The Lonely Mile(59)
Neither happened. The glass struck the floor on its side like a coin being spun on a table, made several wobbly revolutions, and came to rest under the window. Bill quickly reached through the hole he had just made and thumbed the latch, then pushed up the entire bottom unit. He picked up his backpack and put it back on, then hoisted himself up and clambered inside the garage, hoping he had been right about the lack of an alarm system.
His feet hit the floor, and he stood silently, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the murky dimness of the garage’s interior. Although it was daytime, it had gotten so dark outside that precious little light penetrated the windows.
Before trying to get into the house, Bill thought he’d better check the interior of the truck, on the off chance Carli was being held inside the enclosed cargo box. It seemed unlikely, but who knew how Martin Krall’s disturbed brain worked? He walked to the box truck, Browning held in his right hand, backpack slung over his shoulder. He pulled open the back door of the cargo box, and his jaw dropped in amazement. Now he understood the significance of the truck to Martin Krall.
Inside the cramped space, Krall had custom-built his own, portable, mini torture chamber. On the right side of the cargo area, a small metal-framed cot sat bolted to the wooden floor, outfitted with sturdy leather straps with adjustable buckles which, presumably, were used to immobilize the arms and legs of his victims. A ball gag, attached to an adjustable Velcro strap designed to fit around the backs of his victim’s head, hung on the side wall next to the cot. Traces of a stain, faded to a dull, brownish color but still clearly recognizable as blood, covered the cot’s thin, filthy mattress.
Bill thought about Carli and his blood ran cold.
Rage and fear jockeyed for position as the dominating emotions inside Bill Ferguson’s skull. The fear was sickening, paralyzing. It screamed at him. Carli’s dead. You’ve found her too late. She suffered degradation and humiliation and terrible debilitating pain at the hands of the sick bastard. You’re too late! He bent over, hands on his knees, and thought he might be sick right there on the floor of Martin Krall’s rolling torture chamber.
Then he refocused his mind on Carli, on the sweet, all-American Girl exterior that belied the tough little fireplug within. If anyone could go up against this perverted sociopath and come out alive, it was Carli. He would not believe she was dead. He would not acknowledge that possibility until he saw the evidence with his own two eyes. Carli’s alive, I know she is, and I will get her back. Right now.
Bill’s hands were shaking, and his stomach rolled and churned like the storm clouds outside. He hoped he would be able to hit what he was aiming at with the Browning if it came to that—when it came to that. Determined, he strode toward the doorway that would bring him inside the home of Martin Krall.
On cue, as if underlining the significance of the moment, the storm outside broke with a vengeance. A crash of thunder shook the entire house as lightning struck a tree that must have been just outside, maybe in the very spot Bill had occupied mere moments before. A half-second flash of brilliant, white light shot through the two windows behind him and he jumped in spite of himself, nerves jangling, thankful he had engaged the safety on the Browning. He reached for the knob on the door that opened into Martin Krall’s house, fearing it was locked, praying it would not be.
It was time to find Carli.
CHAPTER 52
May 28, 4:12 p.m.
“OUR TIME TOGETHER IS limited,” the kidnapper said, “and thanks to your little act of treachery last night, we have already lost more than twenty-four hours.” He glared at Carli like he expected an apology, like she was somehow in the wrong for trying to escape the terrible fate awaiting her. She had been trying not to think about specifics regarding her immediate future, but it was hard not to, given the circumstances of the situation. In any event, it seemed fairly obvious to Carli what her immediate future held in store for her, and the prospect was horrifying.
What were her options? None. Pacifism seemed to be the best choice—the only choice, really—so she vowed to continue her strategy of delaying the inevitable as long as possible. “Why is our time limited?” she asked, surprised at how calm and steady her voice sounded. She didn’t feel calm or steady.
She didn’t really think he would answer, but he surprised her. “Because you don’t belong to me,” he said with a smile. He seemed, in his own twisted way, genuinely to want her to like him. Why else would he bother to explain? “I’m just a middleman. I took you to deliver you to someone else, and the agreement is that the two of us get just one week together before that delivery takes place.”
Carli shivered. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to spook the guy, who was clearly more than a little disturbed, by showing her fear and demonstrating weakness, but the matter-of-fact lunacy in his voice was chilling. “What happens after our week together? Where will I go? Who are you going to deliver me to?”
The man shrugged. He was still standing in the exact spot she had first seen him in when the lightning flashed. Carli knew it was only a matter of time before he moved forward and began doing what she knew he was planning, but, for now, he seemed more interested in explaining himself than getting down to business.
“Beats me,” he said. “I think you’re going to end up somewhere in the Middle East eventually, but all I’m really sure about is my end of the agreement. It’s pretty standard every time I deliver a girl. I get her for a week, and then the people who placed the order take possession after that. So, after my seven days are up, I deliver you to a specific location and leave you there. Sometime after that, my colleagues come by and retrieve you. Once delivery is finalized, I receive a nice little wad of cash from my contact and wait for the next order. That’s all I know.”