Page 78 of I Know She Was There

I gasped.

A force hit me between the shoulder blades, shooting my upper body forward. I automatically reached out with both hands to break my fall, catching the table edge with my elbows, a howl of pain tumbling from my lips.

Something hard and unyielding was wedged into my lower back, pinning me against the table edge. I heard Mary moan and felt hot breath on the back of my neck. I tried to twist my head and catch a glimpse of my attacker.

Instant darkness filled my vision. I felt the sharp sting at the back of my head as the blindfold was knotted into place, painfully twisting my hair strands.

“Wait, what?—”

Something was shoved into my mouth. I gagged. Terrified my air supply had been cut off, I breathed through my nose, relieved when I was able to get air into my lungs.

My arm was clamped in a vise-like grip. Using every ounce of energy I had, I twisted it, freeing my hand to claw the air. My fingertips connected with something solid. I dug my nails downward, but they only slid along material. Panicking, I kicked one foot harshly forward, my toes connecting with bone.

A grunt of pain followed by sudden excruciating pressure on my forearms. Strong fingers twisted my wrists together and pulled me forward. The sheer strength of my attacker revealed him to be a man.

Mind reeling, I battled for balance, my feet barely keeping up with the pace. Everything was happening so fast. Impressions of movement, pain, and speed bounced through me like dryer balls on the highest setting. This was all tied into what I’d seen. It had to be. I knew too much about the bleeding woman. She must be real—making my insistence that I’d seen her wounded and struggling a significant threat to the person who’d harmed her. The same man who was kidnapping me? Who was he?

It must be Matt. It was his bleeding wife I’d spied on and who was now missing, right? It couldn’t be Tim. If he wanted to be rid of me, he could set up a meeting time or take me to dinner. In his arrogance, he was sure I’d drop everything to be in his presence. Of course he could have hired someone to dispose of me. I immediately discounted that theory. Tim was too cheap to spend thousands on a hitman. But what about Jeffrey? What did I know about the guy other than what he’d told me? Maybe he’d made up everything...

I heard the front door’s distinctive squeak and felt myself being dragged into the cool night air. The pervasive early-autumn smell of woodfire and the sound of crickets reminded me I was still in this world, even as I stumbled over the threshold, terrified the devil himself was leading me to the gates of hell.

He pulled me along my front yard, my toes catching on the edges of the stepping stones leading from my stoop to the driveway. I heard a door open and was shoved forward, headfirst. My mind recoiled at the prospect of my face scraping the pavement, but I landed solidly on what could only be a car’s back seat. I pushed myself upward just as a force at the back of my head shoved my face into the leather seat cushion, blocking my ability to breathe. I let my body go limp and became pliable enough for my attacker to release my head and lash my wrists together behind my back. He left me sprawled on my side along the length of the back seat, pushing my legs toward my torso and slamming the car door with a resounding thud that seemed to seal my fate. A bubble of fear burst in my stomach, causing sharp stabs of pain in my abdomen.

I tried to figure out where we were going based on the number of times my body swerved in opposite directions, matching the swaying to my mental map of neighborhood streets. I also tried to calculate the length of time between each turn, but after swerving each way half a dozen times I became disoriented. I decided it would be better to dislodge the gag in my mouth so I could scream when—and if—my attacker pulled me out of the car. I pushed my tongue frantically against what felt like a terry washcloth solidly wedged between my upper and lower teeth, making my jaw ache.

The ride seemed endless, but when the car stopped, I had the impression we’d only driven a few miles. I couldn’t get the gag out of my mouth, but I’d managed to move it forward, away from my throat. Still, my screams would be too muffled to be heard past a few feet. I heard a mechanical sound, like the automatic whir of a garage door lifting. The car nudged forward a few feet then died as the vibratory sound resumed behind me and settled with the finality of metal meeting concrete.

Pulling me from the car, the man half-dragged, half-carried me up a few short steps. My feet caught on the treads like a person who’d forgotten how to walk. Only the stranger’s impersonal hands on my upper arms and consistent upward yanking kept me from plunging to the ground.

