It howled in fury. She scrambled to her feet. Her breath came in gasps. The entire universe had shrunk to a small circle, target-sized: Lucy and the dog. The beast outweighed her, was more powerful. She couldn't win this fight, leaving flight as her only option. No way she could outrun the animal, not for long, but if she could find a weapon, reach the shelter of the barn … She'd just planted her right foot when pain tore through her left calf as the dog clamped down with its teeth.
Lucy kicked with all her might. The dog's grip loosened enough for her to slide her calf free, but then it regained a purchase, biting down hard on her foot where it met her ankle. She felt the crunch of bones giving way, the pain so sudden and shocking she fell facedown into the snow.
Lucy cried out in anguish as the animal dragged her closer. She clawed at the ground, found nothing but snow, twisted her body faceup, fighting to sit up and strike at the animal.
The dog held on, not releasing her no matter how she struggled, its baleful gaze fixed upon her, unblinking. Then it tore at her leg with its front claws, her blood billowing into the air, spraying the snow crimson.
Suddenly the blue sky was blotted out by shadow, followed by a man's smiling face.
"Hold," he told the dog. The dog stopped clawing at Lucy but held onto her mangled leg, its jaws a pair of vise-grips. "Good dog." He crouched down beside Lucy.
"Who are you?" Lucy gasped. "What do you want?"
The man was dressed in khakis and a fleece jacket. He had brown hair, brown eyes, nothing to distinguish him at all except his smile. It was a smile in name only: lips curled in the right direction, a few teeth showing, eyes wrinkled in delight. But unlike most smiles, it didn't promise pleasure or happiness. Instead, it was filled with false regret. As if Lucy were a wayward child who'd broken the rules and now faced punishment.
"Who I am is of no consequence." His voice was as devoid of true emotion as his smile. "What I want is for you to understand the futility of your position. I told you there was no way out. I promised you that you would die here. I'm a man of my word. Now do you believe me?"
"Call off your dog."
In answer, the man hit Lucy in the face with a closed fist. The blow was lessened by his position, crouching, balanced on his toes in the snow, but it was still strong enough to send her sprawling to the side, fresh pain exploding in her ankle as her body twisted against the fulcrum of the large dog holding her leg fast in place. She landed facedown, the air knocked out of her, snow filling her nostrils and scratching against her eyes. Before she could move, the man wrenched both her arms behind her and handcuffed her-real handcuffs this time, not plastic zip ties.
The whole thing was a setup, she realized, trying to think clearly through the pain. Designed to do what? Distract her? Demoralize her?
"What do you want?" She hated that the words came out more like a plea than a demand. Sucked in her breath, fought to regain her composure.
"Release," he said. The pressure on her foot vanished-he was talking to the dog, not her.
He hauled her to her feet. She wobbled, unable to place her weight on her left foot as waves of agony swamped her. Nausea overcame her and she fell to the ground, vomiting.
The man stood and watched. The dog sat and watched, panting, its breath billowing in the cold air.
Once Lucy's stomach was empty and the dry heaves had passed, she turned her face, wiped it in the snow, took in a mouthful and spat it out again. The frozen crystals felt good, offering a numb escape from the pain.
A short-lived respite. When he saw she had nothing left to throw up, the man jerked her up once more. Lucy made her body go limp. She wasn't going back down into that black pit, not again. Even with the dog, even with the snow and cold, even with no one to hear her or see her or help, she'd rather die out here in the light than go back to the septic tank.
His answer was to haul her up and shove her forward another step, forcing her weight onto her injured foot. Then he kicked her leg out from under her, toppling her back to the ground. Lightning blazed through her, shattering her thoughts, making it impossible to feel, hear, see anything but pain. The dog sprang forward, excited by the sudden movement. It nosed Lucy's injured foot, its hot saliva mixing with her blood.
"Still some fight left." He pursed his lips and made a disappointed noise. "Okay then. Your choice. I warned you what would happen if you didn't believe me. You just signed a death warrant. Who's going to die, Lucy? Your husband, your daughter, or your mother?"
Now
6:22 p.m.
