“No way,” I said, but honestly he didn’t look good.
“He needed a blood donor for the fleas,” Becker said. “He drugged me and chained me up in the garage and made me call my parents. And then there were always more drugs and I was so tired.”
Pooka opened the door and came at me with the stun gun. “This makes everything so much easier,” he said. “Say good night.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I AWOKE SLOWLY with a throbbing headache. It took a full minute to orient myself. Kidnapped. Chained. Stunned. I looked at my arm. Two puncture wounds. One in the vein in the crook of my left arm. One in my upper arm.
“He took blood,” Becker said. “And he drugged you. And he said he infected you. He said I should tell you so you’d know. I’m sorry.”
“Where is he now? The house is quiet.”
“He left. I heard him moving around out there and then I heard the garage door open and close. And I think I heard the van leave.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know. I’m confused.”
I pushed myself up and fought back nausea that was as much from fear and horror as from the drug. I stood on shaky legs and managed to get to the wall. The bolt that the chain was attached to had been screwed into the wall and epoxy glue had been poured over it. I rapped on the wall. Sheetrock. I grabbed the chain with both hands and yanked. Little pieces chipped away around the bolt. I yanked again putting my weight into it, and the bolt broke loose.
I stood there holding the loose chain in my hand and I burst into tears. Loud hysterical sobs.
“S-s-sorry,” I said to Becker. “This is an emotional moment.”
I wiped my nose on my arm and went to Becker’s chain. I gave a tug, but the bolt held firm. I put one foot on the wall, leaned forward, and pushed off with every ounce of strength I could muster. The bolt broke free, and I fell over backward onto Becker. We both let out a woof of air on contact, and neither of us moved for a beat. I wrestled myself off him, and tried to get him up onto his feet but he was dead weight.
“Go,” he said. “Leave me here.”
“No way,” I said to Becker. “You’re coming with me if I have to drag you.”
I grabbed him by the back of his shirt and dragged him out of the room and into the kitchen. Difficult to do because my hands were still cuffed. I stopped long enough to look around. The place had been cleaned out. No more aquariums. No Bunsen burner. Pooka had moved on and left us behind to die. Fortunately for us he’s a lousy carpenter.
It was too difficult to drag Becker by his shirt so I got him by an ankle and tugged.
“Keep your head up,” I said to him. “I don’t want to go to all this effort only to give you a concussion.”
I managed to get him out the kitchen door and into what might pass for a yard. It was mostly hard-packed dirt and scrub grass and garbage. The driveway leading up to the house was dirt, and we were surrounded by woods. I had no idea where we were. I tried getting Becker up again, and he was able to stumble to the tree line. I walked him far enough into the woods so he would be hidden, and I left him there.
“I don’t think Pooka is coming back,” I said, “but stay hidden just in case. I’m going for help.”
I limped down the driveway, got to a paved two-lane road, and still saw nothing but woods. No houses. No cars. No 7-Eleven. I had a dilemma now. If I heard a car coming, and I went out into the road to wave it down, I ran the risk of it being Pooka. No guarantee that he’d still be in the white van. Also no guarantee that anyone other than Pooka would stop. I looked like something from a horror movie. My one arm was covered in caked-on blood. My jeans were torn and blood soaked. My hands were shackled and the thick chain was still padlocked onto the cuffs. A small chunk of wallboard was attached to the end of the chain.
I was at the edge of the driveway, trying to decide to walk left or right and a black SUV came into view from my left. I stepped slightly into the road so the driver would be sure to notice me. I was fighting the drug and the blood loss, working to stay focused. The SUV slowed and stopped just short of where I was standing. Black Porsche Cayenne. Tank behind the wheel. Ranger out of the car and running toward me. I would have done more sobbing, but I didn’t have the energy.
Ranger wrapped his arms around me and held me close against him. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
“How did you find me?”
He reached into the front pocket of my jeans and removed the key to the Macan. “GPS key tag,” he said. “You had your car key with you.”
“Becker is at the other end of the driveway. He’s not in good shape. He’s been drugged and had blood taken from him. And probably he’s been infected with plague.”