in some pit and doused in lime. Or they’d be kept for a time as sex slaves. Maybe for years. Why not? Who would ever find them out here? No one who cared about them knew where they were.
Okay, so the hell with the breaking-and-entering idea. The whole notion had been absurd from the start anyway. Sweet little Megan Phillips, former cheerleader turned neohippy, chucking a rock or brick through the window of a store?
As if.
Megan turned to the right and stared at the empty road. This was the way the rednecks had gone. The way Pete had gone. He was out there somewhere, maybe still unconscious, maybe awake now and suffering God only knew what manner of indignity or violation. Some of the desperate, gnawing terror began to creep back in then. New tears bloomed in her eyes.
“Oh, Pete…”
She started walking. She had no way of knowing where they’d taken him, of course. It could be anywhere. But she couldn’t just keep standing there. Walking was at least doing something. And maybe she’d get lucky, spot some kind of clue, or spy a likely destination for the kidnappers. It made no logical sense. She wasn’t a detective. And she wasn’t psychic. She couldn’t see through walls or readminds. But it was better than nothing, better than just waiting around for something to happen.
At first she walked straight down the middle of the road, the soles of her shoes scuffing the faded yellow line. She moved to the shoulder when it occurred to her this would be a good way to get mowed down by a speeding driver coming blind around a bend. And getting turned into road pizza wouldn’t do Pete a damned bit of good.
She walked and walked. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. And still there’d been no hint of civilization. No other cars or trucks had come along. She recalled that sense of eerie aloneness she’d experienced after getting out of the Jetta in the general-store parking lot, as if she were the lone survivor of some unknown apocalyptic event. The feeling returned now, more intense than before. She glanced over her shoulder. The general store had disappeared from view. It was just her and this stretch of gray road winding through a thick wilderness.
The summer sun was hot on her skin. Sweat beaded on her brow. She pulled up her hair and arranged it in a loose knot at the back of her head. She was glad for the thin, breathable fabric of the skimpy halter she’d worn, but wished she’d put on shorts this morning instead of the tight jeans that felt so constricting now. She mopped sweat from her brow with the back of a hand and wiped the moisture on the jeans. She wished for a knife or a pair of scissors. She could duck into the woods and strip out of the jeans to cut off the legs, turn them into shorts. What a relief that would be. Then she thought of other things she might do with a knife or scissors and her thoughts darkened. She imagined slitting the throat of the fat man with a knife. Pictured herself plunging the scissor blades into his eyes. She could almost taste his blood, almost hear his screams. The violent fantasies triggered a reflexive sense of repulsion, but this was short-lived. Shesummoned the images again, and this time they stoked her anger and added fuel to her determination to find and free Pete.
She kept walking.
In a few minutes she noted the sun glinting off something some twenty yards ahead. She couldn’t immediately discern what it was. Her curiosity piqued, she quickened her step and soon paused to pick up the object.
Frowning, she turned it over in her hands. “Huh. Weird.”
It was a piece of a woman’s wallet, made of lime green leather, with a removable section that included sleeves for credit cards and a clear plastic frame for a driver’s license. The wallet contained a platinum Visa card and a license for a woman named Michelle Runyon. Michelle was pretty, with long, glossy, dark hair, pouting lips, and cheekbones a Vogue model would kill for. She was from Philadelphia. The ID gave
Okay, so the hell with the breaking-and-entering idea. The whole notion had been absurd from the start anyway. Sweet little Megan Phillips, former cheerleader turned neohippy, chucking a rock or brick through the window of a store?
As if.
Megan turned to the right and stared at the empty road. This was the way the rednecks had gone. The way Pete had gone. He was out there somewhere, maybe still unconscious, maybe awake now and suffering God only knew what manner of indignity or violation. Some of the desperate, gnawing terror began to creep back in then. New tears bloomed in her eyes.
“Oh, Pete…”
She started walking. She had no way of knowing where they’d taken him, of course. It could be anywhere. But she couldn’t just keep standing there. Walking was at least doing something. And maybe she’d get lucky, spot some kind of clue, or spy a likely destination for the kidnappers. It made no logical sense. She wasn’t a detective. And she wasn’t psychic. She couldn’t see through walls or readminds. But it was better than nothing, better than just waiting around for something to happen.
At first she walked straight down the middle of the road, the soles of her shoes scuffing the faded yellow line. She moved to the shoulder when it occurred to her this would be a good way to get mowed down by a speeding driver coming blind around a bend. And getting turned into road pizza wouldn’t do Pete a damned bit of good.
She walked and walked. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. And still there’d been no hint of civilization. No other cars or trucks had come along. She recalled that sense of eerie aloneness she’d experienced after getting out of the Jetta in the general-store parking lot, as if she were the lone survivor of some unknown apocalyptic event. The feeling returned now, more intense than before. She glanced over her shoulder. The general store had disappeared from view. It was just her and this stretch of gray road winding through a thick wilderness.
The summer sun was hot on her skin. Sweat beaded on her brow. She pulled up her hair and arranged it in a loose knot at the back of her head. She was glad for the thin, breathable fabric of the skimpy halter she’d worn, but wished she’d put on shorts this morning instead of the tight jeans that felt so constricting now. She mopped sweat from her brow with the back of a hand and wiped the moisture on the jeans. She wished for a knife or a pair of scissors. She could duck into the woods and strip out of the jeans to cut off the legs, turn them into shorts. What a relief that would be. Then she thought of other things she might do with a knife or scissors and her thoughts darkened. She imagined slitting the throat of the fat man with a knife. Pictured herself plunging the scissor blades into his eyes. She could almost taste his blood, almost hear his screams. The violent fantasies triggered a reflexive sense of repulsion, but this was short-lived. Shesummoned the images again, and this time they stoked her anger and added fuel to her determination to find and free Pete.
She kept walking.
In a few minutes she noted the sun glinting off something some twenty yards ahead. She couldn’t immediately discern what it was. Her curiosity piqued, she quickened her step and soon paused to pick up the object.
Frowning, she turned it over in her hands. “Huh. Weird.”
It was a piece of a woman’s wallet, made of lime green leather, with a removable section that included sleeves for credit cards and a clear plastic frame for a driver’s license. The wallet contained a platinum Visa card and a license for a woman named Michelle Runyon. Michelle was pretty, with long, glossy, dark hair, pouting lips, and cheekbones a Vogue model would kill for. She was from Philadelphia. The ID gave
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