Shiloh glanced into the side-view mirror. In the half-light she caught a look at the man, a crumpled heap on the ground. A dark, unmoving blot on the landscape.
At the moment, Ruthie saw him too, her eyes rounding. “Oh dear Lord.” She swallowed hard. “You—you killed him.”
Shiloh hit the gas again and tore through the dry hardpan toward the road. As they passed through the broken-down gate and onto the gravel road, she said through her teeth, “We can only hope.”
Part Two
Shiloh
Now . . .
Chapter 3
“God help me,” the woman whispered, pleading, heartsick, knowing that after all this time there was no escape, no rescue. She was trapped in this hellhole of a room with its rough-hewn walls and smells of dirt and must. The only light came in through a small window high overhead, a slit in the wood not more than six inches high and about double that in length. Tucked beneath the rafters, it provided no air but allowed her to tell the passing of time, day to night.
Not that it mattered.
She’d been held prisoner for years, too many to count, at least half her life, and though she had never lost the desire to escape, she now felt that no one would take her back now—this scrawny, tired shell of a woman. Gone was the girl who had taken a stupid risk in trusting him. Like a moth to the flame, she had been drawn in and singed.
At first, when she’d been young, she’d thought she would escape or that she would be rescued. Her parents. The police. There would be a massive manhunt, and she would be rescued under the whoosh of helicopter blades, the chopper’s bright lights almost blinding. Police with dogs that would snarl, officers outfitted in black, assault weapons poised, would break down the dead-bolted door to save her and take her to the loving arms of her distraught family.
Were they even still alive? Had the loss of their daughter ultimately destroyed them as well? She felt the burn of tears, but no drops wetted her eyes nor drizzled down her cheeks. All her tears had been shed years ago at the hands of the monster who had abducted her.
The four walls closed in on her. Aside from a cot and small table, there was no furniture in the room, no electricity, no lamplight. He’d left her hand-me-down clothes and books that she’d read over and over again. Once in a while, he’d replenish the meager stack, but never allowed her magazines or newspapers. She really wasn’t sure what year it was. Every day, he’d let her out, but he’d never allow her to get more than five feet from the rickety porch where he stood, knife in hand, gun visible in a holster. She’d tried to run several times, and each time, he’d caught her and placed her back in her room. That was her punishment—a month or so of confinement to the shack without fresh air and sunlight. A dreary absence of life in a life of absence.
She’d learned to be obedient because she lived for those few short moments outside—usually at twilight, when she’d spy a hawk soaring overhead or glimpse a squirrel or rabbit darting out of sight or a timid deer nearly hidden in the surrounding umbra of the forest. Based on those precious moments, she knew her shack was surrounded by mountains, canopied by firs and pines. In the winter, she nearly froze to death because all he gave her were layers of clothing and a down sleeping bag, her only insulation from the bitter winter’s cold.
How many times had she tried to escape?
A hundred?
A thousand?
More?
And still she was here, held captive and used as a whore. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, her mind returning to that fall evening when fate had turned on her and she’d allowed herself to be vulnerable to this horror.
If only she hadn’t been walking alone. If only she hadn’t been bold and sassy, thinking she could handle herself. If only she’d never gotten into that car with the friendly man who flashed her that sexy grin from behind the wheel.
“Need a lift?” he said, pulling over.
She’d known him. Trusted him. Well, kind of. There had been an edge to him that she’d found fascinating, and when he’d reached across the console and passenger seat to unlock the door of his pickup, she’d ignored all the warning signals in her mind and cast aside her parents’ admonitions about taking rides or being alone with strangers. She’d rationalized that he wasn’t a stranger. Her parents knew him, did business with him, so with only the slightest trepidation, she’d climbed inside.
Big mistake.
He hadn’t been kind or sexy or decent.
He’d kidnapped her then and there, locking her inside, threatening her with his knife and binding her wrists and ankles, then blindfolding and gagging her before driving for what seemed like hours to this remote spot in the middle of no-damned-where.
And she’d been trapped with him forever.
She knew it would never end.
Not until one of them died.
She also realized it wouldn’t be the bastard. She’d plotted his demise a thousand times in murderous fantasies that included a deep, hellish pain and an ugly, drawn-out death, but none had come to fruition. So she couldn’t inflict her revenge against him for all the pain and horror he’d put her through.
At first she’d fought him, but he’d prevailed in his twisted sexual fantasies. Then, when she realized that her physical battles, the screaming and flailing and biting, excited him even more, she’d tried the psychology of just letting him use her. Not saying a word, not begging, not even whimpering, just lying there like a limp doll while he did what he pleased. At first he’d been frustrated and angry. Punishing. But nothing had changed.
Nothing, she realized, would ever change.
Her feeble attempts at escape had proved useless.
Her hopes for rescue had long ago faded.
She looked down at the barbed wire binding her wrists. Though she knew that she’d lost weight since her capture, the sharp barbs still cut deep when she moved. The skin around her hands was scraped and raw from her efforts, with angry, wormlike scars visible.
Soon, she thought, there would be more.
She walked to her cot, where, tucked into the sheathing that surrounded the metal frame, she’d found a tiny hiding place in the space between the rail and the stretched cotton. It was here that she’d tucked away a piece of the barbed wire that had broken off her manacles.
She’d thought she might wound him with the small shard, but she never got the chance. And unless she slammed it into his eye socket, it would do little damage.
To him.
But with the right amount of effort and courage, she could break the nearly translucent skin over the underside of her wrists and puncture a vein and slowly bleed out. There would be pain, of course, but nothing as savage as what she’d borne at his calloused hands. No.
Judging by the daylight seeping in through the window, she figured she still had several hours until dusk, maybe more. He wouldn’t be back until evening, so there was plenty of time. She found the barb in its hiding place and fingered it.
She eyed the piece of wire.
Her death.
Her salvation.