The keep, p.20
The Keep, page 20
"What's the hurry?" The words rumbled from his chest, deep and suggestive.
Angela laughed, but it sounded nervous not amused. "It's this place. We're living out in the middle of nowhere. I want to be in town. I want to see people. I want to shop, and go out to restaurants, and get my hair done."
Honey noted Angela hadn’t said anything to Zach about the police knowing about Joe’s connection to his uncle’s defunct company. She must have thought it was still a secret.
The angry edge returned to Zach's voice. "How long you think they'd keep you, anyway? How long before she doesn't like the way her husband is looking at you? Doesn't like the way you take over her life."
"Her husband isn't like that."
Angela didn't deny she'd take over Honey's life, only that Booker wasn't a lech. Honey thought about the girl’s assertiveness at the shop. Her anxiety, already a dull throb, became a steady thrum.
"He's a guy, isn't he?" Zach said.
Something slapped to the floor; the sound reverberated in the dark. A shuffle of feet, then a grunt. "Zach." Angela sounded upset, afraid maybe.
Honey sat up and moved toward the sound, a useless gesture. She couldn’t protect Angela through the walls, but if she hadn't, she wouldn't have caught his next words. "Don't do this again. I'll take care of you."
"I appreciate that." Angela's voice was gentle but noncommittal. She was placating him.
Neither said anything for ten, eleven, twelve heartbeats. Zach broke the silence. "I'm going in. I'll keep Dad busy, so he doesn't see you dumping that."
"Okay."
Footsteps, more sweeps of the broom, the cascade of glass into a trash can, then quiet. Honey glanced around the darkened space she occupied. Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and she could now see a strip of light where the walls of her shelter met the ceiling.
She sat on a cot in an enclosed section of the keep. A smooth wall separated her from Angela and Zach's voices. She could see the outline of a door in it. The other three walls of her cell were constructed of the same blocks as the storage area she'd seen earlier.
"Honey." Angela's voice whispered through the cracks around the door like a gentle wind.
Honey scrambled from the cot and knelt near the door. "I'm here." The words rasped through her throat.
"I'll get you out, don't worry."
"Call the police, get help."
"I will when I can, but Zach's going to watch me like a hawk for a while."
Honey thought about the hawk she'd seen circling the day she and Booker found Joe's body by the falls. At the time, it had made her think about the freedom of flight, now she felt sympathy for the prey it had been seeking. "Zach is dangerous.”
“I can handle him. At least, I can handle him until we get away.”
Angela’s words didn’t fill Honey with confidence, but she had to trust her. What other choice did she have? “Booker will be looking for me," she said.
"I know. We need to leave before he thinks of coming here. It’s not safe.” Cold seeped into Honey’s bones. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I'm going to have to play along with whatever Zach has planned. Make him think I'm on his side," Angela said.
"Whatever he has planned isn't going to be good for me," Honey said.
"I can handle him."
The phrase didn’t sound any better the second time Honey heard it. She felt lightheaded. Her throat was raw. Symptoms of having a plastic bag jammed over her head she was sure. How long did it take to suffocate someone? Four minutes? Five?
She shuddered. She was grateful to be alive. No, she had no confidence that Angela could handle Zach. "I'm thirsty.”
"I left water by the cot," Angela said. “There’s also a bucket and a roll of toilet paper in the corner.”
Honey gazed toward the bed and saw a glass bottle with a stopper on an upturned box. She reached for it, pushed out the stopper, and guzzled thirstily. Cool liquid slid down her dry throat, soothing it. When she spoke again, her voice was clearer. "How long before we can leave?"
Before Angela could answer, Zach's voice invaded Honey's enclosure. "Who are you talking to?"
"No one." Angela's tone was defensive, too defensive. It belied the truth of her words.
"She's awake," he said. Angela didn't answer. "I know you're awake," Zach raised his voice.
"My husband will be looking for me," Honey repeated the only threat she could think of.
"He won't find you." Zach didn't sound concerned. "Come on, Angela. We need to get rid of the van."
