Killer Heat

FIFTY-ONE

Mike jumped from the steps onto the floor of the basement and sloshed through the muddy water to Pam's side.

"I'm a cop, Pam. You're all right. You're going to be fine. I had never seen anyone's eyes opened wider, still full of fear and overflowing with tears that began to run into the water under her head.

Mike pulled the filthy piece of cloth out of the girl's mouth and she began to gasp for air, breathing and sobbing, unable to form or speak any words. Before I could remove my jacket, Mike had taken his off and put it over her body. The dirt that was caked all over her from head to toe didn't conceal the lacerations on her torso or her goose bumps from the chilly dampness of her cell.

I lifted my leg to step over Pam, so that I could help Mike cut her bindings. Her chest was still heaving wildly and her eyes followed me with understandable distrust.

Mike was used to dealing with corpses. He liked every aspect of the cold, clinical procedures of a homicide investigator. It was with living, breathing, emotionally scarred victims that he was most uncomfortable.

But this time he was giving it all he had. He was kneeling in the water, talking to Pam and explaining what he was doing, in an effort to comfort her

You'll be fine," Mike said, stroking the hair that was clotted to her head. "We're going to get you out right now, get you safe and warm." Thunder clapped again and her body shook.

"You're alive and we're here to help you and-"

Just don't tell her that nobody's going to hurt her before we know where her torturer is, I thought.

She was still trying to control her breathing-how long had she been gagged?-and still couldn't find her voice. The only thing that came out of her mouth was guttural, choking sounds

My name is Alex. I'm going to touch you, Pam. I'm going to help Mike get these ropes off your hands and feet." She had been manhandled and abused and assaulted by a stranger, and we needed to reassure her that our contact was meant to be helpful to her

You've got that knife?" Mike asked.

Her eyes popped again. She looked at us as though we were her abductors. "No," she said, gulping in more of the muggy air. "No, no, no knife.

"It's okay, Pam. I won't hurt you," I said. "That's the only way we can get you out of these ties."

Mike was dabbing at her face with his handkerchief. He held Pam's chin in his hand and gave her his classic Chapman grin. "You wouldn't want my friend Alex to cook for you, but she's got long, skinny fingers that are going to get you undone much faster than I can. Just stay with me, Pam. Trust me."

I took the switchblade out of my pocket and opened it. On the blade, on top of the rust, there were dark stains, probably Pam Lear's blood.

Mike kept her focused on his face, telling her how happy he was to find her, talking to her about school and history and her summer job. He knew that more highly charged words-family and friends, who they were and where they might be-were the wrong connection to make at this moment. Too likely to result in more of a meltdown.

I leaned in over Pam's hands, which were tightly bound against her lower back. "I'm going to lift your arms a little bit, to get them away from your body," I said. "Is that okay?"

"Yes," she said, the breaths coming more regularly now. "Yes."

"If it feels too tight, you tell me and I'll ease it back down." I raised her left arm-the one beneath her body-and rested the tip of her elbow on top of my knee, to give myself a bit of room to maneuver. I didn't want her to feel the back edge of the knife's blade against her skin.

Slowly and carefully, I began to saw at the rope in an upward direction. It took longer than I expected to cut through the dense material, and twice Pam's hands jerked away from me, pulling her ankles up behind her.

All the while, Mike tried to soothe her with banter and charm, tried to keep her attention away from me and the knife. There was no point in asking her questions until we were all out of this dungeon.

"I'm just about there, Pam," I said. "Your hands are almost free."

A blast of thunder rolled over us. Pam's eyes blinked rapidly and she looked up the staircase to the landing. "It's the storm," Mike said. "There's no one there and I'm not going to leave you. We're almost done."

"There you go," I said.

Her right arm dropped limply to her side. Mike took it between his hands and began to knead her slim wrist, massaging it to get the circulation back.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," Pam said, saying the words over and over, barely understandable through the sobs. She was hoarse from the gag that had absorbed all the moisture in her mouth.

I was able to slice through the bindings around her ankles more quickly, but her limbs were so numb she didn't seem to feel the moment of release.

"We're going to sit you up," I said. "Mike's going to turn his head for a minute while I put his jacket on you, okay?"

Explain everything you're doing to the victim. Give her back the feeling that she can help control her situation, take part in decisions that are being made.

Mike stood up while I took his nylon windbreaker, helping Pam guide each of her arms into a sleeve. I moved in front of her and zipped the jacket up.

"We're going to try to get you to your feet," I said.

Mike leaned down and put his hands under the arms of the petite young woman. He tried to raise her slowly, and it was obvious she was struggling to control her tears. "I can't," Pam said. "Can't. Can't."

"You don't have to do a thing," Mike said. "I'm going to carry you upstairs. I'm going to put you over my shoulder, Pam. You've seen firemen do it, right? You just hang on to-"

"I can't," she said again, looking at her hands.

"I'll be behind you. Let Mike do all the work," I said, reassuring her.

Mike lifted Pam off the ground, out of the water, and, as gently as he could, hoisted her over his shoulder.

I pointed the flashlight at the bottom of the tall staircase, and as Mike started to walk, I took hold of one of Pam's hands that was dangling behind his back. Holding the jacket in place over Pam's lower body, Mike marched us up to the landing and around again to the door that led back into the house.

He carried the dazed young woman into the room I figured must have been the commanding officer's suite-the largest one we had come through earlier-and lowered her onto an old upholstered divan along the wall.

I went to the window and yanked at a panel of the heavy gold curtain that sagged from its rod.

"What the hell are you doing?" Mike asked.

"It worked for Scarlett O'Hara."

"What did?"

"Making a dress out of her mother's moss green velvet po'teers, Mike. Her old drapes."

I dragged a chair close to the window, climbed up, and took the wooden rod down. The two panels fell to the floor.

I swept them up and took them back to Pam. "They're just dusty. But I'd like to cover you with them till we get some dry clothes."

"And I'm going to get some water for you," Mike said. "How long since you've had a drink?"

She lifted her hand and held it to her throat, as if that would make the words come out more easily. "Not sure. What day is it?"

"It's Tuesday, Pam," I said.

"Yesterday," she said, as Mike walked to the front door of the house. He went outside and, when he returned, he was carrying the canteen he had thrown to break the window. Pam's eyes locked on it and she started to quiver again.

"Rainwater," Mike said. "I've filled it with rainwater. You've got to drink slowly, though."

"It's his," she said, recoiling from the canteen. "No."

Mike got to his knees again, in front of her. "There's no fresh water on this island, Pam. This is all we can give you. You need to sip at it. C'mon."

She shook her head violently from side to side.

Mike poured some of the water onto his handkerchief and dabbed at the girl's lips. "This will feel good, Pam. You're dehydrated. You need water."

She breathed in deeply and reacted instinctively to the moisture, putting her tongue out to taste it, then swallowing hard.

"I've wiped the canteen, Pam. Don't be afraid to use it."

I took it from Mike. "I'm going to hold your neck. I'd like you to lean your head back and take a drink."

"It's his," she repeated. "Don't want it."

"Whose is it?" Mike asked. "Tell me who brought you here."

"Wilson," Pam said, dropping her head forward as she dissolved in tears again. "He told me his name is Wilson.