Page 138 of D for Dead

Baby steps, Amy, Baby steps.

She forced herself to still, getting her breathing under control, but couldn’t stop her body from shaking. As she gradually became more lucid, understanding her predicament, the shaking increased. She remembered seeing Boaz lying on the ground, the blood, and the van she had assumed was the pastor’s. She had been grabbed from behind, had blacked out.

Huckleberry; where was Huckleberry? He had been in the car barking. What had happened to him and Vic? Were they okay?

Her throat was sore and dry and she became conscious it was difficult to swallow, probably due to the fear.

Deep breaths and stay in control. If you freak out you have no chance of escape.

She closed her eyes, took in a couple of breaths. The shaking wouldn’t stop, but her brain was working. She needed to use it, figure out how best to help herself.

Amy continued to draw deep breaths through her nose, focus her mind; she forced herself to roll over, to see exactly where she was. She saw dark walls, could smell the coppery scent of blood.

And then she saw the body on the floor next to her.

Oh my God, Boaz.

He was lying face down and there was no movement, other than the bumps and jolts from the van as it sped along.

Was he dead?

Amy noted he hadn’t been tied up; his hands were loose. Whoever had put them in the van must have believed him to be dead.

She worked to get herself into a sitting position, leant back against the wall of the van. A curtain separated the back from the front seats, so she couldn’t see the driver. Whoever he was he wanted to keep his cargo hidden. Is this what he had done to Kasey and Ben, and to Shannon Castle and Leon? Had they all endured a ride in the back of this van, not knowing what was going to happen to them?

She heard him cough. It wasn’t distinguishable enough to recognise him.

What was he planning to do to her?

She thought of her last book, tried to recall the murder scenes she had created, and told herself to stop. Scaring herself by thinking about what he had planned was not going to help her. She needed to focus on escaping.

Gingerly she reached her foot over and nudged Boaz. She needed him to be alive. Right now he was her only hope.

There was no movement, no reaction at all.

Please, Vic. Please don’t be dead.

She thought of Huckleberry. Was he still back in the car? She hoped her attacker hadn’t hurt him. And then she thought about the heat. Even if he hadn’t been hurt, he was trapped in the car in the blazing sunlight with no water.

What if no one finds him?

The pastor would, she told herself. Pastor Ralph would find Huckleberry and the pool of blood from Boaz, and her purse. She no longer had it with her, so she must have dropped it in the parking lot when she was reaching for her phone. Pastor Ralph would alert the police and they would come and find them.

If it wasn’t too late.

Shuddering, unable to stop thinking about what the man had planned, Amy tested the bond around her wrists. It was uncomfortably tight: rope, she thought, from the way it scratched into her skin, and her hands were growing numb. She wiggled her fingers, trying to get the feeling back in them, twisted her hands and wrists, trying to work the knots loose.

There were various tools in the back of the van: an axe and a couple of wrenches. Plus she didn’t know if Boaz still had his sidearm on him. If she could get her hands free she could attack the driver.

She worked on the rope for a while, but there was no give and the knots were no looser than when she had started. Exhausted from struggling, she fell back against the wall of the van and sighed in frustration.

Think, Amy, think. You’re a writer. What would you have your characters do?

She remembered reading a police safety thing about tail lights. You were supposed to kick them out, alert the car behind you were trapped.

All very well, except she was in a van and the lights appeared to be hidden behind a panel she couldn’t reach.

Unless she could get untied she had no chance of escaping her situation.