coward.’ He studied Kim’s face. ‘Or maybe it wasn’t fear. Maybe you’ve developed feelings for Ford Elkhart?’
Kim’s cheeks flushed a dull red. ‘No. Not like that. He’s . . . just a nice kid. I didn’t want him hurt.’
‘Better Ford than Pamela. You’re lucky I wasn’t caught. Then nobody would know where I stashed your sister and before long she’d run out of air. That would be bad.’
She glanced up at him, fear in her eyes. Now that’s what I’m talking about .
‘I did what you said. Let Pamela go. She’s just a kid. She didn’t do anything wrong.’
He re-tied the gag. ‘When did age or innocence ever matter? Technically, Ford didn’t do anything wrong, except trust you. If you’re nice and behave, I’ll let you see your sister later. If you cross me again, I’ll gut her and make you watch.’
He locked her door and checked the empty room that would soon belong to Daphne Montgomery. He hadn’t realized she was Daphne Elkhart until her son won some stupid horse jumping contest and they got written up in the paper.
Daphne wouldn’t like her new home. She didn’t like being underground. Can’t say that I blame her . He’d mounted a CD player on the wall. The CD was mostly a mix of white noise, but every so often a voice would say, ‘I’m back! Did you miss me?’
Thanks to his stepfather’s painstakingly kept records, Mitch knew exactly what those words meant to her. When he’d read her story, Mitch’s first inclination was to feel pity for the poor little mountain girl, kidnapped and terrorized. But then he remembered cleaning his mother’s blood and brains from this little room. He remembered his little brother’s nightmares, and all Mitch’s pity vaporized as if it had never been.
Daphne had a hard time as a kid. So damn what? So did I . So did Cole . The judge hadn’t cared about Mitch’s sad story when he’d gone on trial. As Daphne’s judge and jury, Mitch didn’t care either.
Chapter Four
Marston, West Virginia, Tuesday, December 3, 11.05 A.M.
F ord’s hands sprang free, his lungs heaving. Thank God . The box cutter had been damn dull. Rubbing his wrists over the blade had taken forever, but it was done. He pulled the box cutter from the logs where he’d wedged it. He sawed at the ropes around his ankles, rubbing his legs to get his blood circulating again, then ran a hand over his hair, unsurprised to find a bald spot where his scalp burned. What the hell? Gingerly he touched the sore spot on his head. At least it had stopped bleeding.
Call for help . But of course his cell phone was gone.
Thump . Thump .
Ford stilled. The sound came from close enough to rattle the window above his head. He rose, standing to one side of the glass so that he couldn’t be seen.
It was an old man, splitting logs. From the way he swung his axe, he looked to be in damn good shape. He was about sixty-five, maybe seventy.
He gathered up the wood he’d split and carried it into his house, a cabin with a front porch, complete with a rocking chair. Just when Ford had started to wonder if he had anything to do with his kidnapping, the old guy reappeared, a rifle over his shoulder.
Coming this way . He’ll have to come through that door . You’ll have one chance to overpower him . If you fail, you’re dead . So don’t fuck it up, Ford .
Ford searched the shed, looking for a weapon. The box cutter might work, but he’d have to get too close and the man had a gun. He needed something with more reach. The logs in the corner . He tested one, then another, until he found one that was longer than the rest. It was nowhere near Baseball bat length, but it would have to do.
Standing at one side of the door, he heard the creak of the rusty hinges. Wait . . . wait for it . . . Ford swung the log, smacking the man upside the head. The guy teetered, then went down on his knees. Don’t wuss out now . Finish it .
Ford hauled back and smacked him again. The man fell
Kim’s cheeks flushed a dull red. ‘No. Not like that. He’s . . . just a nice kid. I didn’t want him hurt.’
‘Better Ford than Pamela. You’re lucky I wasn’t caught. Then nobody would know where I stashed your sister and before long she’d run out of air. That would be bad.’
She glanced up at him, fear in her eyes. Now that’s what I’m talking about .
‘I did what you said. Let Pamela go. She’s just a kid. She didn’t do anything wrong.’
He re-tied the gag. ‘When did age or innocence ever matter? Technically, Ford didn’t do anything wrong, except trust you. If you’re nice and behave, I’ll let you see your sister later. If you cross me again, I’ll gut her and make you watch.’
He locked her door and checked the empty room that would soon belong to Daphne Montgomery. He hadn’t realized she was Daphne Elkhart until her son won some stupid horse jumping contest and they got written up in the paper.
Daphne wouldn’t like her new home. She didn’t like being underground. Can’t say that I blame her . He’d mounted a CD player on the wall. The CD was mostly a mix of white noise, but every so often a voice would say, ‘I’m back! Did you miss me?’
Thanks to his stepfather’s painstakingly kept records, Mitch knew exactly what those words meant to her. When he’d read her story, Mitch’s first inclination was to feel pity for the poor little mountain girl, kidnapped and terrorized. But then he remembered cleaning his mother’s blood and brains from this little room. He remembered his little brother’s nightmares, and all Mitch’s pity vaporized as if it had never been.
Daphne had a hard time as a kid. So damn what? So did I . So did Cole . The judge hadn’t cared about Mitch’s sad story when he’d gone on trial. As Daphne’s judge and jury, Mitch didn’t care either.
Chapter Four
Marston, West Virginia, Tuesday, December 3, 11.05 A.M.
F ord’s hands sprang free, his lungs heaving. Thank God . The box cutter had been damn dull. Rubbing his wrists over the blade had taken forever, but it was done. He pulled the box cutter from the logs where he’d wedged it. He sawed at the ropes around his ankles, rubbing his legs to get his blood circulating again, then ran a hand over his hair, unsurprised to find a bald spot where his scalp burned. What the hell? Gingerly he touched the sore spot on his head. At least it had stopped bleeding.
Call for help . But of course his cell phone was gone.
Thump . Thump .
Ford stilled. The sound came from close enough to rattle the window above his head. He rose, standing to one side of the glass so that he couldn’t be seen.
It was an old man, splitting logs. From the way he swung his axe, he looked to be in damn good shape. He was about sixty-five, maybe seventy.
He gathered up the wood he’d split and carried it into his house, a cabin with a front porch, complete with a rocking chair. Just when Ford had started to wonder if he had anything to do with his kidnapping, the old guy reappeared, a rifle over his shoulder.
Coming this way . He’ll have to come through that door . You’ll have one chance to overpower him . If you fail, you’re dead . So don’t fuck it up, Ford .
Ford searched the shed, looking for a weapon. The box cutter might work, but he’d have to get too close and the man had a gun. He needed something with more reach. The logs in the corner . He tested one, then another, until he found one that was longer than the rest. It was nowhere near Baseball bat length, but it would have to do.
Standing at one side of the door, he heard the creak of the rusty hinges. Wait . . . wait for it . . . Ford swung the log, smacking the man upside the head. The guy teetered, then went down on his knees. Don’t wuss out now . Finish it .
Ford hauled back and smacked him again. The man fell
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