BODACIOUS Read online

  Turning, the man again wielded the knife. Sara shrank from him as far as the rusted chain allowed.

  Grabbing her free wrist, he positioned the knife and sliced the hemp which had torn her scalded flesh. The torturous rope fell away.

  She quickly presented the manacled wrist, indicating he should remove the hemp from that one too. He turned the hard, dark eyes on her for a moment then relented and cut away the second piece of rope as well.

  He glowered at her a moment in the darkness before he turned and lumbered back to the cabin, probably a hundred yards away.

  Then she was there in the dark, alone.

  “Be thankful for the little things,” Sara whispered to the night. “You’re alive, appendages intact. It’s better than you thought.” She again inhaled deeply. The delayed fatigue rendered her suddenly very, very tired. And cold. This was no time for self pity. She had to get out of here.

  Sorting through twigs and sticks on the ground around her, she found a stout one, squatted, leaned against the tree and, trembling, laced the stick through the rusted links of the chain one at a time, twisting, using leverage to test them, looking for one which might yield.

  The boy, Cappy, spoke of this man almost reverently. Sara hammered suspect links with rocks, trying to bend or break them. In Cappy’s mind, this guy was the lone acceptable alternative to murdering her himself. He would take her to...to... What was the name? What did Cappy call him?

  “Bo,” she whispered to the pervading silence. “This neanderthal’s name is Bo.”

  The links toward the middle of the chain were the most corroded. She found the weakest. Link thirty-four was rusted thin on one side. She placed that link on a slab of rock, located a heavy, jagged stone and hit it sharply. The sound reverberated, a muted clang. She looked toward the cabin. Light filtered through seams between logs. There was no sound nor any sign of movement.

  She hit the link again, then again, and over and over until she became annoyed by the stubbornness of this new, inert enemy. She pounded harder and harder venting her frustration and anger.

  Take a breather. Rest a minute. Think. You can do this. You can get out of here. You just have to keep your head.

  No wonder she was tired. Hysteria was fatiguing. It had taken all of her energy to cope with the shocking events of this day. She slumped against the dependable girth of the tree trunk and shivered, again aware of the chill air whipping around her.

  This whole situation was ridiculous, like a time warp nightmare. Here she was, city born and bred, well educated, launched in her career and, here in the Twenty-First Century, waylaid by a pack of ignorant hillbillies, thrust into the hands of a mute madman, and chained to a tree in the land left a hundred years behind.

  “But it’s temporary,” she said out loud.

  The air was growing colder by the minute.

  Laying the chain aside, Sara wrapped her arms tightly around herself. The north wind seemed determined to cool her fury and defeat her spirit as it penetrated the denim dress and her skin, wending its way straight through to her bones.

  Struggling to her knees and stretching the chain to its fullest, Sara moved to the leeward side of the tree. Using her hands, she raked leaves, dried grass and weeds into a meager pile amid the gnarled tree roots which coiled on top of the ground.

  Covering herself as much as possible with the folds of her skirt and folding her arms and legs beneath her torso, she nestled into the tree’s unyielding underpinnings.

  Despite her fatigue, the long walk through the woods and, finally, relief after the fear which had devoured all that remained of her strength, Sara was not able to rest or even to relax. Muscles all over her body throbbed and cramped their objections to the day’s treatment.

  The cold and dark were menacing, the night alive with strange noises. She heard hoots, animals skittering among dry leaves, wind whispering through the pine branches high overhead.

  Would rescuers come? Could they find her?

  No, they wouldn’t be coming to this remote outpost, she supposed, not unless one of the hillbillies told them where to look; not unless her hypothetical rescuers could make Cappy show them where she was. And they would have to find Cappy first.

  From what Sara had seen, the little backwoods village where the thieves lived seemed over populated with mentally deficient folks. Probably the result of unchecked inbreeding.

  Was Bo one of them?

  She didn’t think so. His eyes were more alert than the others.

