08-A Thousand Bones, page 27
She closed her eyes, sick, breathless.
Roland reached down to grab the hoist.
“Roland,” Ken said. “What are you doing?”
“Shut up.”
Roland dropped to his knees and set the shotgun on the ground next to him. He started to unlace her boot. She looked back to Ken, hunched in the falling snow, his shackled hands balled into fists.
Roland leaned over her to untie her other boot, his hands busy, the shotgun lying near her leg. She knew it was her only chance.
She jerked her foot free and kicked him in the face. He tumbled backward, and she tried to scramble up, but his fist came down hard against her temple, slamming her head to the ground.
“Don’t you hit me!” Roland yelled, punching her again in the mouth. “Don’t you ever fucking hit me!”
He shoved her back to the ground, a knee on her belly. Her head was spinning, a new wave of nausea rising up inside her.
“Kenny!” he said. “Get a belt from one of those dead cops and tie up her hands.”
Joe tasted blood. She could feel Roland’s hands on her skin as he tied her ankles to the hoist. She fought to clear her head, and when she did, she saw Ken kneeling above her. Felt him now, as he wound the leather belt around her hands, cinching it awkwardly with shaking fingers.
“Ken,” she whispered.
He looked at her.
“Help me,” she mouthed.
Roland suddenly stood up and grabbed the center bar of the hoist with one hand and the shotgun with the other. He trudged toward the nearest tree, dragging Joe behind him. The ground was cold and sharp, scraping against her back.
“Roland!” Ken said. “Roland! What the fuck are you doing?”
Roland dropped the hoist and spun toward his brother. “Shut the fuck up!”
Joe couldn’t see Ken, but the chink of his chains grew louder. Near her head.
“You’re sick!” Ken yelled. “You’re a fucking animal! What the hell is wrong with you?”
Roland started dragging Joe again, jerking her body toward the tree with angry yanks. Then Ken was there, trying to grab Roland with his shackled hands.
“No more, no more!” Ken hissed.
Roland shoved him away. Ken stumbled, managed to find his footing, and came right back at Roland.
“I won’t—”
BOOM!
Ken collapsed to the ground near Joe’s shoulder. Moaning. Gasping. Hands trembling. Then the clinking of his chains stopped, leaving nothing in the air but the bite of cordite and the drifting concussion of the explosion.
A splatter of something warm and wet on her face. She clenched her teeth against a scream as she realized it was Ken’s blood. In the drifting flakes of white, Roland came back into focus.
He was standing above her but looking at Ken, a look of disbelief on his sweating face.
His gaze came back to her. Eyes glistening with tears but still empty of anything human.
The moment was frozen. Every image crystal clear, every sound amplified. The hiss of the falling snow. The hot burn of her tears. The hammering of her heart. The black hole of the gun barrel staring back at her.
She closed her eyes.
Then…
Nothing.
She opened her eyes.
He had dropped to one knee beside her. He set the shotgun on the ground and roughly unzipped her jacket, throwing it open. With a slow drawing of breath, he slipped a hunting knife from his belt and grabbed the collar of her uniform shirt.
He sliced it open.
39
Cold. Something cold on her face.
Warm. Something warm on her face.
She opened her eyes. Nothing but blackness.
Dizziness. A sickening swirl in her head and her stomach.
Cold…warm.
But why couldn’t she bring up her hands to feel her face?
Why couldn’t she see anything?
Where was she?
Then…the pain. It began in her gut, a dull, long ache along her ribs streaming up to her breasts.
Cold. Warm. On her face. Wet.
She tried to move her lips. More pain. But then a trickle of something on her tongue.
Blood.
Cold. Warm. Wet.
Snow. Blood. On her face. In her mouth. The taste of her own blood on her swollen tongue.
Things were coming back, jagged flares of images. A black darting shadow. A white flash of muzzle fire. A collapsing brown body. And sounds. Water. A scream. Shick-shuck. BOOM!
And…
Oh, God. She could remember the rest. The cold of the barrel on her skin. The knife. His face above her.
Tears. She couldn’t stop them. Falling, falling. Hot tears streaming over her forehead.
Wait…wait.
Her eyes were open, but she could see nothing. The swirl in her head, the sickening feel. She was hanging. She tried to move her legs. She was tied by her feet, hanging upside down.
Her arms were dangling over her head. Her hands were tied with something. God, the pain in her stomach and ribs. And the cold…she was so cold, and the air was so piercing it was like her insides were turning to ice. And then it came to her. She was naked.
But she was alive.
How long had she been out? She strained her ears, but it was so quiet. Just the soft sound of rushing water. Her head was pounding, but it was coming back now, what had happened, the ambush and…
“Rafsky.”
Her mouth hurt. She tried again.
“Rafsky!”
Her voice echoed back to her, small and weak. “Rafsky! Sheriff?”
Nothing but the awful silence.
She began to shiver. How long had she been hanging like this? It was night, no moon, no stars. Just the suffocating blackness. She had to do something. Had to get down somehow before she froze to death here.
Move! Move! Do something!
