The Detour

  Standing there, leaning on the sink with one good hand, I continued, “You need a plan. A good one. You need … let’s see. A list. You need a list.”

  My stomach growled.

  Passing up the spaghetti had been seriously stupid on my part. I added it to my growing list of regrets, the first of which was, obviously, ever leaving home in the first place.

  I started to feel light-headed, so I made my way back to the bed and gingerly lay back down. I breathed out and took comfort in the softness of the bedspread and the mattress, willing my heartbeat to slow and my mind to relax.

  “You always dwell on the bad. Find something good.”

  I turned my head so my cheek was on the pillow. I sniffed.

  That was one thing to be grateful for. My captors could have been less hygienic, and left me lying on a dirt floor somewhere, with a bucket for a toilet and vermin crawling all over me as I slept. Instead, I was lying on a nice bed with covers and a decent pillow that smelled like a sunny day in a meadow.

  Lucky me.

  “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I make a list and plan my escape.”

  I shut my eyes.

  For now, rest …

  {4}

  THE SUN STREAMING in the windows woke me up. My first movements made me gasp; in addition to the jab of pain in my shoulder, the rest of my body was so stiff and sore that even blinking hurt.

  My exhaustion should have been sufficient to knock me out for the night, but sleep had been fitful. The pain in my shoulder was smothering, and I had to lie absolutely still, taking long, slow breaths, to keep it from consuming me.

  I refused to cry out to Flute Girl and her witch of a mother. They knew that one simple squeeze of my shoulder would bring me to my knees. Which, apparently, was exactly where they wanted me.

  Really?

  But why?

  I had tried not to go there, to breach the constant barrage of whys: Why didn’t they call 911? Why did Flute Girl hit me with a branch? Why did they bring me into their house? And why the hell are they keeping me locked in the basement?

  I sighed, deep enough that I had to grit my teeth and hold my breath until the pain passed. I reached up with my right arm and ran my fingers lightly over my bad shoulder until I felt what I was looking for. A lump.

  My shoulder was dislocated. I would have bet money on it. I’d researched the injury for a book once, and it mentioned pain with movement and also a bump or lump. Problem was, there was no way for me to put it back in myself, and I knew they weren’t about to help me. The best thing would be to stabilize it somehow. I should have been icing it and taking Tylenol or Advil or freaking Vicodin. But those options weren’t exactly available to me at the moment.

  As long as I lay on my good side, at least the shoulder was elevated a bit.

  My lips were dry, and my throat was parched, but I needed to psych myself up to make the trek to the bathroom.

  Until then, I would work on my list.

  First things first: escape route. That had to be first, right?

  No, maybe not. Because something might prevent me from getting to the escape route. Or be in my way while I was taking the escape route. I would have to drag something over to the window to stand on, and I might get interrupted while doing that.

  So … I needed a weapon.

  My eyes wandered around the room. There were shelves … books … papers on the desk.…

  Crafty crap. Scrapbooking supplies.

  Ten to one they had already removed any sharp objects.

  So a rainbow glitter gel pen maybe? Jabbed in an eye?

  But that brought up a new question.

  What was the purpose of my weapon? The end goal? Exactly how far was I willing to go?

  Was I aiming to simply stun?

  Temporarily disable?

  Permanently maim?

  Would I kill if I had to?

  When it came down to that moment, that moment when I needed to escape and Flute Girl and her mother were standing in my way, could I use my weapon against them?

  I didn’t know what I was capable of. At that moment, I wasn’t strong enough to kill a bug if I wanted to.

  I sighed.

  Wait on the weapon.

  In the movies, the captive always makes the mistake of leaving before she has enough intel. I needed to know more. I needed to know their routines, what time they got up, what time they went to bed. What they did during the day.

  Did they have activities that made a lot of noise? Vacuuming? Running the dishwasher while they watched a movie so they had to turn up the television really loud?

  Too bad Flute Girl wasn’t Tuba Girl. That would’ve covered up any sound I had to make.

  Diversion.

