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65
FRIDAY, MIDNIGHT
Lucy woke up with a throbbing head and a roiling stomach. Automatically her hand went to her belly and she prayed she hadn’t hurt the baby. She waited a couple of moments, pressed lightly, but there was no pain, no cramps. She closed her eyes, said a prayer of thanks. She turned her head toward a narrow beam of moonlight coming through a small window with half-drawn blinds. The window was set high in the wall, not where it should be. She realized she was lying on a single bed in a room lit only by the moonlight from that small window. She had no idea where she was.
She sat up slowly, fell back again at a wave of nausea and dizziness. She lay perfectly still and tried to think. She saw a gas station on a frontage road, saw herself following Bexholt off the exit. She remembered wondering where Bexholt was, then a hit of pain and she’d been gone. Nikki Bexholt, or someone she’d arranged to meet at that gas station. Lucy couldn’t believe it. A fricking civilian had struck her down, which meant Bexholt had spotted her and set a fine little trap and Lucy had walked right into it. She squeezed her eyes closed at the humiliation of it. She’d been so careful, but not careful enough. Dillon had trusted her to do something important, and she’d screwed it sideways.
And now she was paying for it. She raised her fingers and touched the back of her head. She found the small wound, still bleeding sluggishly, and pressed down hard on it. She tried to concentrate. So what now? Where was she? Then she remembered being dragged into a room, barely conscious, a different room, not this one. She had been about to say something, to move, but then she saw two people walk briskly back toward her—two women?—maybe, the light was very dim and she couldn’t be sure. She’d felt the weight of their eyes on her. Were they going to kill her? Her baby, Coop— She’d gone perfectly limp, hoped they’d believe she was still unconscious.
There had been more talk above her head and she’d strained to listen. She’d felt hands move her hair, then she’d felt a needle slide into her neck. She’d nearly flinched, but managed to keep still. Their words quickly became nothing more than jumbled sounds, with no meaning at all. She’d slitted her eyes open to try to see them, but they were blurred. Everything was blurred. She’d had the oddest feeling she was falling down a hole and the voices were a thousand miles away. Then there was nothing at all.
She’d awakened here, so they’d only knocked her out, hadn’t killed her. Of course, if they had killed her, she wouldn’t be thinking about it now.
Concentrate, Lucy.So after they’d drugged her, they’d brought her here, where she’d awakened, alone, in this strange dark room with only a single bed and a high window to let in a little of the bright moonlight. She lightly laid her hand on her belly again. Think, Lucy. All right, no bedroom had a single high window. She had to be in a basement. They hadn’t tied her down. Why? Because they hadn’t expected her to wake up so soon? Slowly, she swung her feet to the floor, held herself perfectly still to let the pain in her head and a wave of dizziness pass. She stilled, waited for her brain to clear.
When the world righted itself again, Lucy slowly rose and walked to the door. It was locked. To her relief, there was a small half bathroom off the room. She used the facilities and walked carefully back toward the bed, thankful for the sliver of bright moonlight since there weren’t any lamps. She saw a light fixture in the ceiling, flipped the switch on the wall, but nothing happened, they’d taken out the light bulb.
She felt for her cell phone, but it wasn’t in her pants pocket. Had they found her wallet with her ID tucked under the passenger seat? Did they know she was FBI? Bexholt had to have guessed who she was. Was that good or bad?
Relief swept through her and her brain fired sharp when she remembered—she reached down to the watch Dillon had requisitioned for everyone in the unit six months before, the watch with its own GPS. Ollie knew where she was, even if she didn’t, and he would have called Dillon. He’d come for her very soon. There had to be something she could do. She felt strong enough now, her head clearing from the effects of the drug. She walked a fairly straight line to the door, called out, “Who’s there? Come let me out, let’s talk this over. I have no idea what’s going on.”
There was no answer, no movement she could hear. She called out again, trying to sound scared, voice trembling a bit.
Still nothing. Had they simply locked her in and left?
Did they intend to come back and kill her? If they’d wanted to kill her, they could have given her an overdose and dumped her in some woods somewhere, no muss, no fuss. No, Bexholt had to know if Lucy was found dead, she’d be the main suspect and Dillon would hound her to the gates of hell. So, they hadn’t killed her. Not right away. They had to think of something less obvious. An accident of some kind or simply make her disappear. Did Bexholt, and her group, really think getting rid of her would make any difference? Did they believe she saw or heard at that house that made Bexholt desperate enough to attack her?
Lucy sat down on the edge of the bed, let her brain continue to settle and sort things out. She looked at her watch—midnight. What could she do? There wasn’t any furniture she could pull over to that window, maybe jump up, see if she could escape. The bed was too heavy. She eyed the window again. She could squeeze through it, but no way would she take the chance of hurting the baby. No, she had to sit like a fricking damsel in distress and wait for the prince to come rescue her. It was mortifying, everything about this night was mortifying.