  As to her prospects for rescue, who might come? The police? Eyewitnesses would tell them the robbers had taken a hostage. That’s what she was, actually, a hostage. But would they know who she was?

  Of course. She’d left the contents of her purse strewn all over the convenience store. With her driver’s license and credit cards, even a backwoods policeman probably could determine her identity.

  Also, her car was parked at a gas pump there. It wouldn’t take much of a cop to figure out it belonged to her or, more accurately, to her and the bank.

  Why hadn’t she suspected something when she emerged from the restroom into silence? Usually she was more observant, more aware of her surroundings than to blunder into the middle of an armed robbery.

  If only she hadn’t been in such a hurry to get to Overt.

  Funny, she thought, that stop was the last time she had used the bathroom and she felt no need to go now. Of course, she’d had nothing to eat or drink since...

  Since when?

  What time had she stopped? Probably two-thirty. What time did that make it now?

  Dark came at seven-thirty-five last week at home. They’d gone off daylight savings over the weekend. It had gotten full dark as she huddled beside the cabin. How long had it been since then?

  She was too confused to try to determine what time it might be.

  She wouldn’t be signing in at the Gazette business office tomorrow after all. Would they get word? They’d probably hear about the kidnapping. Would they realize the victim was their incoming woman reporter or would they simply assume Sara Loomis had gotten a better deal and stood them up? They might not even bother to inquire as to her whereabouts

  Would anyone come looking for her?

  Maybe Jimmy?

  No. She’d been brutal. She doubted Jimmy Singer would care what happened to her.

  But her parents would. Despite the fact they had finally gotten the point, yielded to Sara’s demand for “a little space,” they probably would try to find her. But with winter coming, if this Bo person kept her staked outside, she might not last until they found her.

  How could anyone find her among the mountains and ravines of the Ozarks; track her over rain-cut back roads to that little mountain clearing where she had been forced to follow Cappy into the deep woods.

  The prospects for rescue didn’t look good. Her escape was probably entirely up to her. She groaned.

  The excited optimism of a new job in a new place was gone. Fatigue and gloom settled over her. She was too tired to cope. She’d wait, think in the daylight, when her mind was fresh. She felt the sharp edge of an oncoming headache and buried her face in her hands. Salty tears slipped between her fingers, trickled down her arms, burning the scrapes and abrasions. She twisted her head, peered at her poor wrists and began to weep in earnest, making no effort to muffle the sound as her anguish escalated to low, forlorn wails.

  Her bawling stopped as quickly as it began when she heard what sounded like an answering cry. Frozen in place, she listened to hear first one yelp, then another.

  Voices began yipping off in the distance then, gradually, closer, coming from every direction, their plaintive yowls echoing up and down the valleys.

  She needed to blow her nose and picked up a dried sycamore leaf to use as a tissue. It didn’t work. She caught up the hem of her skirt to mop her eyes and nose, wiping away the worst, listening to the voices coming closer.

  When she heard distinct rustlings in the leaves from the darkened woods,
she got to her knees, watching, waiting, adrenaline pumping hope into her limbs.

  Suddenly she was peering into a pair of bright eyes. Someone was there, watching her. Someone had come.

  “Help.” She tried to keep her voice low, not wanting it to carry to the cabin. She needed to coax the watcher closer, to prevail upon him to rescue her. But the fellow was timid. He blinked but he didn’t move. Others joined him, their bright eyes also staring at her.

  “Help me!” She opened her arms to welcome them, shaking the restraining chain to show them her plight. “Please help me.”

  They seemed frightened of the chain. Maybe they were afraid of the man, Bo. The wind blew Sara’s voice away from the cabin. What would it matter if he heard anyway? This was a large group. There were enough of them to clobber him.

  But the onlookers stayed back, milling, keeping themselves hidden, peeking out from behind the trees.

  “Don’t be afraid.” She tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. “You can get me loose before he knows you’ve done it. If he comes, we can jump him, catch him by surprise.”

