Read Online Blood and Justice by Rayven T. Hill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rayven T. Hill
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saw an air vent, or maybe it was a heat vent, in the middle of the ceiling. She sat up and peered at it. Even if she could get the vent cover off, the hole was too small. The rest of the ceiling was covered wall to wall in hardwood, stained and yellowed with age, but solid. No way through.
She slipped open the closet door and looked up. Hardwood as well. And the walls of the closet were solid.
In frustration, she threw herself back on the bed. The antique headboard squeaked and wobbled, whacking against the wall. She heard the sound of crumbling plaster trickle to the floor, and caught the smell of its dust in the air.
Flipping on her back, she stared again at the ceiling, this time unseeing. Thinking. Then, suddenly, “That’s it!” she shouted. “The walls!”
It was so obvious. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Jenny’s father had put an addition on the house a few years ago and she’d enjoyed running through the unfinished walls, between the studs, just generally getting in the way, but having a wonderful time.
Jumping from the bed, she half stumbled to a spot nearest the door. The one that led to the hallway beyond.
The ceiling may be solid, and the floor, and the door as well, but the walls are just plaster and empty space. The easiest way out of here is right through the stupid wall.
She pounded madly at the wall with her fists, and then kicking with first one foot, and then the other, until her toes were sore. Barely a dent.
Calm down. Just calm down.
She looked around the room. An old wooden chair might work. Or maybe some of those heavy books. No. There’s got to be a better idea. She looked around again, thinking.
She dashed to the bed. With a lot of effort, she managed to lift one edge of the mattress and sent it swinging and spinning, landing with a whoosh near the dresser. She inspected the bed frame. The rails were held to the corner posts of the headboard and footboard by a notched area near its center, slid in, and held there by a downward force. No screws. No bolts.
She finally managed to free one end with a lot of twisting, turning and pulling. The other end received the same treatment, and a side-rail was free. She tested the weight of the iron in her hands. Not too heavy. Just about right. Pulling off a pretty pink pillowcase, she wrapped it around the rail near the middle. Holding it with both hands on the padding, she tested her grip. Perfect.
She looked quickly at the clock. Just after four o’clock. I can make it.
She knew there were studs in the wall. She didn’t know how far apart, and assumed maybe twelve or eighteen inches. She chose a spot she thought should be between the studs, and about waist level from the floor. She tightened her grip on the iron rod and brought the end crashing against the wall. The brittle wallpaper cracked. Barely a ding, but it was something. One more try and the rip became a dent. Once more and dust trickled from the bruised wall.
Feeling frantic and euphoric at the same time, she continued to hammer away at the small hole, the weapon swinging rhythmically back and forth. Then, it was through. It caught and she had to twist it to wrench it free. The small hole became larger, and then pieces came away in bigger chunks. Inspecting the hole, she saw she was close to a stud on the left side, but by working to the right, the hole could soon be large enough for her to squeeze through.
In a couple more minutes, she was satisfied with the size of the space, but now the other side of the wall had to be done. More hammering, swinging, dust, and falling chunks. Finally, she tossed the makeshift tool aside.
She peered through the hole, the dust causing her to choke. She coughed it out, and looked through again, seeing only a hallway beyond. But it was freedom. She struggled through the tight space, catching her shirt on a nail head. She carefully worked it free, and then some more squirming and pulling, and she was through. She landed in a heap on the
She slipped open the closet door and looked up. Hardwood as well. And the walls of the closet were solid.
In frustration, she threw herself back on the bed. The antique headboard squeaked and wobbled, whacking against the wall. She heard the sound of crumbling plaster trickle to the floor, and caught the smell of its dust in the air.
Flipping on her back, she stared again at the ceiling, this time unseeing. Thinking. Then, suddenly, “That’s it!” she shouted. “The walls!”
It was so obvious. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Jenny’s father had put an addition on the house a few years ago and she’d enjoyed running through the unfinished walls, between the studs, just generally getting in the way, but having a wonderful time.
Jumping from the bed, she half stumbled to a spot nearest the door. The one that led to the hallway beyond.
The ceiling may be solid, and the floor, and the door as well, but the walls are just plaster and empty space. The easiest way out of here is right through the stupid wall.
She pounded madly at the wall with her fists, and then kicking with first one foot, and then the other, until her toes were sore. Barely a dent.
Calm down. Just calm down.
She looked around the room. An old wooden chair might work. Or maybe some of those heavy books. No. There’s got to be a better idea. She looked around again, thinking.
She dashed to the bed. With a lot of effort, she managed to lift one edge of the mattress and sent it swinging and spinning, landing with a whoosh near the dresser. She inspected the bed frame. The rails were held to the corner posts of the headboard and footboard by a notched area near its center, slid in, and held there by a downward force. No screws. No bolts.
She finally managed to free one end with a lot of twisting, turning and pulling. The other end received the same treatment, and a side-rail was free. She tested the weight of the iron in her hands. Not too heavy. Just about right. Pulling off a pretty pink pillowcase, she wrapped it around the rail near the middle. Holding it with both hands on the padding, she tested her grip. Perfect.
She looked quickly at the clock. Just after four o’clock. I can make it.
She knew there were studs in the wall. She didn’t know how far apart, and assumed maybe twelve or eighteen inches. She chose a spot she thought should be between the studs, and about waist level from the floor. She tightened her grip on the iron rod and brought the end crashing against the wall. The brittle wallpaper cracked. Barely a ding, but it was something. One more try and the rip became a dent. Once more and dust trickled from the bruised wall.
Feeling frantic and euphoric at the same time, she continued to hammer away at the small hole, the weapon swinging rhythmically back and forth. Then, it was through. It caught and she had to twist it to wrench it free. The small hole became larger, and then pieces came away in bigger chunks. Inspecting the hole, she saw she was close to a stud on the left side, but by working to the right, the hole could soon be large enough for her to squeeze through.
In a couple more minutes, she was satisfied with the size of the space, but now the other side of the wall had to be done. More hammering, swinging, dust, and falling chunks. Finally, she tossed the makeshift tool aside.
She peered through the hole, the dust causing her to choke. She coughed it out, and looked through again, seeing only a hallway beyond. But it was freedom. She struggled through the tight space, catching her shirt on a nail head. She carefully worked it free, and then some more squirming and pulling, and she was through. She landed in a heap on the
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