Music to Die For (23 page)

She nodded, keeping her eye on the door. “You be careful too. Maybe you can stay hidden in the woods next to the path since the breeze is stirring leaves anyway.”

After a quick squeeze of her hand, Henry was gone.

This time Carrie found a tree to lean on, cold and hard. She waited and heard no sounds from the house. Nothing.

Then, wood scraped on wood. A chair moving? A man came to the door. Nahum. He said, “Anyone here yet?”

Carrie hesitated, didn’t speak. He must be alone. Should she answer?

Again, Nahum’s voice, “Are you there?” In a moment he turned back, and the doorway was empty.

Maybe he was supposed to signal Margaret somehow when they had arrived. Maybe they were waiting, too.

She shifted her weight back and forth, wondering what to do. If Nahum came to the door again...

And he did. Again the shadowed figure said, “Are you there?” It was enough. Carrie walked into the clearing.

He held the screen door open as she went up the steps and into the dim light. The front door shut.

Oh, no, no, no!

A woman lay on the floor. Silvery stuff—tape— wrapped her wrists and ankles and covered her eyes and mouth. An empty, twisted tape roll sat on the floor by her.

The blond hair was shorter now. Brigid must have cut it as part of the disguise, curled it. But there was no mistaking who the woman was. Dulcey Mason was not going home to her mother. Her mother was here.

Carrie whirled, facing Nahum—but not Nahum. No limp. Why hadn’t she noticed? Hard eyes, hard hands holding her, shoving her against a wall, twisting her wrists as she began, too late, to fight—a struggle to get to the door, get away, get to Henry.

This must be Habakkuk—why hadn’t she noticed he had no limp...didn’t talk like Nahum? Where was Nahum? Where were Margaret and Dulcey? Where was Henry?

The hard man was tying her hands, not with tape, but with a strip of cloth. He shoved her on the floor, tied her ankles too, and when she opened her mouth to cry out, shoved another strip of cloth in her mouth. She gagged, tried to swallow, fought to control the gagging, realizing that throwing up would be dangerous. She could choke on her own vomit.

Finally he was off her and stood, staring, cold, hard, and cruel. Then he laughed.

All Carrie could think was:
Oh God, God.
No other prayer, no comforting words, came to calm the panic.

Eleanor had said, “You can pray fast and on your feet, Carrie McCrite.” Oh, pray then, pray.

She couldn’t make the thoughts come. She hoped... hoped that Eleanor... could. Was.

The man began to talk, more to himself than Carrie.

“Don’t think you’re worth much, but this other one, now someone is gonna pay big money for Tracy Teal, famous recording star. They’ll pay big money to redeem her.” He laughed again. “I bet the music company’ll pay a million at least for this one. I’ll cut off her playin’ fingers, one at a time, if they hesitate. With money like that, Zeph and me can go away, get outta this business. We’re tired, and Micah’s gettin’ too old to be much help any more. Nahum, he’s soft, stupid. My stupid twin left all his brains with me way back before we was born! As for our boys, well, they got other things to do, no interest in the family business, no matter how we taught them, raised them with money from the family business they claim to hate. Fancied-up sissies, all of ’em! But now here’s big money all at once. No hard work, and we’ll get away. Already got the place ready, outa here, far out.” Again, he laughed. “Yes, we’ll redeem this one for big money!”

Carrie’s thoughts were churning. The man was cruel and dangerous, but that was a deep, real laugh. He was pleased, happy to have captives, or at least, happy to have Tracy. Tracy was safe for now. But... ransom for Carrie McCrite? Who’d pay that? Rob, out of his university salary? If she could have, Carrie McCrite would have laughed too.

But she didn’t, couldn’t. Instead, prompted by what Habakkuk had said, verses from the Fiftysecond chapter of Isaiah flowed into her thoughts. She was two people now. A terrified one, a strong one. Somehow, somehow, this must end up a blessing. Somehow God would reach her, blank out this terror—would keep them safe:

“...o captive daughter of Zion...ye shall be redeemed without money...therefore they shall know in that day that I am he that doth speak: behold it is I. How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings...all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of our God.”

Ye shall be redeemed, she thought, shall see the salvation of God.

Eventually Margaret or Henry would come. No, no, Henry would be with Margaret, with Dulcey. Now the two people inside her cried out, one for Henry to come, the other for him to stay away, stay safe and take Dulcey to safety.