  She shifted position but continued kneeling. They seemed diminutive, perhaps they were the Ozark version of pygmies. She leaned forward coaxing, encouraging them.

  Suddenly one of the rescuers let out a high, peculiar yip. Maybe they were a tribe of Indians and those sounds were their signal. She leaped to her feet.

  “Come on. But be quiet. If you yell, he’ll hear you. Bring a knife. Pry this link open. I can go with you. Come on, hurry up, before he hears. Don’t be timid. I’ll help you. He can’t fight all of us.”

  The leader crept forward a few steps and crouched, staying in the deepest shadows. Suddenly he leaped into the open and Sara was able to see his form in the dappled moonlight dancing through the tree limbs.

  She gasped. Hairs prickled warnings along the back of her neck as she staggered back a stumbling step.

  He was neither a pygmy, nor an Indian. Shaped like a large, gangly dog, her hoped-for deliverer appeared to be a coyote, salivating, his bright golden eyes ravenous.

  Sara stumbled again as she scrambled to the back side of the tree, putting the trunk between her and the animal. Terrorized, she screamed into the night. “Help. Someone. Help me.”

  The coyote crept forward, sniffing the air with his long nose, sidling, sizing her up.

  She yanked at the chain, struggling to keep the tree trunk between herself and the pack, which was advancing behind their leader, emboldened.

  She could hear herself shrieking. Her screams sounded hysterical, shattering the silent night. She picked up handfuls of sticks, dirt and rocks and flung them at the approaching band. Some hesitated at her pitiful bombardment, then lifted their noses and resumed their approach.

  Inhaling, her breath burned her throat. She knew the animals could smell her fear. It probably impelled them but she didn’t know how to extinguish it.

  They split up but kept coming, one by one sporadically darting forward, retreating, advancing, circling.

  She let out another ear-splitting shriek as a hand touched her shoulder. She spun. The hulking old man crouched behind her. He leaned his gun against the tree and hunkered in the shadows, waiting. She tried to move, to get behind him but he caught her arms and held her in place, shielding himself from their sight. Her heart knocked against her rib cage and pounded in both temples.

  The lead coyote snarled as he darted forward several paces, baring his teeth. He stopped and crouched and appeared to be grinning as he minced his way toward her. She shrank back, reaching for the man, but her groping hand fanned the air. He was gone.

  Too afraid to watch the approaching coyote, she squeezed her eyes shut. Would she suffer long as the animals tore her to pieces? Her hope at that moment was to die quickly.

  The coyote snapped and snarled, apparently working up his courage. She felt the warmth of his body as he came, leering into her face, close enough for her to smell his breath and see the saliva stringing from his exposed fangs.

  Mesmerized, she watched in horror as the animal crouched, then leaped. A man’s huge hand flashed in front of her face. His fingers grabbed a handful of fur at the coyote’s throat. As he lifted it, the animal’s growl of triumph became a squeal.

  The man caught its tail with his free hand, released its throat and, grasping the tail with both hands, swung the animal, lurching away from the tree to give himself space to heave the creature in a full arc.

  Bo hurled the coyote round and round, gathering momentum as he moved toward the pack, laughing maniacally. Eying him uncertainly, the coyotes danced a wary retreat. One yowled, then the others joined the cry and they scattered, running every direction, their tails between their legs, in a frenzy, an all out rout.

  Still spinning the leader over his head, Bo suddenly released its tail. The coyote flew a dozen feet before it hit the ground with a thud. Stunned, the animal wobbled, righted itself, took several drunken steps, and dropped onto its side pawing the ground. Finally it gained its feet and ran, lurching sideways in its flight.

  The baying faded, swallowed by the earth and the trees.

  In the ensuing silence, Sara remained hunkered down, struggling to quell urges which ranged from uncontrollable sobs to hysterical giggling. The whole scene had been outrageous. One unarmed man sending a half dozen coyotes squealing into the night.

  Using the tree for support, she staggered as she wobbled to her feet. The man’s behavior must have appeared as irrational to the coyotes as it had to her. She found that thought sobering.

