The Wife Who Knew Too Much(90)
He pushed me down face-first onto the bed, and I heard him stripping off his belt. Was he going to rape me? Beat me? Adrenaline surged, my body tensing for a fight. Instead, he threaded his belt through my zip-tied hands and yanked me to my feet, dragging me toward the gas fireplace. He pushed me to a sitting position on the hearth, running the belt through the handles of its wrought-iron doors and buckling it so I was lashed to them by my zip-tied hands. The motion forced my arms up behind my back. I cried out in pain.
“Please, that hurts so bad. Can’t you tie me in front?”
He stormed out and slammed the door.
I was alone. I caught my breath and took stock of my situation. I had nausea and double vision—probably a concussion from being punched in the head. I was on the edge of hysteria with worry about Connor. I was terrified to try to escape. But I had no idea whether they’d follow through and get medical attention for Connor. If they didn’t, he would bleed to death for sure. And then they’d come right back here and get rid of the witness—murder not just me, but my baby. I had to get free of the restraints and get out of here. It wouldn’t be easy, and I couldn’t be sure that I had the strength or the cunning. But there was no other choice. And there wasn’t much time.
Although my hands were tied in back, Kovacs had left the tension on the belt relatively loose. I was able to stand to a crouching position, with enough leeway to move side to side about a foot in either direction. I turned sideways to examine the fireplace. The surround was made from rough-hewn stone, with a sharp edge. It took some maneuvering, but I was able to get myself into position to rub the zip-tie on its corner. That hurt like hell on my swollen wrists, but I kept going—for three minutes, five? Sweat broke out on my forehead and ran down the side of my face. Nothing was happening. It wasn’t working. I was using up my strength and getting nowhere.
I needed a different plan. These ties could be broken if you applied enough force. I’d need to slam the tie hard against the stone, but I’d be doing it blind, with my hands behind my back.
On the first attempt, I missed and slammed my hand into rock by mistake. The pain made me dizzy. I waited for my vision to clear, then looked over my shoulder, trying to memorize the distance to get the trajectory just right. I swung. Success. The zip-tie popped open and fell to the floor.
There were deep gouges on my wrists and cuts on my hands, but first aid would have to wait. I put my ear to the closed door and listened. The house was quiet, but that didn’t mean it was empty. They’d probably both left with Connor, but it was possible that one of them had stayed behind to guard me. I moved silently into the hall, where I stopped and listened again, struggling to focus my attention given the pain and fog in my head. I didn’t hear anybody. I had the advantage of knowing my surroundings. This house and Baldwin Mountain were both imprinted on my memory. I bypassed the great room and hurried to the kitchen, where I grabbed a carving knife from the block before slipping into the laundry room. From here, I could access the garage. I couldn’t open the garage-bay doors without attracting attention, but I recalled that the garage had a pedestrian door. I wasn’t exactly sure where it led, but it had to come out behind the house somewhere. From there it would be a short dash to the woods.
The garage had three bays, all empty. Shelves and hooks along that wall held some basic equipment—rakes, shovels, a coiled hose—but nothing I could use to defend myself, and no jacket to keep me warm. I hadn’t changed clothes or shoes since Dubai, and I wore a pair of cute, flimsy flats that were no match for the rugged New Hampshire terrain. I grabbed a couple of trash bags and a roll of duct tape and headed for the rear door. Just as I grasped the handle, the whir of a motor kicked in, and the middle bay door began to rise.
Shit. They were coming back. So soon? What did that mean for Connor? I wanted to run toward the incoming car and find out how he was. But I might be met with a bullet.
Heart racing, I stepped outside, pulled the door closed behind me. It was very early morning, just beginning to get light outside. The ground was wet and uneven, with patches of white from an early snowfall standing out here and there against dead brown grass. My feet got instantly soaked as I sprinted across the lawn and dived into the woods.
There was no trail here, just closely packed evergreens with dense brush in between, and it was almost too dark to see. Branches sprang back as I moved, clawing at my face. I stopped for long enough to slip the roll of tape over my wrist and tuck the trash bags into my waistband. At least now I could use my free hand to keep branches out of my face, clutching the kitchen knife in the other to defend myself. The ground sloped downward treacherously as I forged ahead. My breath rasped in my ears. My feet were going numb from the cold, and I had a terrible stitch in my side. But they could be right behind me, and I couldn’t afford to stop again. There was a trail here somewhere—if only I could find it. I’d hiked this mountain in years past, though the last time was probably a decade ago. Unless its path had changed somehow in the years since, it would take me to a trailhead on the main road below. I could flag down a passing car for help.
As I pressed on, the ground got rockier. My little flats kept coming off my feet, and after the fourth or fifth time, I gave up and threw them in the bushes. That was a mistake. Ten minutes later, my feet were so cold that they were burning with pain. I had to do something, or I wouldn’t be able to continue walking on them, and I’d get frostbite. Ahead, a steep drop-off looked impossible to navigate, but when I reached it, I was able to pick my way around the side. At the bottom of the drop, a boulder provided cover from above. I sank down in its hollow and examined my feet. They were a mess—red, swollen, blistered, and bleeding. Cutting pieces from the trash bag, I taped them on for makeshift shoes. I cut a neck hole in the second bag and pulled it over my clothes for warmth. A shaft of morning sunlight filtered through the trees. In the quiet that enveloped me here, I felt hysteria building. If I thought about Connor, about whether he was dead or alive, I’d break down. I had to keep going.