Save Your Breath (Morgan Dane #6)(18)

She lay curled on her side. The kidnapping rushed back to her in a kaleidoscope of images and sensations. Her eyes flew open. Blinking, she cleared her vision, but all she could see was a dark surface about a foot from her face. She reached out and touched it. Her fingertips brushed cold, rough stone.

She rolled to her back. A single dim light cast just enough brightness that she could see her surroundings. She lay on a floor of packed earth. Stone walls formed a ten-by-ten space. The low ceiling was constructed of heavy wooden beams. There were no windows. Empty wooden shelves covered the far wall. On the other side of the space, near the source of the tiny light, a set of narrow, steep stairs led upward.

A root cellar?

She was underground.

Horror raced through her. Adrenaline sharpened her senses and tasted coppery in her mouth. Her heartbeat surged, thudding like a drumbeat in her head.

On the bright side, her hands and feet were no longer bound, and the rope had been removed from around her neck. Her lungs tightened, as if a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around her torso. Her breathing became rapid and shallow.

Not enough air.

Lack of oxygen—and fear—made her almost giddy.

Breathe.

She had to think straight.

Panicking will not help.

Air stirred over her face. There must be some sort of ventilation. She should not run out of oxygen.

Her shortness of breath must be a product of her anxiety. But knowing this and controlling her fear were two completely different things. She counted, again hearing Lincoln’s words in her mind as she fought to regulate her breathing and the claustrophobia that threatened to lead her straight into a major anxiety attack. Even in her imagination, his deep, soothing voice calmed her. Her tongue stuck to the cotton-dry roof of her mouth, a likely side effect of whatever drug she’d been administered.

Several minutes passed as she focused on breath control. Once her light-headedness had passed, and her heart rate slowed, she became aware of pain throbbing in her face and her foot.

She assessed her overall physical condition. The air was chilly and damp. She was still dressed in her flannel pajama bottoms, sweatshirt, and thick socks. Her cotton throw was draped over her and tucked around her feet, but it wasn’t enough to ward off the dampness. A chill radiated from the stone wall, as if she were lying next to a block of ice.

She probed her cheek with one hand. A goose egg had formed over the bone, but she doubted it was broken. Her foot was a different matter. She tried to wiggle it, and pain surged. The entire front half of her foot was swollen and hot to the touch. In hindsight, kicking him while only wearing socks hadn’t been a good idea.

Even if she escaped, she wouldn’t be running away anytime soon. Maybe there was a vehicle she could steal. She rolled to her hands and knees, then stood and hobbled to the steps. Ignoring the pain, she crawled up the stairs. The wooden doors above were set on an angle in a frame of heavy timber, like bulkhead doors. Pressing her hands to the thick wood, she pushed. But there was no give, no looseness.

She felt the edges for hinges but found none. They must be on the outside. She pressed her shoulder to the doors, but nothing budged. She was not getting out that way. Turning around, she sat on the steps. Next to her face, the tiny light was a round disk attached to the wall about two inches in diameter and made of plastic. There were no wires, and it appeared to be battery operated. Not a good option for a weapon. She pressed the switch on the light, and it went out, leaving her in complete darkness.

No!

Panic surged inside her. She quickly pressed the light again. It brightened. Relief flooded her, leaving her light-headed once more.

Don’t do that again.

The air smelled organic, like earth and wet leaves. Straining her ears, she listened for any sounds that might give her a clue to her location. She heard a faint splash. She was near water.

Should she call out?

She wanted to, but fear dried up her throat. Swallowing, she mustered her courage, turned to the doors, and shouted, “Hello, is anyone out there?”

No one answered.

She faced her dungeon again. Two items she hadn’t noticed before caught her attention. In the far corner stood a chemical toilet, and a brown grocery bag sat in the shadows next to her blanket. She limped over to the bag and opened it. Two six-packs of water sat beneath two protein bars—enough to keep her alive for a few days if she rationed.

Her lungs tightened again. She sat still and waited for the shortness of breath to pass.

There was no way out. She would have to wait until whoever kidnapped her opened the door. As much as she wanted to escape, what happened when her prison room was opened might be worse. The walls seemed to lean closer to her.

No. She must remain calm—or as calm as she could be under the circumstances. A man had gone to a lot of trouble to kidnap her. He’d left her provisions. That meant he wanted her to stay alive.

Right?

Who was he, and why had he kidnapped her? Had she made herself a target by asking questions about the two murder cases she’d been researching? She’d raised issues with each one. Maybe one of her theories had been too accurate. Maybe one of those convicted killers was innocent. Perhaps whoever had committed the crime didn’t want her to reveal the truth. But then, why hadn’t he simply killed her?

She glanced around the space. Had other women been kept prisoner here?

A slight burst of adrenaline bumped her pulse. Lincoln’s voice floated in her imagination, telling her to breathe.