Riding flat on her back strapped to a board, unable to even turn her head, was making Lucy carsick. The bright overhead light of the ambulance was impossible to avoid, so she kept her eyes shut, which helped the nausea but made her feel as if she were floating, somewhere outside her body.
"Crank up the heat," the paramedic called to the driver. "She's still hypothermic."
"It's up," the driver yelled back. "Why's she so cold? Wasn't outside that long."
"I don't know. She's soaking wet and has some injuries that don't add up. Like that foot-I never saw a foot and ankle that mangled from getting caught under a brake pedal."
"We're only ten out from the hospital."
They hit a bump, sending a jolt of pain through Lucy's body. It was sharp, yet nowhere near as intense as it had been before. She was so cold. Made it hard to concentrate on anything, including the pain.
She remembered the last time she'd been in an ambulance. Last fall, she'd gotten a few bumps and bruises, and a piece of metal had sliced into her back. Nothing a few stitches hadn't taken care of, yet some people at the office had been upset when she returned to work after leaving the ER. Muttered about her trying to be some kind of superwoman.
Which surprised the hell out of her, since at the time she was searching for a girl kidnapped by a serial killer. If it had been their daughter, wouldn't they have wanted her back on the job?
Funny. Maybe it was because she was a woman. After all, the same people hadn't said anything about Taylor, a junior agent on her squad, coming back to work after breaking his arm that same day. They'd cheered him.
At the time she'd been irritated by any distraction from finding the girl. But later when she had time to think about it and talk it over with Nick, she'd felt sorry for them. People like that, they just kept their heads down, clocked in, clocked out, and went on their dreary way.
Those people-the ones who couldn't understand why she did what she did-they never would have climbed out of that hole in the ground today. Not even once, much less twice.
They didn't realize it had nothing to do with physical strength. It went deeper than that, this need, this hunger, this drive to never give up on anything or anyone-not even herself. Thank God she had it, whatever it was, because without it her family might die.
Her eyes snapped open, squinting against the bright light. What time was it? Nick. Megan. Her mom. She had to warn them.
"Phone," she pled once again. But her voice was even softer than before. Her mouth was parched by the oxygen blowing in-it tasted sweet, like when she'd blown up a bunch of balloons for Megan's birthday party. She licked her lips and tried again. "Phone. I need a phone."
The paramedic leaned over her, shielding her from the light. "I know you're cold," he said, misunderstanding her muffled whisper. He tucked a foil blanket closer around her body. "Hang on, we're almost there."
She tried to shake her head no, but he'd already turned away and the cervical collar and restraints holding her in place on the backboard prevented her from even that small movement.
Inside her head she screamed in frustration, but the only noise she could actually make escaped as a defeated whimper.
Then
12:19 p.m.
Lucy stopped struggling and lay back in the snow. She stared at the man, focusing all her energy on him. What did he want? The thought reverberated through her. He'd threatened her family again. This time he sounded serious-too damn serious.
"I'll do whatever you want." She forced her voice to stay level and calm, a promise, not a plea. "Just tell me what you want."
It took a moment, but finally he nodded. "Fine. Let's start by getting you back inside your lovely accommodations."
The pit. Her prison. No. She remembered his earlier promise. Her coffin.
With her leg out of commission, the dog waiting to pounce, and the man with unknown weapons or accomplices to back up his threats, what choice did she have? Besides, she'd escaped once; she could do it again.
She hoped.
This time he helped her to her feet and let her lean on him to protect her injured foot. They performed a bizarre three-legged walk back to the opening of the septic tank. The dog followed alongside, occasionally turning its head to fix Lucy with a menacing glare, but otherwise keeping its distance.
The man sat Lucy down near the opening to the pit and rummaged through a backpack. She fantasized about pushing him down into the tank, making another run for it, but he was never close enough. And of course there was the damn dog.
The man glanced over his shoulder at her, a twisted smile on his face, and Lucy knew he'd put his back to her to see if she'd succumb to temptation and try something. More mind games. She was sick of them.
"Remember that DC journalist who vanished a few years ago? The one investigating the senator?" he asked with a grin. Just two folks, making casual conversation, his posture said. "All they found was his Mini Cooper parked by a lake. Three years and no trace."