She tried to move her hands again and then remembered he had used a belt to bind them. Twisting against the wet leather, she was able to slip one hand free. Her trembling fingers touched cold metal. The buckle. Slowly, she worked the end of the belt free and uncinched it. The belt fell away with a soft thud.
She clasped her icy hands together for a moment. Her struggle had left her swinging gently. She closed her eyes against the rising nausea of the motion and tried to take a deep breath.
A sharp pain tore across her abdomen. Slowly, she brought up one hand to its source. There was a gash just below her ribs. She was bleeding.
Red dots swam against her closed eyes. She couldn’t feel her legs anymore. But she could remember how he had tied her. If she could somehow pull herself up using the hoist…
But every move brought another wave of nausea. And she knew instinctively that the cut on her stomach had rendered her muscles too weak.
The sickening swaying went on. The rope creaked against the tree limb in the blackness above.
Tears again. Hot tears running up into her wet hair.
No! No! I am not going to die! Not like they did!
The swaying…maybe…
Maybe if she could swing enough, she could grab something to pull herself up. She began to move her body, trying to get some momentum going. The motion made her sick, but she fought it back. After a while, she was swinging freely. She flailed her arms in the dark, but there was nothing to grab. She twisted, trying to change the direction of the swinging.
The gash on her stomach was so painful she could barely pull in a breath. Then, suddenly, her arm hit something hard. Then again on the downside of the motion. She tried frantically to catch it.
She twisted again, moving her arms. Her palm hit, and she grabbed. The tree. She bounced against the rough bark but finally managed to wrap her arms around the trunk.
Her cold hands clawed at the bark, finding a knob. She pulled herself up, wincing, her other hand desperate for something to grab onto. Then a branch, wet with snow.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, she slowly pulled herself up another foot.
Another knob, another larger branch. Up to a limb. She had to stop, exhausted, but she knew she couldn’t last much longer. With trembling arms, she climbed higher and could feel the pressure loosening on her legs as the rope holding the hoist grew slacker.
One last effort, one last wave of pain.
She was on the limb now. She rested her forehead against the rough bark, her arms wrapped tightly around the trunk. When she could pull in a breath, she slowly reached down to her right ankle. Rope…wet, tight.
She was shivering so hard. And her fingers were burning with cold. And she couldn’t see anything. But she picked away at the rope until finally it began to loosen.
One leg swung free, the weight of the hoist almost pulling her off the limb. She steadied herself and worked on the other ankle. Then, finally, the thing fell away with a thud. She clung to the limb, gulping in icy air.
How far up was she? The hoist hadn’t fallen very far from the sound it made. He had hung the others up at least thirty feet, and she didn’t know how she would take a fall of that distance, but she had no choice. She had to jump.
She took a breath and pushed off the limb into the black.
The snow and leaves broke her short fall, but still, she lay there for a long time, unable to pull in one full breath. The cold was numbing. She had to move, had to get help.
She began to crawl.
Her hands, her knees, everything beyond numb now. She felt herself drifting, her mind becoming fogged, and she had a fleeting memory, something she’d read in a book a long time ago, that a death by freezing was a gentle thing.
Her hand hit something soft in the darkness.
Cloth. A brush of fur. A solid form beneath. She drew back.
A body. But whose?
Don’t think. Move…
She reached out, patting the form, searching. Flashlight…they all wore them on their utility belts. She reached under the parka.
Her fingers found first the cold metal of a revolver, then the flashlight. She jerked back from the body and clicked it on.
The beam caught the shimmer of snowflakes and the black trunks of the far trees. Then, about fifteen feet away near the water, a dark mound half covered in white. The face was turned toward her. Eyes open.
Mack.
She swung the light to the mound closest to her. Another brown parka. A stain of red in the snow. Cold blue hands outstretched. She couldn’t see the face, but she knew it was Leach.
Rafsky…
She raked the darkness with the beam. But there was nothing but the snow. Tears burned her eyes.
No time now. She had to live.
Still on her knees, she slowly ran the beam over the ground looking for her clothes. If they were still here, they were long ago buried by the snow. She brought the beam back to Leach.
Setting the flashlight in the snow, she gripped his parka and rolled him over. A sob caught in her throat, but she forced herself to keep her hands moving. It took her a while to get his parka off. It was shredded with buckshot and heavy with blood, but she pulled it onto her arms. Once she had it zipped, she moved on to take his pants, his boots, and his gloves.
She was dizzy with exhaustion and pain by the time she staggered to her feet. It was only then that she saw the form lying over by the stream, half hidden behind a rock.
She stumbled to it.
Rafsky lay on his side, a red stain spread beneath his body. She knelt down beside him, dropping the flashlight to the ground and turning him gently to his back. He was lifeless, the brown deputy’s jacket ripped apart with buckshot.
Hot, quick tears filled her eyes. A sob escaped her, and she clasped a trembling glove over her mouth, the pain inside her drawing her forward over his body. She clutched the sleeve of his jacket in her hand.
She heard a small, raspy breath.
It took a second to understand it, and she grabbed the flashlight and pointed it at his face. Blue and still, and she wasn’t sure now that she had really heard anything.