The sound of a tumbling latch accompanied the sensation of being dragged across floorboards. A click behind me revealed a door closing, punctuating the fact that I was now inside. The sudden, ominous quiet of an enclosed space was more terrifying than everything else I’d been through so far, but I suspected things were going to get worse. He dragged me along the interior of the building, neither of us bumping into anything, our footsteps bouncing off the walls and reverberating back. We were in an empty space.

I sensed rather than heard another door open, and the next thing I knew, I was stumbling behind him down another staircase. I screeched, feeling like I was tumbling headlong into a pit, but the material in my mouth absorbed the sound, allowing only a whimper to escape. Dank air assaulted my nostrils, and I guessed we were in a basement.

Hands pushed me back sharply. I cried out as my spine and wrist bones smashed into something unyielding—a stone wall?—but this squeal was also muffled by my gag. Pressure on the tops of my shoulders forced me to the ground, the sharp edges of the stones painfully scraping along my back through my T-shirt. My bladder released and I knew if it had been full, I’d have wet myself. As it was, a spot of moisture coated my underpants, but the discomfort was the least of my problems. I was truly screwed. Tied up and blindfolded in a smelly basement by God-knows-who, my fate not looking too promising.

A swooshing sounded above us—a door sliding open?—and the unmistakable tread of footsteps.

My assailant’s feet shuffled, just inches in front of me, and immediately retreated. I heard him tiptoe up the basement steps. I tried to scream but it felt like I had a giant cork in my mouth, preventing any sound from escaping. Floorboards creaked directly above me; a door clicked softly shut. Must be the basement door. Suddenly, a cacophony of footfalls and raised voices joined the squeak on the level above, but I wasn’t listening. This was my only chance to save myself. I’d try to sneak out before my attacker—or attackers—came back for me. Without my hands to push myself upward, I twisted to my right, hoping to flip onto my knees, making it easier to stand with my wrists still bound behind my back, but as I thrust my body to the side, I lost my balance and landed on top of something soft and utterly still.

My mind recoiled. Had something crawled into the basement and died? The cottony feel of material beneath my cheek revealed it was a clothed human body. A vision of the bleeding woman invaded my brain. I reared my head back and rolled sharply to the left. My face scraped the jagged wall, but the thick blindfold, ironically, protected my forehead and cheekbone from getting cut up. Brushing my head against the wall had also dislodged the cloth, turning it into a headband like the one Olivia Newton-John had worn in herLet’s Get Physicalvideo from the 1980s, my mom’s favorite tape. My stomach heaved, the gag becoming a cork in my mouth. I thrust my tongue against the wad, forcing it, and the contents of my stomach, out. My mind whirled, trying to make sense of what was happening and separate real life from memories. My nose pressed against the musty basement floor, the stench churning my stomach and choking the air out of my lungs. I flopped on the cold concrete like a doomed trout at the bottom of a fishing boat, my only thought to get away from the dead body and my all-too-alive assailant. Pressing the toes of my right foot against the floor, I bent my left knee and shot that foot behind me, forcing my body onto my side, anchored by my right shoulder and hip bone. I bent my legs at the hips, took a big breath, and heaved my torso upward until I was again sitting on the floor. From there, I was able to bend my legs and make it onto my knees, my stomach dry-heaving as I stood.

There was no time to be sick or attempt to untie my hands. I raced forward until my right shoe encountered what looked like a flat riser, but it was so black in the basement it was hard to be certain. Staring down and tapping my foot along risers and treads, I let out a shaky breath of relief. I’d reached the basement staircase. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t risk stumbling on the steps in the inky basement and falling backward onto the hard floor below. I gingerly climbed until I got to the basement door. Swiveling on the top step, turning my body away from the door, I stood on tiptoe and felt for the handle, nearly yelling out in triumph when my right palm connected with the chilly metal. I twisted gently and the latch gave way.

