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Give me strength, she thought, and patience. Slowly the chain slipped through and she was free.
Take that, you son of a bitch, she thought, though her hands were still cuffed in front of her. She found the poker, the only weapon in the room, then once it was at her side, located her clothes. Fighting pain, she stepped into her jeans, socks, and boots, but she couldn’t bother with her sweater, bra, or jacket. She had to keep her arms free.
Heart thudding irregularly, she made her way to the door. She thought she was alone, had heard him leave, and the fact that no light glowed from under the door told her that he’d let his fire die as well. There were no lanterns lit.
But he could be asleep.
You don’t know what’s on the other side. Wishing for all she was worth that she had her sidearm rather than the poker, she held her breath and tried the door.
Unlocked.
The bastard truly believed she was no threat. And why not? She’d probably looked half dead after their fight. She’d certainly felt that way. The door creaked open and she braced herself, half-expecting him to hurl himself at her. But the room on the other side was dark, the fire nearly dead. It was larger than hers by three times and the fireplace was massive. Again, there were windows high overhead and she had the feeling most of this lair was built underground. Several doors opened from the main living area with its wide stone floor and huge table. The armoire stood against one wall and for the first time Regan no-320 Lisa Jackson
ticed that there was electricity—light switches near the doors, outlets on the walls.
What was this place? The room she’d been imprisoned in, where she was certain others had been kept before her, was cruder, as if it had once been used as a storage area, the wood stove added later. Not that she had time to worry about it. Quickly she surveyed the area, looking for a weapon, or the keys to the cuffs, even a bobby pin that she could strip of its plastic coating and use to unlock the handcuffs. There was nothing on the table. But the armoire . . .
Without hesitation, she limped to the huge cabinet and opened the double doors. Inside were papers. Books on astronomy and astrology were slid into slots. Along with boxes neatly stacked and drawings . . . It was too dark to see, but . . .
Her stomach dropped as she recognized the pages. Notes that had been left on the trees above the victims’ heads and more . . . Oh, God, so many more.
Telling herself that she was running out of time, shivering with the cold, she opened some of the drawers and searched. Come on, come on, please let the keys be . . .
She saw them then. A drawer of metal keys. Door keys and car keys and . . . there were the tiny handcuff keys. Her hands shook as she worked the lock with difficulty. Half-expecting a door to be flung open at any second, she set her jaw and forced the tiny key into the lock.
Click!
One cuff fell open.
She didn’t waste a second and unlocked the second,
CHOSEN TO DIE
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the right one. She needed to bandage that wrist but there was no time. She stuffed the key and handcuffs into her pockets. Oh, if she could turn the tables on this bastard, she’d love to force his hands behind his back and march him into the station! Maybe even give him an inkling of what police brutality really meant. She surveyed the room for a weapon, or phone, or computer, anything so that she could protect herself and get word to the outside world, but no luck. Damn.
But she did uncover a flashlight, and when she cast its beam over the contents of the armoire one last time, she nearly jumped out of her skin. There, along with the neatly drawn notes with their cryptic messages and stars, were pictures. Of the women he’d captured. Each one naked, bound to a tree, still very much alive, terror in their eyes. Pescoli’s stomach quivered.
She had no choice but to leave the evidence where it was, and find a way of escape. For herself. For Elyssa. For the others he’d alluded to. Where are they? Where is Elyssa? Here somewhere?
Or already being forced through the forest to a lone tree where she is certain to die a lonely, brutal death? Fury burning through her blood, Pescoli hurried back to her prison, grabbed the rest of her clothes, and carefully pulled them on, chafing at the extra time it took because of her injuries. She intended to find the other captives and kill the son of a bitch who had held them against their will.
The poker at the ready in one hand, flashlight in the other, her body still aching, she held her breath and slowly opened the door to freedom.
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“I don’t understand,” Elyssa whispers, her eyes round with fear.