Margaret would learn who Habakkuk’s new captive was, then she’d at least come to help Tracy. But would she be in time?

Habakkuk was studying the two women in silence. He must be thinking what to do next. Carrie shut her eyes. Pray, pray.

She heard him leave the house, heard a motor starting, coming closer, softening to a low rumble in front of the porch. Could Henry hear the motor?

The man clumped back into the room and went through a door behind them, returning with a dishtowel to tie around Carrie’s head, blocking her eyes and knocking off her denim cap.

He left again, came back with something soft-sounding that he dropped on the floor. Then he was spreading it out. Fabric. Finally Carrie could hear him lift Tracy. There was a thump, scuffling, a grunt, a moan from Tracy, more fabric sounds.

After a silence, Carrie was picked up, laid back on the floor, shoved and rolled, over and over. Fabric came around her. It smelled clean, dried outdoors in the sun. Soft, lightly padded. A quilt. Nahum’s quilt. She wondered if her lipstick had worn off. She didn’t want to get lipstick on Nahum’s quilt.

Tears squeezed out of her eyes, soaking into the dish towel. She was lifted, carried, dumped hard on the floor of a truck bed. The man’s feet went up the porch steps, the screen slammed, and then, after a few moments, he returned. Tracy was put down, very gently, beside her. Yes, mustn’t damage his valuable property.

A dusty tarp or canvas of some kind slid over them, and Carrie almost choked again. She heard heavy things—bricks, maybe—fall in place at the corners of the canvas.

The truck moved off. Now Henry could not find her. Each painful bounce of the truck was taking them farther away from Henry’s help.

The bouncing, the thumping of cloth-wrapped skin and bone against metal, continued for a long time—forever. Carrie had no sense of direction or time or how long they’d been moving. Her mouth hurt, the towel was getting soggy, her saliva glands were working overtime. So thirsty... If her head would just stop bouncing. Maybe, if she passed out...she’d never fainted in her life, but now might be a good time to start.

Then the other person inside her shouted, “
No
.”

“My God, I trust in thee...let not mine enemies triumph over me.”*

At least she could be grateful for the thin padding of the quilt.

Almost immediately the bouncing stopped. All she heard, once more, was the rustle of branches and dry leaves in the wind; no traffic or people noises. They were still in the forest.

The truck shook as the man got out and slammed the door.

Carrie McCrite might not be on her feet, but she was sure praying fast, and, she hoped, Eleanor was too.

After a while Habakkuk came back, and she was lifted, carried up wooden steps, down what seemed like a hall, put on the floor of a carpeted room, and left alone. In a few minutes the footsteps returned, and Tracy, too, went thump on the floor. The door shut, a lock turned, the footsteps faded. There were no voices.

When a time of silence had passed, Carrie began to twist and roll, back and forth. As she worked, she wondered how long it had been since Henry walked away into the woods.

Eventually, after bumping into what felt like bed legs and scooting away to roll again, she was free of the quilt. She turned on her back, and, sliding her head up and down against the carpet, pushed the towel that was covering her eyes over the top of her head. It yanked at her hair, and she was glad she couldn’t see herself in a mirror. Then, digging in with her feet and using all the strength she could gather, she sat up.

In the moonlight she could tell that they were in a small room with two beds, a table, a chair. She eyed the room’s one window. It wasn’t barred.

She bumped on her bottom across the floor as quietly as she could and backed up to Tracy, pushing at her, making her rock from side to side. Finally Tracy understood, and she too began to roll, struggling to free herself from the quilt as Carrie had done. When Tracy finally shoved away from the binding fabric, Carrie backed against her and wiggled her fingers on Tracy’s arm until, again, she understood, and moved around so Carrie’s hands were against the tape binding her wrists.

With the tips of her fingers and nails, Carrie rubbed against the end of the tape. Dig in and pull, dig in and pull. A piece came loose, and Carrie began unwinding the tape, helped by Tracy’s wrist movements—now turning, then twisting—to release strip after strip of tape. At last, with a tug, a pull, and a slight murmur of pain, Tracy’s hands were free.

She sat up, used her hands to pull the tape from her mouth and, with only one small whimper, from her eyes.

