Diane fought hard, grabbing at the hands restraining her and tried to scream. A sharp blow from something hard as steel to the back of her head caused an overwhelming pain inside her skull, and everything went black for several seconds. She was stunned nearly to unconsciousness, and she collapsed but didn’t pass out. She could feel herself being dragged into the van. The door slammed closed, and they tied her arms behind her and then her feet together. She prayed someone in the parking lot saw what happened to her.
The van started moving. Backing out of the parking space, then forward. She listened to the road sounds. They were going slow through the parking lot, bumping over the speed breakers. She counted them. Four before they turned left out of the lot. She knew which exit they took. Maybe that would help later-if she got out of this.
“What do you want?” she asked, and was met with silence.
They weren’t going to let her hear their voices.
Left turn-about five seconds and a left turn. She listened. A helicopter overhead. That would probably be a traffic chopper, or maybe one carrying someone to or from the hospital. She could find out. What time was it? She left the hospital about 4:15-it was now probably 4:25.
The van stopped. The engine idled, traffic sounds passed. Red light. About thirty seconds after, they started again. Definitely a red light. They speeded up, then slowed. Another red light. It had probably just turned yellow.
“Careful,” someone whispered. Male.
There were at least two of them. One was warning the other not to get stopped.
They drove for another minute and stopped again. Another traffic light. Three so far. In her mind’s eye she could see the route they were taking. This time they turned right. They were taking a route that was on the way to the museum. Abruptly, they turned left and stopped.
Where was this? She tried to think of what was here. Houses?
They started up again, turned right and onto a rough road and stopped again. She heard doors slam. They were leaving her here?
Diane lay there for what seemed like hours and listened. She heard faint road noises, but nothing else. She shifted her position until she was sitting up, leaning against the side of the van. She wished she’d gone to the bathroom before she left the hospital.
Who is it, she wondered. Grayson? Or the killer of the bony remains sitting in her vault? Or maybe someone else she’d managed to really piss off. Maybe it was the Odells. She tried to smile, but even the Odells didn’t seem the least funny right now. Concentrating on remembering the turns and stops kept her mind busy early on, but now fear welled up inside her, threatening to overwhelm her. What were they waiting for? Was this some kind of torture? Softening her up with the dread of waiting? Waiting for time to pass? Waiting for someone?
She worked at her bonds but they were tight; she kept pulling at them anyway. She was growing hot and sick from the hood over her face. She inched her way to where she thought the rear of the van was. She raised her legs and dragged her feet along the back, feeling for the handle. She found it and tried to manipulate it with her feet. It was locked or she was clumsy. She started beating on the door with her feet as hard as she could. Nothing, no one came, and her legs were getting cramped.
OK, she needed another plan. She scooted toward the front until she ran into the back of the seats. Now, to work her way into the front seat. She stood and hopped through the opening between the seats and tried to feel with her fingers behind her for the keys. She found the ignition, but the keys weren’t there.
Hopping and turning around, she tried the front visor with her head. She found it, but couldn’t get a grip on it. She wedged her nose between the visor and the ceiling but couldn’t get the visor to budge. She gripped the edge with her teeth and pulled and was rewarded with a clink of falling keys.
Now, to look for them. Squatting, she felt the front seat with her face. Good. The keys were there. She was too frightened to feel any joy. For all she knew they could be watching her through the windows. She stood again, turned with her back to the driver’s seat, squatted and felt for the keys with her fingers.
They. . no, it. . was in her grasp. Thank God there was just one key on the ring, and she didn’t have to worry whether or not it was right-side up. She maneuvered until she fit the key into the ignition.
She hesitated. What would be the best thing to do? Get out and run-blind? Or try to drive the van blind? She opted to stay in the van and turned the key. The van started.
She grasped the gearshift lever in her hands and tried to pull it into reverse. It wouldn’t move. She tugged at it. Nothing. What was she doing wrong? She envisioned herself in her car, putting it in gear. The brake pedal. The damn safety mechanism. The vehicle won’t let you take the gearshift out of park until the brake pedal is pressed. Her feet were tied together, and her hands were tied behind her. She couldn’t sit and reach the brake pedal and still reach the gearshift.
