They stepped off the road into the drainage ditch, which was shielded by high grass on either side. It ran up to the driveway, where it was funneled into a culvert.
Hunched over, pausing every few steps to listen, they followed the ditch to the driveway, then climbed up the bank and began picking their way through the trees. After twenty feet the trees began to thin out and they found themselves at the edge of a clearing.
The space was immense, perhaps two square acres filled with hulking tubular shapes, some the size of garages, some the size of compact cars, lying at angles like a child’s set of pick-up sticks. As Sam’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he realized what he was seeing: a boiler junkyard. How and why it was here, in the middle of the Maryland countryside, he didn’t know, but here it was. Judging from their size he guessed the boilers had come from a variety of sources—locomotives, ships, and factories. The falling rain pattered the leaves around them and pinged softly on the steel of the boilers, sending echoes through the trees.
“Well, this is the last thing I was expecting to find here,” Remi whispered.
r /> “Me, too.” And this told them something about Ted’s assailant. Either he knew this area well or he’d done some homework before coming here. Neither thought gave Sam much comfort.
The Buick Lucerne was parked in the middle of the clearing, but there was no sign of either Frobisher or the car’s driver. Clearly they’d gone deeper into this maze of boilers. But why come here? Sam wondered. The first answer that came to mind chilled him. What Ted’s abductor had planned for him was unknown but one thing seemed certain: The man wanted privacy. Or a place to leave a body. Or both. Sam felt his heartbeat quicken.
“We can cover more ground if we split up,” Remi suggested.
“Forget it. We don’t know who this guy is or what he’s capable of.”
He was about to step out from the trees, when an idea formed in his head. A Buick Lucerne. Buick . . . GMC. He pulled Remi back into cover and said, “Wait here, be right back.”
“What—”
“Just stay put. I’m not going far.”
He took one last look around, watching for the slightest movement, then, seeing nothing, dashed out and headed for the Lucerne. He reached the driver’s-side door, crouched down, then said a quick prayer and tried the door handle. It clicked open. The dome light popped on. He clicked the door shut again.
Damn! At least there was no “keys in the ignition” chime.
Nothing to do but risk it.
Sam opened the door, slid inside, shut the door behind him, then waited for thirty seconds, occasionally peeking over the dashboard. Nothing was moving. He began looking around the car’s interior and found what he was looking for almost immediately. Set into a panel on the dashboard was a button labeled ONSTAR. Sam pushed it. Twenty seconds passed, then a voice came over the radio speakers.
“This is Dennis at OnStar, how may I assist you?”
“Uh, yeah.” Sam grunted. “I’ve been in a crash. I’m hurt. I need help.”
“Sir, do you know your location?”
“Uh . . . no.”
“Stand by, sir.” Five seconds passed. “All right, sir, I have your location near Black Road, west of Princess Anne in Maryland.”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
“I’ve alerted the 911 dispatcher in your area. Help is on the way.”
“How long?” Sam croaked, doing his best injured-driver impression.
“Six to seven minutes, sir. I’ll stay with you. . . .”
But Sam was already moving, slipping back out of the car and shutting the door behind him. Using his pocketknife he punched a hole in the left rear tire’s valve stem. He then crawled around to the opposite side, repeated the process on the other tire, then sprinted back to the trees and rejoined Remi.
“OnStar?” Remi asked with a smile.
Sam kissed her on the cheek. “Great minds.”
“How long until the cavalry arrives?”
“Six, seven minutes. It’d be great if we were gone before then. I’m not in a question-and-answer mood.”
“Me neither. I’m in a warm brandy mood.”