If I Should Die_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [9]
Lucy saw a gaping black hole in the ground. Except for a few broken boards along the edge, the wood was gone.
“Sean—”
Footsteps led to the hole’s edge. Only one set ran away. The side had caved in, lower than the ground by a foot, as if someone might have pulled a chunk of earth with him when he fell.
Tim pulled her back. “Hold it.”
“He’s in there. I know it.”
“Go slow. Test the ground with each step.”
Lucy did exactly as Tim instructed, though it was killing her. She got down on all fours at the edge of the pit. “Sean? Sean! It’s Lucy! Are you there?”
She heard only the echo of her own panicked voice.
FOUR
The pain started in his chest and radiated out to his limbs.
Sean wondered if he’d been shot.
It was very cold. Moldy and damp. He remembered. He was in the basement of that bastard who’d kidnapped Lucy. Cold, snow all around …
As he took a deep breath the pain suddenly sharpened and he fully regained consciousness. He wasn’t in a basement; that real-life nightmare had occurred months ago. He pushed the memory aside and recalled that he had been chasing a kid—and the kid led him into this pit, whatever it was.
A mine.
Forty years ago, Spruce Lake was a booming mining town. But the mines had long been abandoned. No one would find him.
He shifted just a fraction, and his right arm sent sharp pains through every nerve in his body. Broken? No—it wasn’t his arm, but his shoulder. And something was wrong with his leg, but he couldn’t see anything in the darkness.
He heard something—faintly, far away. His name. The volume increased, the panic in the voice forcing him to open his eyes and try to call back.
Lucy.
He couldn’t speak; his lungs had little air from his hitting the hard packed earth. He slowly drew in breath, practically tasting the damp, moldy dirt. The pounding in his head was painful and thick. Worse than his worst hangover.
“Sean, please!” Lucy cried from above. Her voice was clearer, and she wasn’t as far away as he’d thought.
A rock was jabbing him in the thigh, and he began to move, but a sudden, sharp pain made him cry out. He tried to mask his pain with a cough.
“Sean?”
He coughed again. That hurt, too, and he worried about a cracked or broken rib. He’d cracked a rib before, and that was certainly no picnic.
“Lucy,” he called with difficulty.
“Thank God. Are you okay?”
“Peachy.”
He was lying facedown, his mouth coated with dirt, his jammed shoulder rendering his entire right arm useless. He used his left arm to help push himself onto his back, and he cried out again. A dislocated shoulder could be easily fixed, but until he could force it back into place the pain was nearly intolerable.
“What happened? Sean?”
He couldn’t respond until the initial wave passed, fearing he’d pass out again. He’d dislocated his shoulder twice before, he knew how to pop it back in—if he could stand. He moved his leg. It wasn’t broken. That was a big fat plus. But something was wrong with it.
“Dammit, answer me, Sean Rogan!”
“I’m still here, Princess.” He tried to sound normal, but his voice was scratchy and weak. He could make out faint light from above, but his vision was cloudy. The entrance to the shaft was partly blocked by trees and shrubs, but there was enough light for him to see shadows. He judged that the shaft was about eight feet square and twenty-five feet deep, but his vision blurred again as he tried to focus on his immediate surroundings. He closed his eyes, though in the back of his throbbing head he knew he shouldn’t because he probably had a concussion. How long had he been out?
“Tim is here with me. We’re going to get you out.”
Though it hurt like hell, he pulled his body up so he could sit against the wall. The pain helped wake him up, and he didn’t know whether to swear or be grateful.
He realized as he righted himself that a sharp, squat piece of rotten wood protruded from his jeans. Blood seeped from the wound and he didn’t know how deep the oversized