Wrecked (Josie Gray Mysteries #3)(74)

“True enough. But your attitude is everything. I can’t have you off your game.”

Josie ignored his comment. “I’d like you to come with me to talk to Hec. You’re a negotiator. You know kidnappings, it’s your job. And I could tell that Hec was impressed with you last night at Otto’s. I watched him hang on every word you said. I’d like you to tell him what long-term kidnappings are like. As bad as it was, Hec was only abducted for a week. I don’t know if he understands the urgency of getting Dillon back.”

“I can scare the shit out of him if that’s what you want.”

“I just want him to know the truth. I want him to understand that his reluctance to tell us everything he knows could put Dillon—”

Nick nodded, understanding.

“Otto’s picking Hec up at one o’clock. He’s going to take him home to pack and get the dog. That should give us enough time to talk with him before Otto gets to the motel.”

“Then we need to leave now. I’m going back to Mexico. I’m going to set up surveillance tonight.” He paused. “You’ll be all right here? By yourself?”

She considered him a moment. “Do you mean, do I plan on drinking myself into the ground tonight?”

He dropped his head and smiled. “All right. That’s not what I meant, and I think you know that.”

“I think I can handle a night on my own.”

He gestured through the living room and toward the front door. “Then let’s go beat up on poor Hector.”





TWENTY-TWO


Night bled into day inside the hole. There was no schedule, no routine to track the hours and days, nothing but the low hum that buzzed inside his head. The water had stopped. The greasy tortillas had stopped. Hunger had taken the form of cramps that started in his stomach and traveled up his esophagus and into his throat, leaving him hunched into a ball, pressing his crossed arms into his gut. Intermittent convulsions from the cold were followed by numb periods when he could no longer discern his legs from the concrete beneath him. But the hum never left.

At some point Dillon woke and realized the cramps had subsided enough for him to get up off the floor. He forced himself into a sitting position, his spine scraping the concrete wall he leaned against. The black darkness swirled around him, causing rolling bouts of nausea. His lips were cracked and he could taste blood on his tongue. He realized he hadn’t heard the bats for some time and wondered if they were dead: only a matter of time before he too would die from starvation. He had thoughts of scavenging for water, any kind of liquid around the edges of the room, but he had no light, no tools, and his strength was gone. He had never felt so hopeless.

Dillon was attempting to stretch his legs out in front of him when the hatch opened above. He cried out in pain from the blinding sunlight, his eyes clenched shut against the needles shooting through his pupils. He heard the rope ladder clank against the side of the hole. With his eyes shut he turned onto his hands and knees and used the wall as support to help him stand, the dizziness so intense that he feared he wouldn’t be able to climb up the ladder. He’d been forcing himself to stand regularly, to stretch his muscles so that atrophy wouldn’t prevent him from escaping if the time ever presented itself. He realized now that it was dehydration and physical weakness that would prevent his escape.

The men yelled in Spanish, but Dillon was confused and disoriented and couldn’t make out the words. He pressed his back and palms against the wall just behind the ladder to steady himself and looked down, focusing on the shadows of the men above him. Their movement caused his stomach to seize up and he dry-heaved, his head pounding. Their shouts grew louder, more insistent, and he reached out for the ladder and began to climb, his muscles like gelatin.

Within two feet of the top, two men’s arms dangled over the edge as they lay on their stomachs. Dillon obediently kept his head lowered so he couldn’t see their faces. One of them slipped the pillowcase over his head and then each grabbed one of his arms. With no control of his arms and nothing to push against with his feet, Dillon scraped his body against the side of the hole as they hoisted him up and out of it. Once outside, Dillon kneeled, too weak to stand, too confused to process what was happening. Even with the bag over his head, the bright afternoon light caused him to clench his eyes shut in pain.

He heard an engine approach and two men pulled him to his feet. He could feel someone lifting one of his legs and was immensely relieved when he realized pants were being pulled over him, and then a drawstring cinched and tied at his waist. A shirt was pushed down over his head, and he gladly pushed his hands through the arms of a sweatshirt. The warmth of the clothing was like a gift and he found himself close to tears, wanting nothing more than to lie down on the ground, to let the sun warm his skin and soak into his bones.

Instead his arms were fastened behind his back with a plastic cord and he was shoved into the van. He lay on the metal floor and with every last bit of mental strength he could gather, prayed that he was going home.

About fifteen minutes later Dillon felt the van slow and pull into what seemed to be a short driveway. Dillon noted that they had not crossed the river. He was not going home.

*

“This is a high-impact kidnapping. You know that term?” Nick asked.

Hec shrugged. He sat on the unmade bed in his motel room looking glum and tired. Josie sat in the desk chair across from the bed and Nick stood, pacing the room as he talked.