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Nothing good. She realized that horrifying fact. She’d heard the thrill of excitement in their voices, felt the testosterone thrumming through them, pumping them up, pushing them into the caveman mentality of sheer brutality.
Think, Bianca. You have to get hold of yourself. You have to save yourself. No one knows where you are; no one will be looking for you. Jeremy will think you’ve gotten a ride with a friend or Michelle. Mom is at the hospital with the new baby. Santana’s staying with her. You’re on your own. For the rest of the night, these psychos will be able to do whatever they want to you.
Unless you fight back.
She wanted to give up. To fall into a million pieces and cry. To even beg for mercy, but she could tell, even in her current, jangled state, that whoever had taken her was psyched up, adrenaline running fast and hard through their veins, maybe helped along with drugs . . .
At that thought, she knew what she was up against.
She knew who had abducted her, and a cold as icy as the frigid North settled in her gut.
It all came together. In her jolted, jerking state, she mentally ID’d the son of a bitch who had to be behind all of the attacks. She didn’t know why he was involved or how, but he was involved.
She hazarded a glance to the back window of the cab and saw the gun rack, in position, the long barrel of some kind of hunting rifle visible. So they were armed with more than a stupid stun gun.
With a jerk, the driver cut a quick corner, and the back tires spun on dust and gravel, throwing Bianca to the far side of the bed before the wheels caught hold again and the pickup nosed upward, gears grinding on some steep backwoods road. She tried to think, to reason things out. Why Tophman, the preacher’s son, and drug dealer to the football and baseball teams? Everyone in school knew that if you wanted to get high and needed anything from weed, to meth to ’roids, Tophman could set you up. He himself had bulked up by using steroids, and it was his private joke that his parents and coaches hadn’t figured it out. All of the other kids, Bianca included, never ratted him out. In Bianca’s case, she was a cop’s daughter, already the target of ridicule and suspicion, and besides, she didn’t care what the other kids did.
Now it had come full circle, and she was going to pay the ultimate price. Unless she did something and fast. The truck ground upward as she tried to figure out how to save herself. She twisted to her side, raised her head, and through the cab window saw a glow, the headlights spraying light against the trees.
Still she had no idea where she was, just somewhere deep in the wilderness of the Bitterroot Mountains.
Move, Bianca. Get moving. You don’t have much time, and if you want to save yourself . . .
Her hands were tied, but in front of her, rather than in back, and she’d already yanked out the filthy rag they’d used as a gag. She worked at the knots at her wrists, but her fingers were still disobeying, unable to loosen the heavy twine. Her legs were free, thank God, and slowly, far too slowly, she was regaining control of her limbs.
The pickup bucked and shook as it hit a big rock.
“Shit! Be careful!” Tophman yelled, his voice reaching Bianca from the open window of the cab.
“It ain’t as if this is the damned freeway,” another voice said. Kywin Bell. The driver. Oh, damn! Her mother’s number-one suspect in Destiny Rose’s murder. She tried to push herself upright. Her arms gave way and she fell against the floor of the bed, hitting her chin and probably splitting open the wound. Damn it all to hell.
She tried again. Her muscles tried to fold in on her, but she gritted her teeth and was able to hold up her weight for a few seconds. Now, if she could just find a weapon, or jump out of the truck without th
em seeing her...
But she couldn’t outrun them.
And she had no source of illumination, while they had flashlights. And the stun gun. And the rifle or shotgun or whatever. And probably more.
No, no, no . . . all she had on her side was the element of surprise.
The truck was slowing—they were reaching their destination, wherever it was. God help me. She felt around the bed of the truck. Empty. Except for the toolbox fastened behind the cab, right behind their heads. As they turned a corner, the truck leveling off, she forced her still-shuddering body to her knees and then, as quietly as possible, pushed the lid of the box open just wide enough for her hand to slip through and dig, quietly, across a shelf of flat tools until she felt the handle of what was probably a screwdriver. Just what she needed.
As Kywin braked, she withdrew the small tool and, with shaking fingers, hands still tied together, lifted it to the neck of her T shirt and forced it into her bra. Then, daring another raid in the box, she reached inside again and felt something flat and palm sized and . . . oh geez, was it one of those all in one tools, like a Swiss Army knife? Could she get that lucky? She slipped it out, saw it was just that and, using her fingers and teeth, pulled several of the deadly little blades from their sheath. Then she went to work on the twine, sawing wildly.
You can do this. You can! At least the feeling was back in her hands and feet, her muscles were beginning to obey her again.
But, she knew, she was fast running out of time.
* * *
Kip Bell had finally cracked. Given enough time alone, he’d come to his senses and decided he wanted a deal. But he’d demanded a lawyer and a promise of leniency, both of which had been granted. He’d talked with his lawyer and after an hour of negotiations with the DA, whom Alvarez had called, he finally spilled his guts.
“Just so you know. I didn’t kill no one,” he said. “Not really.”
What kind of confession was that? Alvarez said, “But—?”
He glanced at his lawyer, who sat next to him in the interview room. She was about sixty, with silver hair, no lipstick and tired eyes behind rimless glasses. She’d obviously not wanted to be hauled out of bed in the middle of the night, but now, Diane Moore was giving her all to her client. She nodded.