Panic skittered over Honey's skin. "What are you going to do with my car?"
"I'll come as soon as I'm done cleaning up," Angela said.
"Hurry it up." His footsteps faded.
"What’s he going to do?" Honey couldn't keep the fear from her voice. She was afraid she already knew. If he was Not Joe, his aim was money. He must be planning to use her for ransom, but she and Booker didn't have much left. They'd given most of their savings to Joe already.
"We can't talk now. It's not safe." Angela's voice grew softer as she spoke. She was walking away.
Honey's pulse pounded in her ears. "Don't leave me."
"I'll come back when he goes to bed." Honey heard the thud of a door, then nothing.
She crawled onto the cot and pulled the scratchy wool blanket around herself. She inhaled and exhaled slowly; the way Dr. Hillary had taught her. She wasn't in any present danger. Based on the strip of light circling her enclosure, Angela wouldn't return for a long while. She had time to think, to plan, if she could only calm her frantic imagination.
She had no idea what the statistics were about hostages being returned alive after ransoms were paid, but she didn't think they were good. Visions of Booker walking up Rick's long drive, a pack full of hundred-dollar bills in his hand, terrified rather than buoyed her. Why wouldn't Zach kill them both once he got the money? He'd murdered once.
Angela was her only hope. Angela and God. Angela, her name meant angel. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed a prayer.
She turned her attention to her heart, willed it to beat slowly and evenly. Long moments later, she opened her eyes. There was a battery-operated lantern on the box. She didn't switch it on. Instead, she allowed her thoughts to paint pictures on the darkening walls around her.
With the van gone, she and Angela would have to hike out. She hoped the girl had the courage to escape. From her volunteer work at a battered women’s shelter some years ago, she knew it often took a victim as many as seven or eight attempts to leave. How many times had Angela tried to leave Zach? Maybe rescuing Honey would give her the strength to do the right thing. She had to hang onto that, to make her plans. If she didn’t, she’d lose her mind.
Her cell phone would be disposed of along with her car. Zach wouldn't take a chance on it being traced, but Angela had a cell phone. They could call for help as soon as they reached the fire road.
She imagined the line of sheriff department vehicles she and Booker had seen the day they'd found Joe—a caravan to the rescue. They would come for her. She'd be fine. Booker was calling Detective Sylla as she’d left the house that afternoon. She told herself these things over and over until she nodded off.
She woke with a start as if something had startled her, but when her eyelids fluttered open, she didn't hear a sound. The crack of light around the ceiling had gone from lemon to blackberry. It was night.
She lay there for several minutes feeling the lub-dub of her heart against her sternum. It was comforting, its sound the one every newborn was drawn to after being pulled from the cozy darkness of the womb. Bruiser, the boxer they’d had before Fury, was a pup when they got him. The only way they could stop his howls at bedtime those first weeks was to put a clock in his bed. It mimicked the beat of his mother's heart.
It struck her now that her own heartbeat had become a source of stress. It had bucked and bolted and run through her chest in panic at the slightest provocation, which only made her more fearful. Yet here she was imprisoned by the man who'd murdered her brother-in-law, perhaps facing the same fate, and her heart was practically unperturbed. Why?
She'd practiced the breathing techniques Dr. Hillary had taught her numbers of times in the past month without much success. She hadn't had a Xanax since the half-pill she’d taken that morning, or yesterday morning. She’d lost track of time. Either way, it didn't make any sense, but now wasn't the time to puzzle over it. She needed to prepare herself.
When Angela came, they would head to the fire road. They wouldn't take the driveway, but dodge through the trees as she and Rosie had done last time they were here.
Rosie.
Another comforting thought.
When Booker noticed Honey was missing, he'd call Rosie. Rosie would think of this place. She'd suggest he look for her here. She was sure of it. Rosie hadn't felt safe here. Zach had put her on high alert. Her intuition had been correct. She'd share that intuition with Booker now.
