrifies me. Nightmares aren’t frightening once you wake up.
Memories are.
I remember being in the van. Tied up with . . . something. I remember the rattle of chains. We drove, and then we stopped. The van went up a sharp incline, and then it was all very, very dark, and we started to move again.
I remember a flashlight in my eyes, so bright it hurt, and a sting on my arm. He’s injected me with something, I realize. Maybe more than once to keep me sedated. That accounts for the horrible, bitter taste in my mouth, like poisoned chalk. I’m so thirsty my lips are cracked, and my throat aches horribly. I can’t summon up enough spit to swallow.
I’m in the dark, and I’m so cold that I’m shivering convulsively, even though there’s a blanket wrapped around me. I’m not in a van now.
I’m in a box. I’m curled up, legs pressed against my chest, and my hands are still cuffed behind me. That’s why my shoulders hurt. My head throbs so badly that I wish someone would cut it off and spare me the agony, and I think that’s the aftereffects of the meds. It’s pitch black, and I can’t see the box I’m in, but when I scrape my fingers over the surface, I feel rough wood. Splinters. The air smells stale, but I feel a breeze coming in on one side. There are airholes, and when I twist and look in that direction, I can see a dim glimmer of light.
Funny how a little whisper of hope can steady you.
Okay, I tell myself. You’re cold, you’re hurt, but you’re still alive. First thing: get out of this box. I wonder if I’ve been dumped somewhere to die, a long and ghastly torture. But that isn’t Melvin’s style. If he can’t see it and can’t get his hands dirty, it won’t be good enough just to kill me. And I know this is his handiwork. If anyone intends to see me dead, it’s my ex.
I try bracing myself and pushing against the lid of the box, but I have no leverage the way I’ve been confined. I try working my feet up against the sides, but the box is just too small.
I try screaming. The best I can do is a broken, muffled cry that won’t be heard even a foot away, and I can hear engines and machinery.
Now that my head is clearing, I realize that I’m not near cars, though that’s my first guess.
I’m near airplanes. I’m at an airport.
I start shouting again, trying to make myself heard; I try rocking the box, but it’s heavy, and I don’t have much space in which to try to shift my weight.
My elbow bangs hard into the side of the box. It explodes a little stick of dynamite up my nerves and into my aching shoulder, but I do it again, harder. Maybe someone will hear me knocking.
Someone does. The top is pried off, and a flashlight glares in at me. I can’t see past it. I can only try to scream for help and struggle to get up . . .
And then I hear a male voice say, “Shut her up, and keep her out until we get there.”
“That’s a high dose.” Second voice. I don’t recognize either of them. “There’s a risk she could arrest, or stop breathing. If we kill her—”
“Shit. Yeah. Okay. Give her as much as you can. We can dose her once we land.”
No no no . . . My heart starts thudding faster, adrenaline kicks in, and I dig my shoulders back into the splintery wood and slither up, trying desperately to make it out of the box . . .
A Taser slams lightning through me, and I drop.