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But he couldn't do a damn thing duct taped to a chair in his own kitchen. Unable to move his feet away from the chair legs, he gripped the tile floor with his bare toes and curled them in an effort at forward motion. His thigh and calf muscles bunched, struggling to make it happen. His fingers gripped the chair arms so tight they turned white. The chair bobbled, but didn't move.
The phone rested on the counter three feet in front of him. Three. Fucking. Feet.
He clenched his toes again and wiggled his hips to shimmy the chair forward. Instead, it went backward a few inches.
Before frustration had a chance to burst to the forefront, the idea hit him. He wriggled only his right hip. Inch by inch, the chair turned so he faced the kitchen's bay window, dominated by the gloomy January sky and a large icicle dangling from the gutter. He ground his teeth together and concentrated all of his efforts on shuffling the chair back.
Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. He passed the table.
With every inch he scooted, images of Josie at Snips' mercy bombarded him. Was she somewhere tied up? Were they on their way to the state line? Private planes landed at the Dry Creek Regional Airport all the time, what if Snips had one waiting on the runway? If that bastard hurt her in any way, Sam was going to tear him apart. Shit, he wanted to slam himself against a wall for not being able to stop the bastards.
The chair rammed into the counter. The phone stood near the counter's edge, just over his right shoulder, the red message light blinking.
Okay, he'd made it to the counter. Now what?
Panting, he sucked in some of the tape covering his mouth. The tape didn't tear at his lips. In fact, it wasn't sticking to them anymore. The mixture of saliva and blood had moistened the glue, making it ineffective.
He contorted his mouth under the tape, wetting as much of the underside as possible, then rubbing it against his shoulder. One corner came loose. Buoyed by the small success, he continued, ignoring the growing ache in his neck. After what seemed like eternity, the tape fell and hung limp from the corner of his mouth.
Sam shuffled a single hip again, turning the chair so the counter was to his right. He angled his head, arching his neck painfully, and knocked the phone from its base. It landed with a thunk against the granite and rolled three times before coming to rest half off the counter.
Fear squeezed his lungs, but the phone didn't fall. He exhaled and his shoulders relaxed. Leaning as far to the right as possible with the tape around his chest locking him to the chair, he reached for the phone with his mouth.
His shoulder bumped the counter.
The phone wavered on the edge, then plunged off.
For a millisecond, the world went blank.
Then the cool plastic fell into his hand and he wrapped his fingers around the phone. It took a second to regain control of his breathing and to clear the panic from his vision.
He inched the phone so his fingers could access the buttons and dialed nine-one-one.
“Dry Creek County Sheriff. What's your emergency?”
“This is Sam Layton. I'm at 1628 Pimlico Lane. There's been a kidnapping.”
Fifteen minutes later, nearly every member of the Dry Creek County Sheriff's Office milled around in the street in front of his house. Half were there just to keep his mother from storming the place once she arrived. Inside the house was a different story. Only a handful of investigators gathered, conferring in quiet voices in the hall.
Bright red strips of raw skin crisscrossed his chest, arms and legs from where the paramedic had peeled the duct tape from his bare flesh. The same paramedic loomed over Sam, chewing her bottom lip.
“The nose is definitely broken.” She shook her head, but not a single hair moved from her tight French braid. “It might take a couple of adjustments to get it in line. You sure you don't want to go the hospital and have the doc take a look?”
There wasn't time for the hospital. Josie was out there, in danger and alone. “Just do it.”
She shrugged her shoulders and handed him a towel. “Blow your nose into this first.”
Getting rid of the blood and muck stuffing his nose hurt like a son of a bitch, but he got it done and dropped the towel into the red bio-waste bag the paramedic held open.
“Okay, hold still, this will feel worse than having it broken in the first place.” She put one latex-gloved hand on each side of his nose, her thumbs lined up against the swollen bridge. “So are there any Laytons who don't get beat up or shot?”
Before he could even formulate an answer, she pushed against his nose, forcing it back into place. Pain spiked through his sinuses.
The paramedic stepped back and cocked her head to one side. She hmmed a few times, then moved in for adjustment number two.
This time she didn't bother to distract him, just aligned her fingers against his nose and pushed. Another shot of agony exploded in his skull. She spread medical tape across his nose to hold it in place.
“Now you'll never be as pretty as me,” Hank drawled from the doorway. “How's he doing?”
