Wrecked (Josie Gray Mysteries #3)(8)

The only sign of life was a white cargo van parked on the left side of the driveway. Dillon considered calling the phone number Christina had written on the Post-it but, assuming a moving crew was getting the house settled, instead pulled in beside the van and turned off the car.

As he slammed his car door shut, the van’s side door opened. Two men with white stocking masks and coveralls jumped out of the van, and a third man in the passenger seat opened his door and swung the butt of a rifle directly into Dillon’s face, gouging his forehead. Too stunned to respond, he felt his knees give out and his vision blur. Two of the men grabbed his arms and pulled him into the van, headfirst, knocking his shins against the doorframe as he was dragged inside.

Terrified now, he knew that escape was his best chance at survival. Josie’s words sounded in his head. Never let them get you in their car. He yelled and threw his weight to his left and tried to twist free, but their fingers dug into his arms, and his feet slipped on the metal floor. Dillon struggled to remain on his knees, but the men forced him toward a narrow bench seat at the back of the van. He caught a glimpse of the driver, who was wearing a black baseball cap, before the others shoved him and he fell to his stomach. The last things he saw were a toolbox and a pile of burlap sacks before a pillowcase was pulled over his head and his hands were tied together behind his back with rope.

As the sliding door slammed shut, Dillon felt hands grab his clothes and flip him onto his back. He then felt a man’s knees come down hard onto his chest. He lurched forward, trying to resist, but was punched in the gut. He wheezed, his lungs straining for air against the weight. Two pairs of hands forced his legs out straight, and one shoved a hand into his front pants pocket and pulled out his keys. Catching his breath, he tried to resist by flailing his arms and legs, but he was rolled onto his side anyway and his wallet was pulled from his back pocket. For a moment Dillon had a glimmer of hope that this was a mugging, an armed robbery, a carjacking; he prayed for anything but a kidnapping.

He listened to his car start, the engine revving, and then pull away. Moments later the van lurched backward out of the driveway. And then he realized with sudden clarity that it was all a mistake.

“You took the wrong man! I don’t live there!” he yelled.

Without a word, the man on his left kicked his shoulder.

“I’m an accountant! I’m not who you want. I don’t live here!”

A brutal kick to his kidney caused bile to rise to his throat. He said nothing, breathing slowly through his nose, hoping they would look at his license, confirm that he wasn’t the man they were looking for, and drop him on the side of the road.

He could see Josie’s face as if it were before him, the sun lighting up her eyes as she turned her head up to kiss him good-bye that morning. What had she told him in the past? He tried to focus. Remember the details. People don’t pay attention to the moment. They’re too busy focusing on what is to come, she had said. Details. Mentally, he forced his thoughts to slow and realized that he had no idea what direction the van was heading. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, on estimating how many minutes they had been in the van, but the driver was making frequent turns, and he couldn’t hold his thoughts together. He was lying flat on his stomach, facing the back of the van, his head turned to the right, his sense of direction gone. He could feel blood seeping from the gash on his forehead and one of the men sitting on the bench pressed the heel of his boot into Dillon’s back each time he attempted to move. He strained to listen for conversation but he had not heard a word from any of them.

When he felt a vibration against his chest, for a moment he thought it was coming from underneath the van. But the vibration stopped and started again and he realized it was the cell phone in his breast pocket. The phone rumbled against the metal floor and he panicked that the man sitting behind him would realize it was still in his possession. He attempted to hunch his back so that the phone wouldn’t be heard above the engine noise, but the heel of the boot ground into his spine and forced him back against the floor.

*

Josie called Dillon at seven to check on him, but he didn’t answer his cell phone. She sent him a text, still no answer. She called his office at eight and got the answering machine. With each call her level of concern rose considerably. She imagined his car destroyed on one of the back gravel roads, his body unresponsive. Speed was his vice. He drove a two-seater Audi sports car that he loved to open up on a well-paved road in the desert. Trouble was, 90 percent of the roads in Artemis were gravel, and loose gravel could lead to disaster.

At eight thirty she called his pretty secretary, Christina Handley, both on her cell phone and home phone. No answer.

Dell had shut down the chain saw and was pulling the food out of the cooler. They had decided to eat without Dillon. Dell passed Josie a plastic cup filled with tea brewed in the sun earlier in the day, and a plate piled high with smoked brisket and sauce. Dell never served sandwich bread that might disguise the taste of the meat. He then took his seat next to her on the end of the wagon where she had been piling the cut wood. Josie tried to use dinner as a distraction, but her mind was stuck on Dillon.

Finally, at eight forty-five, he sent a brief text back. Can’t make it.

She read the message and looked at Dell, perplexed.

“What’s that look for?” he asked.

She told him what the message said and he shrugged. “Guess he can’t make it.”