Fatal Burn (West Coast 2)

She wondered where he went every night after the strange peeing ritual. He was gone for hours, often until late the next day, as if he was living somewhere else, or had a job, as if he had a double life.

He was a freak. That was it. She listened as he prepared to leave—just as he did every night. First he latched her door, locking her into this miserable room, then he would walk outside, his boots making the old porch boards squeak. After that his footsteps would fade away and about a minute or two later the sound of a truck engine would spark in the distance.

She knew he parked the truck away from the cabin in an old lean-to shed off the road. She’d seen its leaning, cracked boards on the night he’d brought her here. Since then, she’d never even caught a glimpse of his truck. The few times he’d let her outside, he’d been close beside her. In those few precious minutes, she would try like crazy to figure out where they were. Since she’d never seen that they’d crossed any more state lines she was pretty sure they were still in California. They’d passed through small towns and vineyards and had driven through the Valley of the Moon, so they were probably somewhere in that area her dad called “wine country.” But where was that?

From the cabin she heard no sounds of traffic, not even the rush of cars on a distant freeway. But in the middle of the night she’d be awakened by the sound of a train thundering past. The tracks couldn’t be too far away, she figured, because the whole cabin shook. The clank of wheels and the roar of the engine were deafening as the train rushed by.

Now, wondering where the train went to, where it came from, how close the next station or railway yard was, Dani lay sweating on the cot, counting off the seconds with her own heartbeats. She hardly dared breathe as she waited for the sound of the pickup truck’s engine to ignite in the distance. Crossing her fingers that he was really taking off for the night and hadn’t just left for a few minutes to get something from the truck, she strained to listen.

She wanted him gone.

Forever.

She wouldn’t die here.

No, she’d get out of this hot, airless prison.

She just needed some time.

A lot of time.

By herself.

So she could work out her plan.

Then she heard it, the catch and cough of a truck’s engine.

Thank God.

Dani relaxed. She had a few hours, maybe more. In the near darkness, she rolled off the cot and crawled unerringly into the tiny closet where she’d discovered what she hoped would be her salvation. She couldn’t see anything, but she felt with her fingers all around the floorboards until she found it, that one warped board with the nail working its way out of its hole.

She smiled to herself. The perv hadn’t noticed it, thought the room was secure. Think again, jerk-wad!

Using one of her socks as a glove, she grabbed hold of the nail head and began wiggling and pulling. Back and forth, back and forth, tugging slightly, hoping to ream out the nail hole and make it bigger, all the while urging that rusted, ancient spike from the rotting wood.

Sweat collected on her forehead.

Ran down her arms.

The rusted nail head poked through her sock and she doubled the cotton over, still feeling the sharp edges of the head dig into her fingers. She didn’t care, worked through the discomfort, even when she felt blood welling.

The nail, if she could just extract it, was her ticket to freedom.

“I don’t care what strings you have to pull, or whose butt you have to kiss, but get me out of here,” Shannon said from her hospital bed.

Her brother Shea, all six feet one of him, wasn’t buying it. He stood inside the open door of the small room and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Probably not, but do it anyway. You’re with the police department, twist some arms, make some calls, lean on someone, but for God’s sake, get me out of here.” She was already shifting on the bed, swinging her legs over and trying not to cringe at the pain in her shoulder and ribs. They seemed to be the worst, even harsher than the cut on the back of her head that had required a patch of her hair to be shaved and seven stitches to close the wound.

The meal the nurse had rustled up—clear broth, red Jell-O, and a wimpy pressed-turkey sandwich—lay untouched on her plate. Her hunger had fled when she’d learned about Travis Settler and his daughter. No, check that, make it her daughter.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Shea was saying, but she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“Well, either you work things out with the powers that be here at Santa Lucia General, or I go AWOL.” She slid her feet onto the floor and found that her legs supported her.

“Shannon, listen to reason.”

“You listen, okay? The arson detectives spilled the beans that the guy I ran into during the fire is my daughter’s adoptive father. He’s claiming that she’s missing.”