Of course, chances were Zach was planning to contact Booker himself, ask for a ransom. Zach would also insist the police not be called. Would Booker agree to that? She didn’t think so, besides he’d already told Detective Sylla everything.
Honey sat up; her heartbeat no longer as steady. Visions of the Branch Davidian firefight ran through her mind again. She wondered how many weapons were on this ranch. Plenty, she was sure. What if the police came and it devolved into a shootout?
A light flipped on outside her door, and Honey froze. Could it be Angela coming to get her? She heard the shuffle of feet on the rough surface of the cement. It didn't sound like her light step, but it didn't sound like Zach's heavily booted one either. She scooted off the end of the cot and pressed one eye to the crack around the door. A sliver of floor, a bit of a metal barrel, the joint of a shelf; this was all she could see.
She stayed there, her breathing soft and shallow, until her legs began to cramp. Silently cursing, she pushed against the wall and massaged her protesting thighs. The shuffle came closer. She closed her eyes and listened. She heard breathing now, heavy and full of mucus. It had to be Rick.
She pivoted and peeked through the crack again. A leg, not in blue jeans like both Angela and Zach were wearing last she saw them, but dark blue cotton fabric. It was Rick.
What was he doing? Inventory? Angela had said he counted every jar and box on the shelves. The slide of his leather shoes shushed across the cement. He was close, just on the other side of the door.
"Damn," he muttered, then bent over. For a split-second, Honey saw the side of his grizzled head. He picked up something so small it was invisible to her eye. A shard of glass? Most likely. Now he knew something had broken in the storage shed.
Friar Philip’s words, Rick is a good man, echoed in her memory. Honey opened her mouth to call out, but his eyes, cold and vacant, slid into her mind as well. She closed her mouth. No, she couldn’t trust him. Zach was his son, his child. Honey was a stranger. Strangers meant danger to someone like Rick. His son would win any contest between them.
A moment later Rick moved quickly toward the exit. She heard the heavy door thud closed and felt tension drain from her limbs. She collapsed against the wall again and waited.
Ten minutes passed, twenty, maybe more. She had no way of knowing the time. But at some point, she gave up hope that anyone would return that night. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn't eaten anything for hours, but despite the rumble she wasn't hungry. The thought of food made her throat constrict.
She crawled to the lantern near the bed, switched it on, and blinked in its glare. Once her eyes adjusted, she gazed around her prison, looking for what? A weapon? A way out?
Her gaze fell on the bucket. Her bladder squeezed in response. She slid off the bed and squatted over it. When she was finished, she rinsed her hands with a splash of water from the bottle. She was observing the niceties of polite society. How long before they disappeared, before they seemed meaningless, wasteful even?
She had to get free before Zach had a chance to contact Booker. That was the only way this thing had any chance of a happy ending. Where was Angela?
5.5.5
A breeze fluttered across Honey's face. A hand gripped her ankle and shook it. Her eyes opened. Angela stood at the foot of the cot. "Wake up." She spoke in a harsh whisper.
Honey rubbed sleep from her eyes, shocked that she did sleep. There were so many times this past month she lay awake all night in her king-sized bed with its memory foam topped mattress on 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets in a temperature-controlled room. Yet here, on this lumpy cot with its itchy wool blankets in fear for her life, she'd dropped into unconsciousness like a stone.
"I'm sorry I didn't come last night. Rick missed that jar of beans I broke and threw a fit. He stayed up so late writing in his notebook, doing his calculations, I fell asleep. Here, I brought you this."
Angela tossed something wrapped in a paper towel onto the cot. Honey opened it. It was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread. Honey hadn't eaten soft over-processed white bread since she was a kid. She took a tentative bite, and hunger hit like a sledgehammer. She attacked the sandwich, washing down gooey bites with the end of her water bottle. "I was thinking about it," she said.
Angela's eyebrows raised in question.
"I think we should head straight for the trees, then when we get to the main road, we can call for help."
Angela’s eyes narrowed. "Why not call from here?"
