The Hunted

25

Lauren fought to keep herself alert. As Hung Jin had predicted, she was growing weak from lack of food. She had difficulty keeping her mind focused, and very few body parts did not hurt.

When Hung Jin had left, the rats had swarmed her, triggering a surge of adrenaline, an injection of pure liquid stress. Fear seeped from her pores. Sweat dripped from her skin. And her impassioned screams seemed to trigger the rats’ own fear mechanisms, sending them scurrying away from her into the dark corners of the cabin.

The dark cabin. Though slits of light tore through cracks and gashes in the wall panels, she hadn’t seen sunlight in two days. As a psychologist, she was well aware of the depressive effects of darkness and its disorienting disruption of her body’s internal clock, or circadian rhythms. With no defined sense of time or place, and with her body strapped down like a suitcase to the roof of a car, the urge to panic was substantial.

But Lauren knew she had to focus. She had a formidable enemy in Hung Jin; she did not need to make her own failings and anxieties his accomplice. She closed her eyes, calmed herself with a quick muscular relaxation exercise, and then began brainstorming ways of escaping.

If she pulled on the ropes, they would tighten. If she yelled for help, no one but Cody would hear her. She had screamed earlier and no one had come to her aid. It hadn’t even fazed Hung Jin, so she knew she must be in a secluded location. The scent of pine and the muffling quiet of snow gave her the impression she was in the mountains somewhere. Wherever it was, she had been driven there. It was likely within a few hours of Placerville.

No matter what course of action she took, she first had to stimulate the circulation in her numb feet and toes, hands and fingers. Slowly, she moved her ankles up and down as much as she could, hoping the minimal amount of movement would pump enough blood to have an effect. A moment later, she began feeling the fruits of her labor: not only was sensation returning, but, along with it, pain: she had apparently been abrading her scabbing ankle wound against the wooden leg of the chair.

And then an idea began to form: by rubbing her wound repeatedly against the chair, she could make it bleed freely. She tightened her jaw and worked the cut. A couple of minutes later, her ankle was slippery and gliding in its duct tape sleeve.

As she rubbed, she heard the creaking of the old, dry wood of the chair. Perhaps it was not as solid as Hung Jin had thought. With great pain, she sucked in as much breath as she could. She grunted and jerked her body to the left, attempting to tip the chair over. But the only thing she accomplished was tightening the rope around her torso. “Shit!” she gasped. She began to cry, the pressure against her chest permitting no more than a whimper from her cracked lips.

But she could not give up.

She craned her head left, looking for something that could help her. From what she could make out in the dim light, there was nothing of use. She then twisted her head as far right as she could, spying the outline of what appeared to be an old, cast-iron potbelly stove. A long flue rose from its rotund furnace, heading up toward the roof. She could make out a small crack of light around the seam where the flue collar penetrated the ceiling.

Mustering all her remaining strength, she pushed down on the balls of her feet and rocked the chair slightly. Although it was only a small movement, it was a victory of sorts for her. It was a sign that she had control over something in this seemingly hopeless situation. She pushed and pulled her body backward, tilting the chair a couple of inches onto its hind legs before it leaned forward again, slapping back down to the ground.

If she could only generate enough momentum to create a fulcrum with the rear legs, she could smash the brittle wood against the stove. She lifted the seat again with the balls of her feet and forcefully threw her torso back. The chair tilted and she felt the center of gravity shift.

With the air just about gone from her lungs, she was heading backward, bracing as best she could for the impact.