“Please take the blindfold off.”
“I’m busy.”
He walked away again and, a few seconds later, the silence was broken by the noisy clanking of metal against metal, followed by a scraping sound and a squeal that sounded like rusty hinges.
He came ba
ck to the car and replaced whatever he’d taken from the trunk. It landed with a heavy thud. A tire tool of some sort? He didn’t bother closing the lid of the trunk before getting back into the driver’s seat and engaging the gears.
“What was that racket? What were you doing?”
The car rolled forward slowly, its tires crunching over gravel. She knew the moment they entered some sort of enclosure. Even with the blindfold on, she could tell they were no longer in sunlight, and the air quality changed, becoming musty and dank, smelling faintly of motor oil and mice.
He stopped the car, turned off the engine, and got out. He was gone for a minute or more, but she could hear him moving around, then he returned to the car and opened the backseat door. When he touched her cheek, she flinched.
“Easy,” he said.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to turn your head.”
“What for?”
“I thought you wanted the blindfold off.”
She hesitated then turned her head away from him. He untied the bandana and caught it as it fell away from her eyes. As she blinked him into focus, he was tucking the corner of the bandana into the front pocket of his jeans.
Neither spoke as he squatted in the wedge of the open door and reached in to unknot the bandana around her ankles. As he straightened up, he looked into her face but didn’t say anything. He motioned her out of the car. It was awkward to do with her hands bound behind her back, but he made no move to help her, probably because she had rebuffed his previous attempts.
Once on her feet beside the car, she made a slow pivot to get her bearings. When she came back around to him, she said, “The view isn’t worth the long drive it took to get here.”
“Still mouthy.” He stepped behind her and snipped off the plastic cuff, then unwound the bandana he’d used to pad her wrists.
As she massaged feeling back into them, she asked, “What is this place?”
“Looks to be some kind of multipurpose garage. Today, it’s a hideout.”
The corrugated tin roof had seen better days. The walls were constructed of wood, unpainted and weathered. Daylight squeezed in between the vertical slats and shone like tiny spotlights through the knotholes.
For the most part, the cavernous space was empty, but a large oil stain in the center of the concrete floor indicated that at one time it had housed a piece of machinery or a vehicle of some sort. A stack of bald tires occupied one corner. Some fishing gear including a net hung from pegs nailed into one wall. There was also a bow, the string attached at only one end. She didn’t see any arrows. An outboard motor lay on its side against one wall. The end of one of its rusty blades had broken off, and the engine casing was covered with grit and cobwebs.
When her gaze came back to Shaw Kinnard, he was inserting a battery into the back of a cell phone. Her heart spiked with optimism. “Is that mine?”
“Mickey’s.”
“Where’s mine?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said. “I hid it, but not in the same place that I hid its battery or the car keys.” He spread his arms. “You’re welcome to search all you want. You won’t find them, and even if you did they wouldn’t do you any good.” He raised his shirttail to reveal that his pistol, without the sound suppressor, was still holstered on his belt. He watched the phone’s screen, waiting for it to boot up.
“The police can trace cell phones,” she said.
“Yes, but this has a disposable SIM card. Brand-new. Mickey put it in yesterday morning before we left New Orleans for Tobias. He’s called only one person on it, and only one person has called him.”
She didn’t have to guess who. “Are you going to call him now?”
“No. I’m gonna let him call me.”
“What if he doesn’t?”