Page 92 of The Thinnest Air
His hand circles my wrist, lifting it above my head and securing it to an iron rail. He does the same with my left. Keeping up appearances, I don’t move. And just when I’m expecting him to move toward my ankles next, the bed gives, and the door closes.
He’s gone.
I’m afraid to open my eyes, afraid my instincts are wrong ... that he’s standing over me, testing me.
So I keep them closed awhile longer.
The clinking of pots and pans in the kitchen a few minutes later confirms my suspicions. He left me alone, my feet untied. I can’t begin to imagine how I’m going to free myself at this point, my hands still bound and useless. But I’m sure as hell going to try.
Seconds turn into minutes, all of which I count in a feeble attempt to keep myself busy and awake, and when the cabin rattles and the front door slams, I listen for the sound of his truck.
One, two, three, four ... I continue to count, hoping I’m right. Praying he didn’t run outside to grab something.
The cabin is cloaked in cool silence.
Until it isn’t.
The gentle rumble of his truck engine clatters through the boarded windows above the bed. My throat burns, squelching a happy cry. I’d be crying tears of joy if I weren’t so desiccated. I wait for the sound to grow distant, farther away, before opening my eyes.
Rolling to my side, I slide one foot on the floor, followed by the other. The soles of my feet tingle, and I bump into a tin bucket I hadn’t realized was there. He must have left my feet unrestrained so I wouldn’t piss myself again. I imagine he wants to keep the bodily-fluids mess to a minimum. Insanity and intelligence aren’t mutually exclusive.
Yanking my wrists from the headboard, I twist my body, contorting it any way I can and trying half a dozen different positions before realizing none of them is going to be viable.
Stepping off the bed, my body bent over the mattress, I manage to squeeze myself between the wall and the back of the iron bedposts. Sucking in a deep breath and fueled by adrenaline, I begin to kick.
My bare feet ache with each kick, but eventually I feel nothing. I’m a caged animal, clawing my way out of here. I’ll die trying if I have to. It’s freedom or death. Life with this deranged psychopath isn’t an option.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been kicking when one of the iron spindles loosens. There’s a small gap between the top of the spindle and the top of the headboard, an exposed sliver of sharp metal almost glimmering in the dark. Sliding my right wrist to the top of that rod, I hold my breath until I manage to pass the plastic cuff through.
Moving on to my left wrist, there’s no time to bask in this tease of freedom. Kicking harder, faster, I manage to nick the bottom of my heel, but the spindle refuses to budge.
Resting, I realize my vision has adjusted to the blackness, and I’m able to make out the outline of a desk lamp. Stretching my body as far as it’ll reach, I search for a string and give it a tug.
The room is illuminated.
My eyes sting at first, squeezing tight until the sensitivity subsides, but when I’m finally able to take a look around, I find myself in the company of a tall dresser, an old wooden desk, and a double-door closet.
Pushing with everything I have, I scoot the bed from one part of the room to the other, reaching the dresser. Rifling through drawers, I find nothing but men’s flannel shirts and faded thermal pajamas.
Moving toward the desk, I tug each drawer open, searching for anything. A knife. A gun. Anything.
But it’s nothing but papers.
Old bills, yellowed greeting cards, all of them addressed to a man by the name of Jack Howard.
Checking the final drawer at the bottom, I fish beneath a stack of papers, my heart jolting when my hand comes across something hard. Pulling it close to inspect it, I sigh. Upon first glance, it appears to be some kind of walkie-talkie. Flipping it over, I hold the label closer, making out the words NORTHSTARSATELLITECOMMUNICATIONS.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper.
It’s a satellite phone.
Pressing the power button, I expect nothing. For all I know, this thing’s been sitting in here for months with a dead battery. Only the screen lights green, the display filling with a tiny logo and the words SEARCHING FOR NEAREST SIGNAL,PLEASE WAIT.
A million moments pass before the message disappears and is promptly replaced with READY.
My fingers shake as I try to decide if I should call Greer or Andrew first.
I imagine both of them have been working closely with the Glacier Park police, and who knows, maybe there’s an officer hanging out at the house twenty-four seven in case anything happens.