She inched her toes backward, wedging herself against the steering wheel until she felt her heels touch the brake pedal. Shifting the gear with her hands in this position was impossible. She caught the shift with the front of her arm, pushed her shoulder forward and down. She felt a slight bump as the transmission slipped into reverse. Now, for the moment of truth. She twisted herself around and sat down in the driver’s seat and pressed the accelerator with both feet. As the van darted backward, she questioned her sanity. But she hadn’t hit anything yet.
A sudden crash slammed her farther back into the seat. Pain shot up both arms to her shoulders. “Damn,” she shouted.
She maneuvered around until she was in the passenger’s seat. She opened the door and hopped out into a fist in the stomach.
She passed out. When she regained consciousness, she’d wet herself. Damn them to hell, whoever they were.
The sudden voice in her ear made her jump. “You have one chance.” It was a hoarse whisper. “Do what I tell you and live. Don’t and die.”
“What?” she said, and gagged like she was going to throw up.
Her captor lifted the hood up just past her mouth. As she was trying to control her gagging reflex, he whispered to her, “When it’s dark, we’re going to the museum. You’re going to tell me where the bones are. That’s all I want.”
“Bones? We have hundreds.”
“You know which ones I mean. Don’t play dumb.” He slapped her on the side of the head. “I’m already pissed about what you did to the van. Don’t make it worse.”
“I don’t have the bones you’re talking about.”
He slapped her head again. “Don’t lie. You have everything but the skull.”
He pulled the hood down and retied the rope around her throat. He half lifted her and then dragged her for a ways, scraping her feet on the ground. She heard more noises that she recognized and dreaded. They were the noises of a car trunk being opened. She was suddenly lifted off her feet and tumbled, headfirst, into the trunk.
“Wait,” she called out before he slammed the trunk.
“What? Begging won’t work.” His words were barely above a ragged whisper.
“Unless you want me to suffocate, I need more air than this hood allows me.”
She heard rustling around as if he were fishing inside his pocket. She felt a tugging at the hood and heard a ripping sound. She could breathe. The trunk slammed shut. It was suddenly very quiet, and she knew without moving or touching the top or the sides that she was in a small, dark, enclosed place. It didn’t smell like a new car.
Doors slammed. The engine started. The car was moving. They were going again. She was on her side. She started working to get her hands down and around her feet so they would be in front of her. It was a painful strain on her shoulder joints, made many times worse by the bruising and soreness that had not yet healed from the last attack. But she shoved the pain aside and worked.
It took her less time than she had imagined. She could reach the ropes on her legs. It was a small-diameter hard rope, probably nylon. No chance of breaking it. Nothing to cut it with. She found the knots and started working at them with her fingers. Someone knew how to tie knots. They held if she strained against them, but were relatively easy to untie. Obviously, they wanted to be able to get the rope loose when they got her to the museum. With her feet free, she worked on her hand restraints with her teeth. That took even less time because they had used the same knot and she knew how to untie it. She pulled loose the rope that held the hood closed around her neck and jerked the hood off her head.
It didn’t help her vision, but she breathed more freely. She felt around inside the trunk. It was mainly empty. A spare tire, rags. She felt along the edges, in cracks. Her fingers wrapped around something metal wedged between the floor of the trunk and the side. It moved when she pulled at it.
It was too hard to get out, it wouldn’t come loose, it was taking too much time. The car was bumping down an uneven road. She could hear the sounds of the tires on gravel. She started to panic. She wanted to cry. Finally, the object slipped free. It was metal and felt like the blade of a screwdriver. No handle, but good enough. She wrapped the cloth hood around the shank of the screwdriver to improve her grip, felt with her fingers along the back ledge of the trunk lid until she found the hook that held the lid shut, pushed the screwdriver tip into the hook and pulled hard.
The screwdriver slipped, her knuckles hit hard on something sharp. It hurt like hell. Her fingers throbbed. She couldn’t tell if she was bleeding. She felt with the tips of her fingers and found the latch again, wedged the screwdriver tip in tight and pulled against it with all her strength.