The Marsh Madness

The door to the Navigator was yanked open. I yelped as a man in a balaclava dropped a bag over my head.

The safety belt loosened, and I was dragged from the vehicle. My ankle banged on metal as I was pushed, shoved and finally lifted off my feet. I struggled. I hit out and reached nothing. Soon I found my hands bound. Duct tape? I tumbled to a floor. Hard. Cold. Was I in the back of the van?

My captor mumbled something, but I couldn’t make out what it was.

The van screeched away. Was that Walter yipping? What if he got hit by a car? OMG.

Now there was only the whir of the tires and highway noises. How many times had I been told, “Never let them take you to a second location”? It was one of the many tenets of my unorthodox childhood. Well, I would have wanted to stop them—whoever they were—but what chance did I have with a bag over my head? My uncles had never mentioned that possibility.

It seemed unfair. I mean, Inspector Alleyn never had to put up with anything like that. Not that he’d never been attacked, but always with dignity. Even Fox managed to escape.

Well, back to the here and now, I told myself. Use what you know, and don’t go mooning over your bad luck. My uncles had of course explained how to undo duct tape. I hoped that’s what I was bound with. Its holding powers are overrated. Plastic ties are much, much worse. Maybe these kidnappers didn’t keep up with the latest trends. My plan was to free my hands first. They were duct-taped in front of me and not too tightly. This didn’t seem to be the work of an experienced kidnapper, I decided. Was that good or bad? Time would tell.

I brought my hands down as far as I could and snapped the tape open.

Unlike heroines in the movies, my hands shook, quite violently, and I was breathing loudly. There are probably quieter freight trains. Think of something soothing, I told myself. With an image of the signora’s lasagna in mind, I managed to collect myself enough to reach up and test the bonds on the bag over my head. It felt like burlap, and, oddly, there were no bonds. I yanked it off to find myself in a dark interior of a van that was rattling along. The ride was so uncontrolled that I wondered if anyone was actually driving it. I edged toward the back of the van and tried to figure out where the rear lights were. My captor hadn’t secured my feet, so I had some options. Everyone knows that if you kick out the back lights of a vehicle, then people will spot you and call 911. I did my best to listen, for a train, traffic, voices, familiar noises. Anything to identify where I was being taken and the route. I never did figure out where the lights in the van were. Maybe that’s easier in a car trunk.

I willed myself to be calm. I would need my wits about me when we stopped and I came face-to-face with whoever was behind this.

Be logical, I said to my quivering, terrified self.

The police were looking better by the minute. As much as we distrust them in our family, they don’t kidnap people and put bags over their heads. Not in this country, anyway.

I was not wealthy. So most likely not a kidnap for ransom. Could it have been a random attack? Unlikely. I was close to—inadvertently, but still involved in—two murders. I was nosing around about those murders. Therefore, this was almost certainly connected to them.

I really didn’t want to meet this dude face-to-face.

I didn’t know if he worked alone. Chadwick Kauffman was dead. There had been a gang of three at Summerlea, and now one of them was dead too. That left two. I might have been terrified, but I could still do simple arithmetic.

Time to get a plan.