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I tap the “Go Now” button and rows of directions populate the screen.
A rush of adrenaline surges through me. I peel out of the ditch and speed down the pitted road, praying Juan’s truck doesn’t fall apart along the way.
Thankfully, the rain has receded to nothing more than a light mist.
I am guided deeper and deeper into the woods on a road covered in a blanket of dead leaves. Soon, the forest closes in around me, trees and gangly bushes pushing their way into the path. Big splats of raindrops fall from the treetops, exploding onto my windshield.
I cringe as a branch drags down the side of Juan’s truck.
Thirty minutes later, the woods thin and the road comes to an abrupt stop at a barbed wire fence. Beyond it is a large field that I assume once held livestock. Now, however, it appears to be abandoned. The grass is seven shades of brown, and covered by copses of burr bushes. A large dilapidated barn sits on the edge of the property. The roof is sagging, half appears to be caved in. The windows are boarded up.
I check the map on my phone. X marks the spot.
After locking the truck and shoving the phone in my pocket, I realize there is no gate in the fence. So, I climb over the barbed wire fence, catching a nasty gash on my ankle before landing on the other side.
The woods are silent as I cross the field, withered foxtail weeds tickling my elbows.
It is the first time since being released from prison that I wish I had a gun.
A black crow is perched on the point of the barn’s roof, watching me through the mist. I scan the treeline for a gate or any access point for a vehicle, but find none.
My heart starts to pound as I reach the front doors of the barn, one swaying and creaking loudly on its hinges. There is no light on inside.
Ready for whatever might come, I slowly toe-open the door and step into a heavily shadowed room. Dust dances in the dim beams of light streaming through rotted walls. A layer of moldy hay covers a dirt floor. Raindrops trickle in from the many holes in the roof. Large rotted beams run just below the ceiling, dangerously unstable. A rope hangs from one.
The smell hits me first. Urine, feces.
Death.
At the opposite side of the barn, a body sits on a mound of hay, legs stretched outward, arms dangling from a rope tied to the ceiling. Her head is bowed, long brown hair snaking over a small, pale face.
Sylvia.
I sprint across the hay, her body slowly coming into focus.
She is wearing a gray nightgown, covered in mud and smears of blood from the lacerations around her wrists where she struggled to break free from the binds. Her gown is up to her waist, saturated in her own urine, revealing veiny, mottled legs spotted with open wounds. Each is oozing, feeding the gnats and flies that are dipping in and out. The wounds remind me of ulcers.
“Sylvia,” I drop to my knees and lightly touch her chin.
Her shoulders jerk at the touch.
She’s alive.
“Sylvia, Sylvia, talk to me.”
I sweep the hair from her sallow, sunken-in face, and tuck the greasy strands behind her ear. The smell of her almost gags me.
She blinks, a pair of bloodshot eyes eventually finding me. It takes her a second to focus. When she does, a soft moan escapes her dry, cracked lips.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” I say.
I stand and begin working the rope that binds her wrists.
It is an Arbor knot, known as a noose knot, one that tightens as whatever is on the end of it tries to pull away. It takes me a minute to loosen the wet, swollen fibers. The moment I pull away the rope, her arms drop like dead weight and she collapses onto her side, her face a mere inch from a rotting animal.
A few feet away from the corpse lies a black pillowcase.
I carefully scoop her into my arms and feel for a pulse, a bit surprised when it is strong. Adrenaline, probably.
