Prior Bad Acts

59

“COME ON, SAM…Come on, Sam…” she breathed against the body of the phone, her eyes riveted to the opening that had once been a doorway into the room.

“Carey? Jesus God, are you all right?”

“No,” she murmured, terrified to raise her voice.

“Carey, can you speak up? I can barely hear you.”

“No. I can’t. He’s going to come back soon.”

“Who? Who took you?”

“Karl Dahl.”

There was an uncharacteristic beat of silence before he asked, “Where are you?”

“In an old munitions building. It’s a ruin. It’s burned. And I can smell a refinery of some kind. I can’t see it, but I can smell it. Hurry, Sam, please.”

“I’ll be there ASAP. You hang on. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

Something made a sound in another part of the building.

Carey turned the phone off, dropped it, snatched it up, fumbled with it, stuck it back into her pocket.

She glanced again at the door.

Don’t watch the door. Get the knife.

Unable to get up because of the ligatures, she maneuvered onto her knees and scooted closer to the box/table.

Arm outstretched, leaning, even her fingers trying to elongate themselves, and still she couldn’t quite reach it.

She tried a second time, leaning even further.

An inch short, maybe two.

She tried to move the concrete block but couldn’t. Another sound of movement or scuffle came. Carey couldn’t tell where it was coming from. The place was probably teeming with rats and mice, and who knew what else. Karl had already been gone longer than she had expected.

One last time she focused on the knife, leaned forward, stretched, stretched until her hand was trembling. She glanced again toward the door.

Don’t watch the door. Get the knife!

It was still just beyond her reach.

She pulled back six inches, regaining her balance, took a deep breath, and lunged.

She hit the end of her tether at the same time the heel of her hand hit the box.

The box scooted away.

Her fingertips caught the handle of the knife, scratched it toward her. It fell from the box.

She snatched at it again.

Scraped it toward her.

Grabbed the handle of the knife.

Carey lay there for a handful of seconds, breathing hard, then pushed herself backward and struggled to get back onto her knees. She had the knife.

Her black shirt was brown with dirt. Her face was probably no better. She did her best to brush herself off, then took the throw that had covered her and wiped her face.

A sound like metal hitting metal startled her. Had it come from inside? Outside?

Either way, she was already on borrowed time.

Pulling the throw up around herself, she lay back down on her side, hiding the knife beneath her leg.

Another sound. A crunch. Another, another. Footsteps. Karl.

Come on, Sam…

Carey closed her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t come to wake her, hoping that he hadn’t decided it was time to make love to his angel.

She didn’t want to pull the knife. There was a much greater chance that he would get the knife away from her and kill her with it than there was of her killing him. And she would have to kill him-not wound him-if she was to have any hope of getting away.

The footsteps drew closer.

Come on, Sam… Come on, Sam…