Hostage

12

Vaughan stopped and looked down at the puddle of blood forming beneath her left foot. At first she thought she’d been shot, but then she realized that she must have stepped on one of the stray slivers of porcelain from the broken toilet tank lid. Amped on adrenaline, she hadn’t noticed the pain or the blood until now.

She knew that she couldn’t take the time to stop and tend to her injury. Concussion or no concussion, Sozinho would be coming as soon as he realized she’d left the room. She knew this, but when she tried to take a step forward, a white hot jolt of electric agony shot up through her left leg and terminated at the tip of her scalp. She tried limping along on her heel, but it was no good. Every step felt as though someone was jabbing an ice pick through the bottom of her foot.

She hobbled over to the swimming pool area and sat on the concrete deck, easing herself down as gently as possible without the use of her hands. She rested her left foot on her right thigh and examined the cut. It was about an inch long, running lengthwise along her arch, a little closer to her toes than to her heel.

Running barefoot on the hard surface had driven the porcelain shard deep into the tissue. Vaughan wiped away some of the blood, but she still couldn’t see it. With tears streaming down her face from the excruciating pain, she reached into the wound with her thumb and forefinger and dug the foreign object out. It was long and crescent shaped, like a miniature Samurai sword, and there was a gelatinous chunk of raw meat dangling from one end.

Vaughan turned to the side and retched, allowing herself a few seconds for the nausea to pass, and then she went to work with the sliver of porcelain that had been in her foot, slicing out a patch of the filthy vinyl swimming pool cover to use as a dressing. She cut a section about the size of placemat, folded it into a triangle, wrapped it around her foot and tied it tightly.

Then she heard footsteps.

Sozinho.

“I’m going to kill you,” he shouted from across the courtyard.

He was about a hundred feet away, shambling toward her like some kind of grotesque character from a horror movie. As he got closer, Vaughan could see some of the damage she’d done. There was a meaty flap where the left side of his face used to be. It jiggled with every step. His hair was matted and the front of his shirt was covered with blood.

He aimed the pistol and fired once.

The bullet whistled past Vaughan’s left ear. She got up and started running toward the archway. Her foot didn’t hurt anymore. It was numb now, the makeshift bandage slapping awkwardly against the rough Spanish tiles like a snorkeling flipper. She ran as fast as she could, her lungs on fire, a prizefighter working the speed bag deep in the center of her chest.

Just a few more feet to go.

She made it to the arch, heard the rumble of an engine approaching, turned the corner and trotted toward the highway that ran in front of the motel, shouting and waving her cuffed hands in the air.

It was a man on a motorcycle. He slowed and looked over at Vaughan, shook his head and kept going.

Vaughan screamed and shouted and motioned for him to come back.

“Please! He’s going to kill me!”

The rider eased off the throttle about a quarter of a mile down the road. His brake lights came on, and then he made a U-turn. Maybe he’d heard Vaughan’s frantic plea for help, or maybe he’d seen her uniform and figured she might make trouble for him, or maybe he just decided it was the right thing to do. He sped back toward the motel, pulled into the parking lot, stopped a few feet from where Vaughan was standing and lifted the plastic shield on the front of his helmet.

“What happened to you?” he said.

“There’s no time to explain. Just get me out of here.”

“What are all these signs for?”

Vaughan looked back at the motel. All the doors and windows in front had been boarded up, and there were large rectangular DANGER signs nailed to the sheets of plywood.

Now she knew where they were.

“Please,” she shouted. “We need to go.”

The man glanced down at her badge.

“Climb on,” he said.

Vaughan started crying and laughing at the same time. She was giddy with excitement. What were the odds of a conscientious citizen riding by this abandoned motel on this desolate stretch of Route 37 at just the right time? A million to one? Maybe a billion to one, but it had happened, and now she was going to live to see another day.

She was already thinking about what she was going to do when she got back to Hope, about helping to coordinate the manhunt with the state police and the FBI. She would probably have to do it from a hospital room, but that was okay. Everything was going to be all right now.

For the first time in hours, Vaughan was optimistic about her chances of making it out of this predicament in one piece. All she had to do was get on that bike and she would be home free. But as she started to mount the rear part of the vinyl seat, a shot rang out and a hole the size of a nickel suddenly appeared on the left side of the biker’s helmet. His body went slack. He slumped forward and then tilted sideways, his weight carrying Vaughan and the motorcycle to the pavement.

Vaughan tried to scoot away, but her right leg was pinned under the fender.

She looked up and saw Sozinho standing over her.

He aimed the pistol at her face and cocked the hammer.