Honey set her water bottle aside. "I figured you’d want to be gone before the police show up. Like we talked about at the shop. If you’re with me, escaping, they’ll know you weren’t part of ...” Honey let her words dwindle away. She didn’t want to say Joe’s murder. Angela must not know what Zach had done. If she’d known, she would have left.
"It might be a while before we can leave," Angela said.
"Why?" Despair flowed through Honey. She wanted to leave now, find Booker, head off Zach's plans.
"Zach is—"
"Ange." Zach's voice cut off her words.
Her face hardened. "I've got to go."
"When are you coming back?"
"When I can." Angela hurried from the room and locked the door. It was evening before she returned. Honey had been in the keep over twenty-four hours.
"We need to go, now." Angela entered without knocking.
Honey stood too quickly and grew dizzy for a minute. She'd been lying down almost the entire day listening for the sound of the police cars that never came. Hadn’t Booker called Sylla? And if he had, why hadn’t she come? Did she have something more important to do than investigate Joe’s murder? Honey’s disappearance?
"You have a cell phone with you, right?" Honey said. She wanted to call the police herself. First to scream for help, next to let them know what she thought of them.
Angela slipped one out of her rear pocket and held it up.
"You don't know where mine is, do you?" Honey's question was half-hearted. She didn't expect to see that phone again.
"Long gone." Angela pivoted and walked from the room.
Honey followed past the rows of provisions. Her gaze fell on the boxes of Ageless chocolate shakes, and her chest ached. It was the first time she’d felt grief for Joe. Maybe it was because she’d experienced violence, stared his killer in the face. Whatever he’d done, he hadn’t deserved death.
The two women exited the building, but instead of rushing to the trees, Angela turned to close and lock the door. "It might buy us time," she explained over her shoulder.
Honey gazed around the clearing while she waited and noted her van was no longer parked near the house. Her hands clenched. Even when she reached safety, she knew the chances of having any of her property returned was slim. Her van, her purse, her cell phone, like her money, were history. Things were unimportant when compared to her life, but the empty spot made the violation seem more real.
Angela moved away from the shed and jerked her chin toward the trees. Honey hurried in that direction.
"Thief. Stop." Before they reached shelter, a voice boomed from the direction of the house. Honey darted a glance over her shoulder. Rick stood on the front porch wearing tattered sweatpants and a t-shirt the color of old mashed potatoes.
His hair, what he had left of it, rose from his head in tufts like he'd been tearing at it. "You stop right there. Angela, why'd you bring this thief to my house?"
Angela halted in her tracks. "Now, Rick. Honey didn't take anything from you."
"She did. I counted them beans. I put up twenty-five jars. There's been twenty-five jars every time I done my inventory. Until last night, that is." He pointed a trembling finger in Honey's direction. "That's one heck of a coincidence, girly."
"The jar fell on the floor. It broke." Angela kept her voice calm, modulated.
"I know that. What do you take me for?" He swayed.
Was he drunk?
"She was pawing around out there, looking through my supplies, probably planning to haul everything off in that van of hers. I'm not daft. I know what's what."
"No, Rick. Honey doesn't want your stuff. She's got plenty of her own." Angela locked gazes with Honey and turned toward the trees again. "We're going for a walk. We'll be back."
A shot cracked the evening air and shattered it like that glass jar. There was a flurry of flapping wings, then silence. Honey froze. Incomprehension, solid and thick, pressed in on her.
Another shot, and the dirt near her feet exploded. "Down," Angela grabbed her by the arm and threw her to the ground. "Trees," she hissed.
Honey crawled toward the trees, still not understanding, but obeying. A third shot rang behind her, and this time something pinged off one of the trees she'd been making for. She climbed to her feet, made a sharp left and darted toward a stand of oaks on the opposite side of the long drive.
"Rick," Angela screamed. "What are you doing? Put that gun down. You're going to kill someone."
"Thieves don't deserve to live. They steal the food right out of your mouth. What do you call that? It's worse than murder."