She ripped off a glove and worked her hand inside the collar of his jacket and felt for a pulse. It was there, a faint, dying flutter under her fingertips.
She grabbed the radio from his belt and keyed it. Her voice was iced over. Hoarse.
“Help,” she said. “I need help.”
Static.
She pulled Rafsky onto her knees, cradling his head and brushing the snow from his face. She keyed the radio again.
“Help us, please.”
A voice broke through the darkness. “Radio caller, this is state dispatch. Please identity yourself.”
She choked back a sob and keyed the mike again. “Frye. Deputy Frye. Leelanau Sheriff…I need help now. Officers down.”
She still couldn’t get warm. That was the first thing that came to her as she struggled up from the blackness. Then…sounds.
A siren cried from somewhere very close. Ambulance, she was in an ambulance, and the siren was right outside, on the roof. And lights…she tried to open her eyes, and soft white lights bounced in her vision, making her dizzier.
When had she blacked out? The last thing she could remember was calling in on the radio. There was nothing after that.
She became aware of someone close. A man hunched over, his hands working furiously on opening a small white package. The ripping of the paper sounded like gunfire. Then she felt something pressing on her abdomen and a jab of pain.
“I’m cold,” she whispered.
“Sorry,” the man said. “I put a heated blanket under you.”
She reached up to grab something, unsure of what she was looking for. A second hand covered hers. She tried to draw away, but he didn’t let her.
“Deputy Frye.” A voice somewhere behind her. Warm voice.
She tried to move her head to see it but couldn’t.
“Deputy Frye, I’m Trooper Washburn. Can you talk to me?”
“What?”
“I need a statement.”
She tried to concentrate and bring his face into focus, but he was somewhere above her head, and she couldn’t see him. She wanted to see him.
“Who did this?” he asked.
“Roland Trader,” she whispered. “Shotgun. Four shots. He was…he was behind the waterfall. I was looking at…”
Her arm suddenly lit up with a fluid fire, and she groaned, feeling whatever the EMT had given her surge through her veins.
“Did anyone return fire?” the trooper asked.
“No.”
“He shot Ken Snider, too?”
She was still feeling the shot, and she gritted her teeth, managing a nod.
“Why?”
“He…he tried to help me…”
She heard his voice but didn’t understand the question, a thick fog settling behind her eyes. The next thing she knew, the ambulance had stopped bumping and was moving more smoothly. The same voice drifted back, calm and gentle but still coming from somewhere she could not see. “Deputy Frye.”
“Yes…”
“Why were you wearing Sheriff Leach’s clothes?”
“He…he took mine. Roland…Roland Trader…”
Even in her pain, she didn’t want to finish the sentence. She didn’t want to say it out loud, and she shut her eyes against the lights, wishing he would just ask her so she could nod. But she heard nothing but the painful cry of the siren.
“He raped me,” she said.
The siren seemed to grow louder, and somewhere in her head, she recognized the change in its tone. No longer pouring into the hollow black night and disappearing but ricocheting off buildings and concrete.
A crackle of static close by, coming from the trooper’s radio. “Three dead on the scene. Two on their way to the hospital.”
“Deputy Frye?”
She shut her eyes.
“Did you see a vehicle, Deputy Frye? Did he say anything to you to tell us where he might be going? Deputy Frye—”
She slipped into an icy darkness, and the warm voice was gone.
40
She had been drifting in and out of sleep all morning, her mind a fog of images and sensations. She knew some of it was the result of the sedatives. But she was awake and aware enough to realize what was real.
The hot tingle of her frostbitten fingers. The ache of the stitches in her belly. The pull of the IV in her vein. The bleach yellow of the November sunlight coming through the window that matched the bleach smell of her hospital room.
Some things didn’t feel real. She was trying not to remember those things, at least for the moment. But she was hearing the radio voices that came after. Three dead on the scene. Two on their way to the hospital.
“You’re awake.”
She slowly turned her head on the pillow. Brad. She tried to smile but couldn’t. Her lip was too swollen.
He came over to the bed. “I was out talking to the doctor,” he said, as if apologizing for his absence.
She nodded. Much of last night, when they had brought her in, was fuzzy. But she could remember Brad being there. Or, rather, the bright red of his sweater, because the sedative was taking effect by the time he got there. He was still wearing the red sweater. He looked tired and worried.
She raised her right hand and made a circling motion, then pointed upward.
“The bed? You want it raised?” Brad asked.
She nodded and closed her eyes, listening to the whirring sound. Her head was pounding. When she opened her eyes, Brad was staring at her.
“I look that bad?” she whispered.
When he didn’t even try to smile, she closed her eyes again. The dizziness took a long time to stop. When she opened her eyes, Brad was at the window, staring out.
“Do you know if Rafsky made it?” she asked.
He turned and gave her a strange glance that melted quickly to another silent apology. “I don’t know,” he said.
The wan sunlight from the window highlighted the lines around his eyes and sharpened the quivering at the corner of his lips.
Joe closed her eyes. A moment from last night drifted back. A hard exam table. The feel of the doctor’s gloves on her skin. The touch of the cold steel instrument.
