Bourbon Creme Killer: Book 9 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series Page 12

  The resourceful author also happened to notice that the guard who brought her the food packets seemed to come at the same times every day. She didn’t have a watch that told her that, she’d merely observed the position of the sun coming through the grate in her cell. The routine for the guard was exactly the same every time.

  “Chow,” he would announce tonelessly. Then he would touch a series of buttons on the outside of the cell door and insert a large key, turning it to the left. He would come in, set the packet, which included a napkin, plastic utensils, and condiments, down on a metal table which was bolted to the floor, and leave again. Three times a day, every day, he went through this routine. When Izzy tried to speak with him, he ignored her. If she tried to touch him, he stepped to the side to avoid her and continued on with his task. One morning he came in while she was sobbing, head between her knees and he didn’t even glance in her direction.

  Her bathroom was a toilet in the corner, with only a steel partition for privacy, so she made certain to use it only when she knew that a meal was not imminent, and her means of bathing was a small sink in the cement room, a rough grey washcloth and towel, and a small bar of generic soap. She used the soap to make marks on the dark grey wall of the cell next to the sink, in order to count the days, and the more marks she made, the more determined she became to escape.

  Day after day of watching the guard go in and out, in and out, gave Izzy an idea, and, pretending to not be interested at all in the guard, she watched him like a hawk. She watched every movement of his hands when he operated the lock on the gate, and she learned the code, which apparently never changed, by watching the way that he moved his hand and fingers to operate the keypad.

  Up center, up center, down middle, far right down, far left down… 2, 2, 5, 9, 7. Once she had the code figured out, she watched him again and again, until the series of five numbers became a chant for her that she repeated over and over, waiting for the moment that the five digits would set her free.

  Steve came in to check on her one morning, when she could feel tiny droplets of rain spattering against the grate and falling into the cell, the smell of fresh rainfall filling her senses.

  “I’m going away for a bit, but don’t worry, young lady, you’ll be fine. I’m sure that our little dilemma will be resolved soon enough,” he said cheerily. “I might even bring you some ice cream if you’re a good little captive while I’m gone,” he teased, sounding menacingly like an unloved uncle, speaking to his ten-year-old niece.

  Izzy glared at him sullenly, not speaking, but inside, her heart leapt. If Steve was leaving, that was one less person to run from when she escaped. If he was leaving today, she’d wait until tomorrow morning just to be safe, and put the plan that she’d been formulating for days into action.

  “Bye now,” he gave her a jaunty wave, and the door to the cell clanged shut behind him.

  She got through the day by going over and over in her mind what she had to do for her freedom. Morning came early after a nearly sleepless night on the hard, thin cotton mattress that she’d been given, and she waited impatiently for her automaton guard to bring her breakfast. She’d stashed the food from lunch and dinner the day before under the mattress so that the guard wouldn’t see the small, individually wrapped packets of food. She planned to take them with her when she left, soon after he dropped off her breakfast. She waited until the expressionless young man had gone, then she hurriedly forced down the packets of breakfast food that he had brought, washing it down with stale coffee and a container of juice. Tucking the remnants away into the pillowcase that she’d stripped from the pillow, along with the lunch and dinner items that she’d hidden, she sprang into action.

  Izzy rolled the stiff plastic which had contained her reconstituted scrambled eggs into a tube to use as a makeshift key, bringing along the snapped-off handles of her plastic flatware for good measure. She tied the ends of the pillowcase with her food supply in it onto one of the belt loops of her jeans so that her hands would be free, and went to work on the lock. Reaching her hand out between the bars, she punched in the code that she’d seen the guard use over and over again, 2-2-5-9-7, relieved to hear the tone which indicated that the lock was ready to open, and shoved the rolled-up plastic into the lock, wiggling it. The plastic was too soft and didn’t even come close to budging the lock, so she tried again, with the two utensil handles, holding them in the keyhole and wiggling them to try to pop the lock. She pushed a bit too hard, and both handles snapped, unable to take the pressure.

  Izzy ground her teeth in frustration, biting back a primal scream of angst that teased at the back of her throat. She cleaned up the shards of plastic, picking some of them out of the stubborn lock, then paced and stared, thinking. She looked all around the room for possibilities that might open the door. There were no loose screws, everything was soldered and secured to the floor, and she was at her wit’s end, knowing that she was so close, with just one click of the lock keeping her from freedom. She felt the hole that the guard put the key into every day and found that it was a much larger diameter than she had expected. In fact, it was about the size of her pinky finger.

  Not anxious to stick her smallest finger inside the metal tube that would eventually lead to her freedom, Izzy convinced herself that she was being a big baby, and despite the fact that it probably wouldn’t work, she’d try sticking her finger in the hole to manipulate the lock. Any injury that might result would surely be better than being locked up like an animal in a cage. She pressed the code again, and this time, when she heard the mechanism get ready, she poked the pinky finger of her left hand into the hole, feeling around, and finding a metal flap that had to be the locking mechanism.

