Page 138 of A Breath of Life
“Goddammit.”
With persistence and far too much swearing, I inched it out with two fingers and promptly dropped it on the floor out of reach. A scream rose up my throat, but I swallowed it. My shortened fuse wouldn’t get me anywhere but six feet under. I needed to focus on getting out of this alive.
The knife didn’t slide away, per se, but it landed at a distance, so I couldn’t quite grasp it, no matter how far I stretched my fingers. I strained, growled, and pushed against my restraints to no avail.
“Motherfucker.”
Nostrils flaring, I tried again, but it was no use.
With my feet bound to the chair, my legs were nearly immobile, but if I wiggled the rope higher up my shins so I could widen my stance, I might be able to do it. It took a song and dance, but with effort, I managed to skim the knife’s hilt with the toe of a running shoe.
Flexing my foot, extending it to the max, I ever so slightly inched the knife toward me. Sweat beaded my upper lip, and I tried so fucking hard not to lose my temper when I didn’t seem to be making progress. Time ticked ominously in my ears, wasting away. The uproar above steadily escalated. More shouting. More crashing.
No more gunshots.
Yet, I kept telling myself.
The alcohol I’d consumed dampened the worst of my stress, but it also hampered my fine motor control and perpetuated the throbbing pain radiating across my face from the Bishop’s most recent assault. The new wound pulsed with its own heartbeat the more I strained. Ignoring it proved impossible, and I wanted to vomit or punch a wall.
Catching the knife with the tip of my rubber sole, I moved one millimeter at a time. Sometimes, I was convinced it went backward. When it was finally within reach, I exhaled relief and bent to grab it, immediately wedging the sharp edge under the rope between my legs. With awkward movements, thanks to my bound hands, I sawed myself free.
The knife was sharp, but the rope was thick, and I only managed to apply enough pressure to cut a few threads at a time. Again, progress was too slow. Minutes ticked by. My hands grew slick withsweat—compromising my grip—and ached from exertion. I kept checking the door, expecting the Bishop to return and catch me in the act of escaping. That would go down like a sinking ship.
He had abandoned his phone beside the suitcase of horrors. One call to the nursing home and I’d lose Nana forever.
That couldn’t—wouldn’t—happen.
How many other men in Ace’s gang had the nursing home’s number on speed dial? Hopefully, the Bishop was the only one.
The risks of fleeing pounded my brain to a pulp. Nana’s face came to mind. Her time-wrinkled hands working yarn. Her crinkled brow as she waded through diseased-addled memories to try to figure out who I was. Nana, the only person who had ever given a shit.
I tried desperately to push her from my thoughts. I couldn’t divide my attention between listening for someone’s approach, getting free, and Nana. Uneasiness soured my belly as the commotion above never ceased.
Something was very wrong.
You’re useless.
“Shut up, Dad.”
No good waste of space. Better off dead.
I couldn’t shut off my father’s taunts, so I let them fuel me.
Clenching my teeth, I pressed harder with the knife as though it might help.
Another crash. More shouting. A police raid? The absence of the telltale demands of authority said not, but I couldn’t be sure. My luck wasn’t that good. Wherever this place was located, I strongly suspected it wasn’t on the police’s radar.
I finally severed the last few threads of rope, and it pooled like a snake around my feet. I methodically unwound it from my legs, thechair, and then my body, grateful the Bishop hadn’t used more than one.
Once free, I aimed for the discarded wire that had originally bound my wrists. It was thin and pliable, so I shaped it to function as a lockpick. The tricky part was finagling a way to use it while attached to the item I wanted to unlock. My fingers and wrists weren’t flexible enough to achieve the right angle, so I fought and I swore and fought some more.
I was not a man gifted with endless patience, and the intricate nature of the task infuriated me, making it ten times harder than it should have been. After four failed attempts, dropping the makeshift lockpick every time, I kicked the sideboard with a growl.
The stoppers on the line of crystal decanters clinked and jiggled. “Don’t fucking tempt me,” I growled at the bottles, unsure if I wanted to drain them down my parched throat or smash them on the floor. Maybe both.
Temple pulsing in time with my increased heart rate, I secured the wire between my oversized fingers again and carefully positioned it over the keyhole.
With cautious precision, I managed to get the wire where I needed it. Closing my eyes, I wiggled it until I recognized the feel of the intricate mechanisms inside, but no matter what I did, I was unable to pop the lock. At this rate, I would need to fight my way out of this place in handcuffs. I couldn’t stay in the basement much longer. Someone would come looking for me.
