Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [98]
Tina finally turned her head, looking up at the sky. Through the slits of her swollen eyes, she could see the yawning blue canvas of her prison. The horizon seemed to be darkening now, the sun finally sinking from view and leaching away the white-hot glare. Funny, it didn’t feel any cooler. The humidity was still a stifling wet blanket, as oppressive as the cloud of mosquitoes and yellow flies that continued to swarm her face.
Her head fell back down. She stared at her hand, inches from her face. She had open sores from scratching the hundreds of mosquito bites. Now, she watched a yellow fly land on her skin, dig into her open wounds, and lay a pile of tiny, shiny white eggs.
She was going to be sick. No, she couldn’t be sick. It was an inefficient use of the little water she had left. She was going to throw up anyway. Not even dead yet and already being used for maggot bait. How much longer could she possibly go on like this? Her poor baby. Her poor mom.
And then, that calm, practical Minnesotan voice from the back of her head started speaking to her again: You know what, girl? It’s time to get tough. ’Cause you either do something now, or you really do get to forever hold your peace.
Tina’s gaze went to the oozing black mud.
Just do it, Tina. Be tough. Show the rat bastard what you’re made of. Don’t you dare go down without a fight.
She sat up. The world spun; the bile rose immediately in her throat. With a gagging cough, she choked it back down. Then, she pulled herself wearily to the edge of the boulder and gazed at the muck. Looks like pudding. Smells like . . .
No throwing up!
“All right,” Tina whispered grimly. “I’ll do it. Ready or not, here I come!”
She stuck her right foot in the muck. Something promptly slithered against her ankle, then darted away. She bit her lower lip to keep from screaming and forced her foot deeper into the muck. It felt like sliding her body into rotted-out guts. Warm, slimy, slightly chunky . . .
No throwing up!
She thrust her left foot into the ooze, saw the clear outline of a black snake slide away and this time she did scream, long, hoarsely, and helplessly. Because she was afraid and she hated this and oh God, why had this man done this to her? She’d never hurt anyone. She didn’t deserve to be cast in a pit where she was baking alive while flies laid shiny white eggs into the deep sores of her skin.
And she was sorry for having sex now, and she was sorry for not taking better precautions, and she was sorry she had messed up her young life, but surely she didn’t deserve this kind of torture. Surely she and her baby at least deserved a shot at making a better life.
The mosquitoes swarmed. She batted at them again and again, while standing mid-calf in the muck and gagging helplessly.
Drop down, Tina. It’s like plunging into a cold pool. Just grit your teeth, and plunge into the muck. It’s the only option you have left.
And then . . .
There, in the distance. She heard it again. A sound. Footsteps? No, no. Voices. Someone was around.
Tina jerked back her head to the mouth of the open pit. “Hey,” she tried to scream, “hey, hey.”
All that came out of her parched throat was the croak of a frog. The voices were fading. People were around, but walking away, she was sure of it.
Tina grabbed her half-empty gallon of water. She took giant, greedy gulps, desperate for help and careless of rationing. Then, with her newly lubricated throat, she threw back her head and screamed in earnest.
“Hey, hey. I’m down here! Someone, anyone! Oh please, come here . . .”
Kimberly was running. Her lungs were burning; a stitch had developed in her side. Still she powered down the slippery slope, crashing through thick brush, jumping over rotting logs, careening around boulders. She could hear the hot, heavy breathing of Mac, racing by her side.
It was a suicidal pace. They could twist an ankle, plummet over a ledge, crash into a tree, or suffer things that would be much, much worse.
But