  Straining her whole body, she pushed her pinky with all her might, sweat beading on her forehead, and felt it begin to give. She pushed harder, and harder, and finally with a dull thud as the lock snapped open, its metal parts gripping her finger in a most painful way, the door swung open. Elated, Izzy looked both ways down the hallway and stepped out of the cell, her finger still stuck in the lock. When she was free of the cell, she tried pulling her pinky out, but it was held fast by solid metal. She tugged and tugged, whimpering with the effort, to no avail. Finally, desperate, she assumed that if she swung the door shut, the locking mechanism would fall back into place, away from her finger, so, having no other choice, she shut the door quickly, and was totally unprepared for what came next.

  A searing pain unlike anything she’d ever felt before screamed through her hand, up her arm, and into her shoulder. Her hand fell away from the door as the locking mechanism cleanly sheared off the tip of her finger. The pain took her breath away, and the room swam as she held her throbbing hand protectively against her stomach, stumbling away from the cell. She vowed to deal with the hand later, and trying desperately not to faint or throw up, she stumbled down the hallway, in the opposite direction from the one that the guard and Steve normally took.

  Blindly she ran through corridor after corridor, finally finding a stairwell leading up and into the light. Two floors away, there was a door at the top of the stairwell, with a small square window near the top. Peeking through the square, Izzy saw that the building she’d been held in was surrounded by a thick forest. If she could make it to the tree line without being seen, she might have a chance at surviving. Ignoring the searing pain in her hand, she pushed against the bar to open the door, hoping that it wasn’t setting off any alarms. When she didn’t hear any wails of alarms or stomps of rushing feet, she took off for the trees as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her.

  When Izzy got into the forest, she continued to run as though being pursued by all the hounds of hell. Her pillowcase of provisions bounced against her leg, and her left arm was tucked snugly against her stomach to protect her throbbing hand. She ran and ran and ran, until she could run no more, then she collapsed to the ground, her back against a tree, keening in pain, her sobs interrupted by bouts of dry heaving.

  “Why?” she m
oaned, rocking to and fro, overcome with fear and pain. “Why?”

  When her sobs eventually subsided, the pain in her hand practically driving her mad, she saw that the front of her t-shirt, where she’d been holding her injured hand, was soaked with blood. Knowing that she couldn’t afford to pass out from blood loss, she untied her provisions bag with her right hand, and bit through the thin fabric of the pillowcase by gnawing on it like a rat. Once she’d made a hole in the loosely woven cotton, she ripped a strip away from the pillowcase with her teeth, which made her jaw and head hurt; but that kind of pain was nothing compared to what remained of her finger.

  Wincing and whimpering, she wrapped her wounded finger tightly in the cloth, the pressure relieving some of the pain, and tied it snugly to the rest of her hand, using her right hand and her teeth. Once the finger was wrapped and immobilized, the pain was far more bearable, but she knew that she wouldn’t last long without treatment, so Izzy planned to find a water source, attempt to eat something after she was hydrated, and continue walking until she either found help or died. Either option would suit her equally well at the moment.

  ***

  The sun beat down on the famous author as she moved through the forest, finding neither water nor refuge. The humidity caused her clothing to stick to her in damp folds and her hair to cling to her forehead and cheeks. She was often dizzy, and had to stop more frequently than she liked, in order to rest. Her tongue felt swollen in her mouth, and her throat burned with a painful thirst. Trudging onward, she had no idea whether she’d live or die, and at this point, she couldn’t really care.

  One of the military food packets that she’d brought with her contained a plastic envelope of mixed fruit, and she opened it with her teeth, drinking the juice greedily. Her stomach rolled, wanting to reject the sustenance, but she willed the juice to stay down and rested. She dozed off, for how long she didn’t know, but the sun was significantly lower in the sky when she awoke. Ants had gotten into her packet of fruit, but her body craved nourishment so badly that she didn’t even care, and she emptied the envelope into her mouth, ants and all, chewing mechanically and swallowing because she knew that she had to.

  Izzy got to her feet slowly, knowing that she had to make the most of what daylight she had, and she stood swaying for a moment, with black stars dancing in front of her eyes. Once her vision had cleared, she used every bit of her strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other. She walked until she could walk no more, then, shivering with weakness and cold, she curled up at the base of a tree, and lay down her head, not knowing if she’d ever see daylight again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  (Present)

  Spencer Bengal parked his motorcycle at the end of the dirt road. He’d have to walk the rest of the way, and while right now it seemed that there was no point, he had to go to the cabin at least one last time.

  When the Marine had discovered that his brother at arms, Janssen, had been living off the land in the Florida swamp, he’d found a meeting place that worked for both of them, in case one needed the other’s help. The cabin was an abandoned, rough-hewn little place literally in the middle of nowhere. The closest dirt road ended a couple miles away from it, and the route from the dirt road to the cabin’s humble front porch took Spencer through some rugged swamp terrain, where he not only had to watch out for cypress knees and sinkholes, but also for cottonmouths, gators, and other lethal swamp creatures.

  He’d watched his friend and fellow veteran go up like a firework in the catering van, an incident which police had determined was caused by arson, and he knew that there was no point in visiting the cabin again, but he carried a six-pack of Janssen’s favorite beer under his arm and trudged through two miles of treacherous Florida swamp anyway, just to get some sense of closure and honor his fallen friend.

