Trust Me by Jeff Abbott

business with violence.
    The other possibility was that no one was going to find him, no one was coming, and a slow, lonely death from dehydration and starvation awaited him in the coming days or weeks. How long would it take him to die?
    Luke had to find a way to escape.
    He checked his pockets. He still had his wallet and he dumped the contents on the bed: Texas driver’s license. Forty-one dollars. A VISA card he used often, another MasterCard for emergencies. A University of Texas graduate student ID. And against his chest, the cool of the Saint Michael’s medal, his father’s last promise of protection. So much for promises.
    Nothing to use against the locks.
    He got up from the bed and pulled hard on its metal frame. It didn’t budge. He inspected the four legs of the bed. Three were bolted down tightly but one - the left rear - was a bit loose. Barely. He noticed heel scuffs marring the wall.
    Aubrey hadn’t just laid here waiting for her knight to come rescue her. She’d tried to kick the bed loose.
    Luke inspected the slightly loosened screw. She’d gotten it to give way from the floor just a hair. Not much. The screw was a crosshatch, Philips-style. He put the corner of the credit card in it. Tried to turn, gently, so the plastic wouldn’t shred. Careful. He felt eagerness, a cousin to panic, rise up his arm and he smothered the urge to hurry.
    The screw wouldn’t budge. The plastic wasn’t stiff enough to turn it. He tried the driver’s license. Same result.
    He needed something stronger. He had to look at the room with new eyes - seeing everything as a potential tool - but there was nothing. Panic churned in him and then he noticed the lamp. Lots of parts: bulb, base, cord, plug. It was a good six feet away, and he could see where it was plugged into the wall. Luke stood and took two steps from the bed. That was close as he could get; so he needed to get the lamp closer to him.
    He had an idea.
    Luke tore the blankets and sheets from the bed. He knotted them into a long rope, with the care of a Boy Scout testing for a badge. He double-checked the knots, then slowly fed the improvised rope, thick and awkward, through his hands.
    He lay on the chilly hardwood floor and stretched as far from the bed as he could. His feet remained on the bed; the chains would not give farther.
    He whipped the sheet-rope hard toward the table. He wanted to snag a table leg, with the other end of the rope back in his hands. First try, it missed. He tried again, putting more snap into his wrist: missed. He realized he needed the heavier section - the blanket - whipping toward the table leg; the sheet was too light. He reversed his makeshift rope. His arms ached. He threw the rope again. Missed. Again. His arms felt dense as stone. Missed. Tried again. The makeshift rope caught the right front leg of the table, part of it U-turning past the leg, back toward him. But out of reach.
    He got to his feet and picked up the little side table next to the bed. He smashed it against the wall and jumped on the legs, splintering them from the base.
    He picked up a leg that had a bent nail sticking from its end.
    Holding the leg, he reached for the edge of the makeshift rope that was wrapped back toward him. He wanted to grab the blanket so he could pull the table toward him. He pretzeled his body to reach as far as the chains would let him. He turned the leg so the tip would face the blanket.
    The cabin was cool from the rain, but sweat poured down his back; he didn’t know how else he could drag the table toward him if this didn’t work.
    He aimed the leg, with its nail tip, toward the blanket rope. The nail caught an edge of the blanket. He let out a tense sigh; he ached as though pushing a truck up a hill.
    He began to pull the blanket back toward him, using the jerryrigged table legs. The nail, trapped in the blanket, made a light hiss as he dragged it across the hardwood. Soon he had both ends of the blanket-rope in his hands. Slowly