*
It’s wearing off again.
Ophelia blinked away the sticky weight that kept her eyelids shut. She lay face down across a soft surface, drawing on fractured memories of the last time she’d been conscious enough to make sense of her present situation.
She remembered the car stopping. The second the engine died, she’d sat up, determined to catch her captor off guard. Only, she hadn’t moved fast enough. One minute she’d been pawing at the door handle, fumbling to release the lock, and the next she’d fallen into his arms. A light snow had flecked her cheek. She’d gleaned a fleeting impression of tall pine trees and cold mountain air just before the sharp prick of a needle pierced her shoulder for a second time. The last thing she remembered was being hauled out of the car and tossed over her captor’s broad shoulder.
Where am I? A thread of faint silver light shone between two dark panels suggesting the presence of a window. Turning her head the other way, she spied a brighter beam of light at the bottom of a closed door. From beyond it came the sound of a television program, complete with canned laughter. The blanket under her nose emitted the odor of mothballs.
Given the bits of information at her disposal, she concluded she’d been driven to the Pocono Mountains. Was this where her captor meant to kill her, in some remote cabin where no one would hear her screams? If so, why hadn’t he done it already? Perhaps he was waiting for her to regain consciousness. That made sense if he was after information.
Not going to happen.
She tried to move. Her limbs felt inordinately heavy from the drug still cycling through her veins. She discovered her feet bound, her hands also, with what felt like long plastic garbage ties. A numb fire licked up her arms to stab at her shoulder sockets. It was that pain that had roused her.
Stifling a moan, Ophelia rolled onto her back, jackknifed to a sitting position, and took closer stock of her whereabouts. The room appeared small but decently appointed—a dresser, a bed, and a mirror. Perhaps there was something she could use to cut herself free?
An object resembling her purse had her looking back at the dresser. Would her captor be so careless as to leave her purse, with her phone inside it, sitting right next to her?
Vinny! She could call for help.
Moving slowly, so as not to let the bed squeak, she stood up, not altogether certain her legs would hold her. When they did, she gave a little hop, and then another, leaned over the dresser and caught her purse between her teeth. She discovered the snaps hard to open without hands. The two halves of her purse parted at last beneath her wriggling jaw. She nosed her way into the main pocket, searching desperately for her phone. But it wasn’t there. Her abductor must have removed it. He’d probably turned it off, too, so she couldn’t be traced.
He wasn’t careless after all. Or was he?
Seizing the whole bag with her teeth, she pivoted and dropped it on the bed, causing the contents to spill out. Then she sifted through them with her nose—makeup, checkbook, lipstick, ah ha! Fingernail file. She sat next to it, groping behind her back to pick it up. She would use it to cut herself free.
This looks a lot easier in the movies.
But hope and desperation lent her dexterity. Back and forth over the plastic strip she sawed, cutting through it one millimeter at a time. With a snap, the cuff around her wrists broke. Swallowing a cry of hope, she went to work on the strip that bound her ankles together. Outside her room, she could hear the television program give way to advertising. At any moment, her captor might get up and check on her.
Having injected her twice now, he was clearly cognizant of the fact that the drug only worked for a specific period of time. He was probably gearing up to inject her yet again—or worse yet, keep her awake for questioning and torture.
If it comes to that, I’ll pretend I’m versed in torture like Vinny. But it wouldn’t come to that if she could help it. She was getting the hell out of here before her captor could lay his hands on her again.
With another snap, the flex cuff dropped from around her ankles. Ophelia pushed to her feet. Straining to hear over her galloping heart, she dropped the file back into her purse along with the rest of her stuff, picked her purse up, and tiptoed toward the window. Discovering her coat hanging on the bedpost, she dove into it, fingers fumbling to button herself up. It would be cold out there.
She had just crossed the room to the window to further her escape when the television fell silent. Terror spiked, causing her to freeze like a thief, her ears pricked to the sounds beyond her door. Her captor seemed to be listening, also. Any minute now, he would get up to check on her. She couldn’t afford to tarry.
Stretching out a hand that shook, she felt beneath the heavy curtain for a window latch. There it was, in the middle of the window, icy to the touch. The mechanism was simple and familiar. With a push of her thumb, she flipped it open, eliciting a scraping noise. On the other side of the door, the slow thud of approaching footsteps goaded her into reckless action. Now, Ophelia! She yanked aside the curtain, put both palms against the frosty pane, and pushed upward. At first it stuck. But then, with a pop, it rumbled upward, admitting a gust of frigid air that took her breath away. At least there was no screen to contend with.