  He had a definite swagger as he walked toward her. She half expected him to beat his chest and bray his victory to the wind. Instead he shot her a look of smug triumph, but when his eyes read her expression, his joy vanished. A squint and he looked away from her.

  She cringed as he drew his knife. He dug the blade into the chain’s link looped into the rung in the tree and twisted. The chain dropped to the ground. He picked up the loose end, wound it around his hand and tugged. She followed as he led her to the shed. He lifted the brace, threw a door wide and pulled her inside. It was dark, but welcoming with the innocuous smells of leather and newly cut grass.

  Bo dropped the end of the chain and picked up what appeared to be large pliers. The open door beckoned and Sara took a step toward freedom. The man growled a warning and she froze. He put the pliers against the metal nose ring at her wrist and cut. She was free.

  She could bolt, run into the dark--follow the coyotes--but she hesitated. Instead she looked at these new surroundings, straining to see in the darkness. Lord, she was tired.

  Without looking at the man, she whispered, “Thank you,” and wondered if she were thanking the man or God.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod once, acknowledging the words. He strode into one of the two stalls in the shed and rolled a large black motorcycle out, then pitched forkfuls of clean hay into the floor of the newly vacated stall. When the hay was mounded to three feet or so, he caught Sara’s upper arm and shoved. Stumbling, she fell forward to find herself swimming in the fresh hay.

  She turned to regard her captor in disbelief.

  He ignored her, pushed the motorcycle outside, returned for an implement leaning against the wall, then left again, slamming the doors. She heard the wooden brace fall into its brackets, securing the doors from the outside and shutting off all of nature’s night lights.

  No longer exposed to the wind or the elements or the attacks of vicious predators lurking in the woods, Sara sat stunned, reconnoitering. The hay was clean and sweet. The silent man had not murdered her, had not even injured her, really. In truth, he had protected her, provided a warm, safe place for her. She felt thankful to be breathing and relatively uninjured.

  Sitting on her legs, she touched her wrists and stretched her arms up and to the sides. She seemed to be all right. She stood. Her legs felt okay. She twisted from her waist, was sore but generally sound.

  Moving slowly, she felt her w
ay to the double doors, pressed her ear to one and listened.

  All she heard were nighttime rustlings of creatures and wind. She pushed on both doors. They didn’t give. She didn’t plan to leave until dawn, but she needed to find a way out and be ready to go at first light.

  She bumped one door with her hip. Nothing. She kicked it, then butted it with a shoulder. Still nothing. She retreated a step and banged the door harder, then again, battering each door with one shoulder after the other, again and again, until her eyes teared with pain and frustration.

  Breathing hard, Sara glared at the unforgiving doors, turned her back, walked a wide circle then hurled her body forward, ramming them with all her strength.

  The rebound knocked her off her feet and sent her sprawling, face down, on the hard-packed dirt floor. She lay there, gasping as she doubled her fists, knuckles together, to pillow her forehead. Too tired to cry, she lifted her head and banged it against her fists.

  Finally, brutalized, exhausted, she made her way back to the hay mounded in the second stall and collapsed. She pulled her knees up and curled around them into a fetal position.

  She thought idly of Bo laughing out loud. The sound resonated from vocal chords that obviously worked. Her eyes popped wide in the darkness. Bo didn’t speak. Why not?

  Tomorrow she would make him take her back to civilization. She didn’t want to risk it alone at night against the coyotes and other wildlife prowling the forest, looking for an easy meal. Nor did she want to run into that hideous Franklin, eager to rape and murder her.

  “Tomorrow I am out of here,” she promised herself, “one way or another.” She might need a weapon to force the brute to do what she wanted.

  She thought of the gun the man had carelessly leaned against the tree beside her when the coyotes were circling. She could have grabbed it. That was a stupid thing for him to do, if he considered her his enemy. And he must. Chaining her to a tree was no way to treat a friend.

  Was the gun a stupid oversight or was he testing her?