Down Among the Dead Men

17
Vargas

Vargas had never been much of a car guy. If it got you from point A to point B, he’d drive it, no matter how battered. And if you were expecting any upkeep other than the occasional tune and tire change, you’d be sorely disappointed.

He rarely looked under the hood of his Corolla, and couldn’t remember ever picking up the manual, which had been stashed in his glove box since the day he bought the car, used, a year and a half ago.

If you’d told him then that he would one day be bludgeoned and gagged and tied up and locked inside his own goddamned trunk, he would have looked at you as if you were a candidate for a straitjacket.

Yet here he was. And it occurred to him that if he’d ever bothered to crack open that manual, he might know how to get himself out of this mess. There had to be an emergency lever or something, right?

Maybe. But he was thinking too far ahead.

He wouldn’t be pulling any levers, emergency or otherwise, if he couldn’t maneuver. And he couldn’t maneuver with his wrists and ankles bound. Whoever had tied them-Ainsworth, no doubt-had done a damn good job, leaving him very little wiggle room.

His fingers were starting to go numb.

Reaching his ankles would be impossible at this point, and every time he tried to move his hands, to get a little air between his wrists, the rope cut deep, digging into his flesh-a rough, burning sensation that he could have happily avoided his entire life without feeling he’d missed out on something.

His only solution, he decided, was a sharp surface of some kind, and there was bound to be one in here somewhere. The last time he’d bothered to pay any attention to the underside of his trunk lid (during a move to a new apartment, when he’d overloaded the trunk and was forced to tie the lid down with bungee cords), he’d noticed all kinds of exposed metal. But would any of it do the trick?

Hard to tell, when you’ve got no light.

He’d have to feel his way through this.

Twisting his body slightly, he tried to roll over onto his back, and managed to get only halfway there before the base of his spine once again made contact with the spare tire lodged beneath him.

Making a mental note to rip the thing out of there and roll it off the nearest cliff-just in case he should find himself in this predicament again-he readjusted his body, then took it slower this time.

And hit his head on the trunk hinge.

Fuck.

A bullet of pain shot through his skull and he cried out, the sound muffled by the layers of duct tape. Taking a moment to let the pain settle into a dull throb, he carefully ducked his head, rolled slightly, then shifted around until he was more or less facing upward, his legs twisted awkwardly beneath him.

All of this took him a hell of a lot longer than he’d expected it to, and he could tell by the growing sound of traffic around them that they’d reached civilization. Which meant their destination might not be as far away as he needed it to be.

Reaching out, he ran his hands along the surface of the trunk lid, finding nooks and crannies and metallic edges but nothing sharp enough to do the trick. Everything was as smooth as the back side of a butter knife.

Then he hit something, almost stabbing himself in the process.

A screw.

Holy shit.

A fucking screw.

It wasn’t just any screw, however, but a long, sharp one, probably rusted, protruding through the metal next to a circular hollow spot just above his head, on the far left side of the trunk.

Vargas had no idea how it had gotten there, but he knew it couldn’t be part of the car’s original design-too much of a hazard-so it had to be the handiwork of the previous owner, an old navy veteran named Harry “Jackhammer” Bridger. A handyman’s handyman, Harry had worked maintenance at the LA Tribune building until throat cancer forced him to retire, then killed him less than six months later. God only knew what he’d attached to the inside of the trunk, but when he’d ripped it out, he’d left behind this screw.

Thanks, old buddy. Rest in peace.

Readjusting his hands, Vargas brought his wrists up to the tip of the screw and began scraping the rope against it.

It wasn’t quiet work, especially in the confines of the trunk, but he figured the hum of the tires and the blasting radio would mask the noise from Sergio’s ears. Vargas moved as quickly as he could, feeling the screw snag and grab hold, then cut through the fibers, a nanometer at a time, each move of his hands forcing the rope to dig deeper into his wrists.

Then the brakes squeaked and the car came to a sudden halt.

Vargas’s hands slipped, jerking upward, and the screw pierced flesh, driving deep. Hot pain shot through the left side of his hand, radiating up into the pinky.

It took everything he had to keep from screaming.

Yanking his hands free, he brought them down to his thigh, pressing the wound against it, and squeezed his eyes shut, as if this would somehow put out the fire.

No such luck.

He could still hear cars around him, their engines idling, which meant they were at a stoplight. Inside the Corolla, Sergio started singing along with the tune on the radio.

But these were only peripheral observations. Most of Vargas’s concentration was centered on the one small part of his body that stung like a motherfucker. And he felt like singing, too-but it wouldn’t be a happy tune.

Wondering how much more damage he could do to himself, he waited for the pain to subside, and when the car lurched into motion again he quickly raised his hands to the trunk lid and resumed his task.

But he’d have to make it fast. He had a feeling that the next time this car stopped, it wouldn’t be for something as insignificant as a traffic light.