My heart pounded so hard my ears throbbed. I peered out, expecting a hand to lash out and strike me, but only shadows and shocking silence greeted me. A glow coming from outside a pair of French doors, thankfully open, revealed the way to freedom. I charged through them, pausing on an outdoor deck to get my bearings. A sound filtered to my ears—the trickle of water. My eyes scanned the trees stretched out before me, settling on a sliver of a lighted fountain beyond the scattered pines. It was a pond—thepond in Deer Crossing. The same one I’d recently crawled out of and had once watched my friend’s toddler nearly drown in. I blinked and refocused on my immediate surroundings, concentrating on the rod of a street sign sticking into the curved mound of grass on the corner lot, reminding me of the plastic picks stuck into meat slabs at steak houses:Rare. Medium. Well Done.

I blinked again, panicked by the way my thoughts trailed away from me even as I strove to collect them. I forced my eyes to study the hulking shapes off in the distance, beyond the street sign. Squinting, I could just make out the silhouettes of a trampoline and swing set in a yard I’d spent so many hours in: Muzzy’s. I got my bearings. I was standing across the street from my former friend’s house and the hated pond. I was at 21 Pine Hill Road. Where a dead woman resided in the basement. My brain screamed out even as my mouth clamped shut. Sweat broke out on my forehead and head-to-toe shaking rattled my body.

Motion in my peripheral vision made me hunch down. I watched two shadows running away, but in the pitch blackness of night my depth perception blurred. I couldn’t tell if they were running together or if one was chasing the other. As the forms receded into deeper shadows, my eyes zeroed in on the one who appeared closer to the pond. Ambient light from the lit fountain drizzled a sheen along the right side of the runner. A swath of sandy blond hair, the outline of a man’s solid shoulder, tapered waist. The loose swash of roomy shorts hovered over a powerful-looking calf. There was no doubt in my mind. I was looking at Matt. But why was he running away from the house? Was someone coming to Pine Hill Road? Someone threatening, like the police? Could I take the chance of waiting around to find out?

No, I couldn’t. I had to get away. Fast.

The thought of the body in the basement propelled me forward. I couldn’t allow the police to find me here to take the blame for a crime I didn’t commit or, worse, risk Matt returning, looking for me. Oh God, Matt had killed his wife and left her to rot in their cellar. I ran in a different direction, along Primrose, past Muzzy’s old house, going as fast as my legs could carry me with my hands tied behind my back. I rounded the bend onto Woodmint and headed straight for Jeffrey’s place, halting only when I saw no lights on in his house and no car in the driveway. Breathing heavily, I wondered what to do next. I thought of the only other person I knew in Deer Crossing. I started down the street toward the Brocktons’ house, but my steps faltered as I realized Jane Brockton was the one Matt was having the affair with. The likely reason he’d killed his wife. I recalled their whispered chatter on the street a few weeks earlier. She could be involved in the whole horrible mess. Maybe the other shadow running past the pond was Jane’s. It would have to be, right? Matt was new to the neighborhood. Sure, he could have met other residents, but it was unlikely he’d known anyone well enough to involve in his treachery.

All the more reason to pound on the Brocktons’ door—and alert Rod to what was happening. I started to run again, trying to decide exactly what I’d say to Rod to spur him into action. Telling him that as I’d spied on his family I’d discovered the liaison between Jane and their neighbor was probably not the best way to secure Rod’s cooperation. But if I told him there was a body in the basement of 21 Pine Hill Road, he’d phone the cops first and ask questions later. Any innocent bystander would. I ran faster.

My mind whirled like a pinwheel in a windstorm as I made my way down Woodmint and turned up the Brocktons’ driveway. I clamped my teeth together, forcing myself to focus. I had to sound reasonable when I spoke with Rod. If I came off like a raving maniac, Jane’s husband would certainly call the police—on me. I couldn’t risk his or the officers’ doubt. If I wasn’t credible, the officers could, indeed, blame me for the dead body.

I stopped at the top of the Brocktons’ driveway. Their mudroom’s interior door was open, only a screen providing a barrier between their home and the outdoors. Not surprising. Jane had obviously been in a hurry when she left. Balancing on one foot, I used the toe of my other shoe to bang on the door.

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