The two women stared at each other. Tracy’s face looked splotchy, and, even in the dark, Carrie could see a sparkle of tears, whether from the pull of the tape, or emotion, or both, she didn’t know. Then Tracy was moving again, bouncing closer, and lifting her hands to pull the towel from Carrie’s mouth.

As she bent to free her own ankles and Carrie’s hands and feet, she asked, “Where’s Dulcey? Is she safe?”

“Yes, safe,” was all Carrie could manage to whisper. Surely, she thought, Henry must have managed to meet Margaret and get away with Dulcey. He’d know something was wrong the minute he returned to the place in the forest where she was supposed to be hiding, but surely his first priority would be to take Dulcey to...only to her father and grandmother now.

Carrie cleared her throat, swallowed, cleared her throat again. “How did you get here?” she whispered.

Tracy shut her eyes for a moment, then, instead of the tears and moaning that Carrie had expected, she said, in a whisper that was clear and unwavering, “I had to see about Dulcey. I wasn’t asleep when Eleanor thought I was. Chase was sleeping soundly, though, and when I heard women’s voices in Eleanor and Jason’s room, I opened the first connecting door and put my ear against the second door. I could hear some of what you and Eleanor were saying. I heard about your plans for tonight, so I got back on the bed and pretended to be asleep until Chase left with the rest of you. Then I wrote a note for Eleanor—I didn’t want her to worry about me, she’s been so kind—left the room by the door on our side, and came here to get Dulcey.

“See, I just couldn’t wait...so much had gone wrong, and it was my fault. I wanted to save her myself, to clean up the mess I’d made. I wanted my daughter to be safe...you can see why I couldn’t wait, and the place was so easy to find after you mentioned the sewage plant. We used to play around there.

“That awful man caught me as I was trying to see in a window at the yellow house. I guess it wasn’t dark enough yet.”

Tracy paused, tilted her head sideways, looked into Carrie’s eyes. “But, why was Margaret Culpeper willing to help us against her own sons? I can’t figure that out. And how do you know Dulcey is safe?”

Yes, indeed, Carrie thought, why...and how? What should I tell her?

She swallowed again. “It’s hard for me to talk, so I won’t say much.” She told an abridged version of the visit to Margaret’s house, inventing a story about Margaret’s compassion for a child without her mother, and then went on with events up until the time Habakkuk had brought her into Nahum’s living room.

“Enough,” Carrie said. “I’m going to try and open that window before Habakkuk or someone else comes back. The window isn’t barred, so if it’ll open, we can get out and into the woods. I don’t know where we are or where to run to, but just away from here sounds good enough right now.

“This could be Habakkuk’s house, or maybe Micah’s. Micah Culpeper has dogs. Habakkuk might too, but I haven’t heard any barking. And, I don’t hear anyone coming now, do you?”

Tracy shook her head, and Carrie got on her hands and knees, and stood up, wobbling on rubbery legs until her head cleared and she could walk to the window. She leaned on the wall for a moment, then reached for the catch. It turned easily. She tugged. The window didn’t move. She tugged again. Nothing. She ran her hands down the sides of the frame. Maybe it was painted shut. Her fingers came to rough bumps. Screws! The window was screwed shut.

She stood, staring out the window into the moonlit forest, fighting panic. No! Think! She didn’t have time to be afraid. Was there any way to break a window quietly? Impotently, she pushed against the glass. Think!

To keep her hands quiet she shoved them in her jacket pockets. Ouch! What...? She lifted her right hand, looked at what it held. Then, after testing the object’s strength by trying to bend it with her fingers, she felt for the slot in one of the screws. “Ever seen a guitar pick used as a screwdriver?” she asked Tracy as she worked.

“You can use them for that,” Tracy said. “I have.”

The guitar pick slid into the slot and Carrie twisted. If only it didn’t break. She twisted harder. The screw began to turn. Steady, steady. It was going to work. It
was
working! In a moment she had the screw in her hands. Now the other one. Yes! It was coming out, just one more turn.

She froze as the second screw dropped free. Heavy footsteps were sounding along the bare wood floor of the hallway.

Hide the screws. They mustn’t know. She threw the two screws behind a bed, shoved the guitar pick back in her pocket, and rushed to push Tracy over and roll her in her quilt. Then down on the floor. No—the quilt was dragging on the carpet! Roll, roll. Lock turning. Roll!