  He walked up onto the porch, the way he always had, and sat with his back up against the rough siding next to the front door, the way he always did. He cracked open one of the bottles of beer and took a good long swig, remembering what it had been like to know that no matter how bad things got, he could always come here and find Janssen, for backup, for perspective… for companionship. The two warriors understood each other, because they’d been through war and worse together, and now he was gone. The crossbow-toting, toothpick-chewing, wild man of the swamp, who’d been his friend… was gone.

  Spencer took another long slug of beer and leaned his head back against the cabin, closing his eyes, lost in memories and regret.

  “You plan on drinking that whole six-pack by yourself?” a familiar voice drawled. For a moment, Spencer thought that he had fallen asleep and was dreaming, but when he opened his eyes, he saw Janssen standing there, perfectly healthy, eyeballing the six-pack.

  Unable to utter a sound, Spencer just stared at the scarred veteran, his heart thumping.

  “You ain’t even gonna talk to me, man? That’s just rude, so I’m taking one,” the Marine grinned, bending down to pluck a beer from its cardboard container.

  He settled himself down against the siding on the other side of the door, just like old times, and drank his beer in silence.

  “How the heck did you pull that off?” Spencer asked, polishing off his bottle.

  “Who do you think set the fire?” Janssen chuckled. “You haven’t talked to the detective yet, have you?”

  “No, why?”

  “They’re all baffled because the truck blew up, and they didn’t find any bodies.”

  “You staged your own death… why?”

  “Because Steve Arnold knew that I was going to find you and warn you, and I want him to think that I’m dead.”

  “Why?”

  “So you and me can go find that pretty little girlfriend of yours and finally put Steve out of his misery,” Janssen shrugged.

  “You know I don’t operate that way,” Spencer warned. “And she’s not my girlfriend.”

  “It was just a figure of speech, I’m not going to eliminate Steve Arnold, at least I don’t plan on it just yet, and it don’t matter if you don’t call her your girlfriend or not, you still think of her that way. Tell me I’m wrong,” he challenged.

  “Whatever,” the Marine muttered, knowing his all-too-perceptive fellow veteran was entirely correct. “How are we going to find Steve, and how did you know that Izzy was missing?”

  “We’re going to start by figuring out all the possible places that he might be hiding her. Chances are, where she is, he’ll be close by. How did I know she was missing? You know, same old, same old… I hear things.”

  “Are we leaving tonight?”

  “No sense in that. We got a six-pack of beer, I’ve got a cooler full of venison jerky, and there are two perfectly acceptable cots inside. We’ll drink up, get rested up, and hit the road early in the morning.”

  “Janssen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

  “Me too, bro. Me too,” the Marine opened another beer and a ghost of a smile played about his lips.

  ***

  “The way I see it, there’s only one place that makes sense for him to take her to. It’s remote, it’s accessible by float plane, and he could stay up there for as long as it takes without ever having to leave if he didn’t want to.”

  “Idaho?”

  “Idaho.”

  “That’s a heck of a long way from here,” Spencer sighed.

  Janssen shrugged. “Meh, I know a guy who can get us there pretty quick.”

  “All the way there?”

  “Be serious. He can get us to the lake, then we can hike in the rest of the way, unless you’d prefer to announce to Steve that we’ve arrived by float plane to rescue your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Uh-huh. You said that.”

  ***

  Spencer adjusted the pack on his back and stretched, taking the cool mountain air into his lungs.

  “It’s been a while,” he commented, s
urveying the stunning scenery around the lake.

  “Not long enough,” Janssen muttered, recalling a less than idyllic time that he’d spent in the beautiful locale.

  “Well, the goal is to get in, grab Izzy and get out, so we won’t be here that long.”

  “What about Steve?” Janssen raised an eyebrow.

  “What about Steve?” Spencer challenged, his jaw set.

  “If we don’t do something about him, one way or another, he’s just going to continue, and clearly he’s not afraid to escalate,” the scarred veteran pointed out.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  With a grunt and a sigh, Janssen started making his way through the woods, toward the dark ops compound hidden deep in the primitive area.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  (Present)

  Izzy opened her eyes slowly, blinking in the bright light. She was startled to find that she was lying on a rough cotton quilt, and the smell of frying meat surrounded her.

  “Mornin,” a gruff voice greeted her.

  There was a grey-haired, heavily bearded man standing at the stove, in what looked like a small hunting lodge, tending the meat that she smelled. Izzy blinked at the man, confused, scared, and hungry.

  “Where am I?” she whispered, her throat dry.

  “Middle o’ nowhere,” the mountain man in the worn plaid shirt and faded jeans grunted. “Want some coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” she sat up, finding herself dressed in an oversized thermal shirt that came halfway to her knees. She drew the wool blanket that she’d been lying under around her protectively.

  “Don’t worry none, little girl. I ain’t got no intentions on ya,” the man said, handing her a steaming cup of coffee that smelled like heaven. Her stomach growled.

  “Sip on that, and if you keep it down, you can try a bit of venison sausage,” he gestured to the sizzling pan on the stove.