  If I picked a time when they were in the middle of whatever it was they did—bath? shower? trip to the grocery store? church? (yeah, that one was doubtful)—then I would have a better chance of buying myself some time. Of course, I had the disadvantage of being locked in this stupid room.

  One thing for sure: They needed to think I was in as bad a shape as possible. I mean, I was in terrible shape, so I didn’t have to fake that. But if they thought that I was truly incapacitated, not capable of even moving myself about, they might relax their guard.

  So as bad off as I was, they needed to think I was worse. No, they needed to believe I was worse.

  And then, when they left the room, I could sneak over to the door and listen for something that would help me escape. But I needed to eliminate—or at the very least, curb—my weaknesses. I glanced at my shoulder, obviously low on the asset list.

  I sat up and slowly maneuvered out of my sweater. Then I flopped one sleeve over my left shoulder and pulled it under. I tucked my left arm in close and across my stomach. I tied the sleeves with my good hand, sticking a sleeve in my mouth to help me pull the sweater tight, immobilizing my arm and my shoulder.

  Click!

  I quickly shut my eyes and slid back down, letting my jaw fall open as I took deep, even breaths.

  The door opened, and someone took a few cautious steps into the room. There was a slight jingle. A dog collar?

  No.

  Bracelets?

  I hadn’t noticed any jewelry on either of them. But then I had been out of it the day before. That couldn’t happen again.

  Vigilant. I would have to be aware of everything, hear everything. Absorb and remember everything.

  I took a deep, loud breath and moved a bit. Then I opened my eyes.

  Mrs. Dixon stood about five feet away, staring down at me. She wore a smock with red-and-black flowers on it, black scrub pants, and shiny red patent leather clogs. In her left hand was an orange-and-black Oregon State University lanyard with a key on it. Oh, it figures that she’s a Beaver fan.

  A small key. Like to a padlock? Was that what she locked me in with? Somehow, that made me feel worse. I hadn’t thought about it before, but why did someone put a lock on the outside of a door? To keep someone from getting in? Or to keep someone from getting out?

  I shivered, and she noticed I was awake.

  Her head tilted a little, as if she was considering something. “You’re up.”

  “Yeah.” Hopefully that one word had sounded laborious, my voice feeble, like the act of getting it out was a strain for my shattered self.

  Mrs. Dixon said, “I see you felt perky enough to make yourself a sling.” She glanced at the open bathroom door. “And get yourself out of bed.”

  Crap. Livvy! Why didn’t you shut the door?

  I nodded slightly. “Last night.” I swallowed, making a big show of the effort. “I’m not sure I could do it now. I feel so … weak.” I hoped I wasn’t laying it on too thick. But then again, I would bet that my intelligence outranked hers.

  She said, “You need to eat. Keep up your strength.”

  The words didn’t sound like she was musing aloud. She sounded confident, like it was an order. Did she work in health care? From the looks of her outfit, I thought maybe she did.


  She smiled a bit. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mrs. Dixon shut the door behind her.

  Click!

  Definitely a padlock.

  I blew out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. What did she think I needed to keep my strength up for? Did she need me strong? Did she—

  You are so stupid.

  Ransom. Despite her previous freak-out at my mention of money, there could be no other reason. Plain and simple: They knew who I was, and they had kidnapped me.

  With the lock on the outside of the door, maybe this was premeditated. They had seen the car, my shoes—the $300 shoes that were no longer either on my feet or anywhere in sight—and then they had probably dug in my purse. They’d found my ID, either recognized the name or looked me up, and then they’d decided to get some money out of it.

  I racked my brain to remember anything about kidnapping, fact or fiction. Kidnappers usually took pretty good care of the victims, didn’t they? They needed them to stay in good shape for the exchange, right?

  The exchange. Had she already called my parents and set a ransom amount? Was she simply waiting for them to pay?

  Maybe I should go ahead and tell her that they would pay whatever it took. Hell, I had money; I could cut her a check, then and there.

  She came back in holding a plate, and I decided not to say anything. Instead, I would lie back, wait, and let her provide some information for once.

  My hunger had put my senses on overload, and I smelled … garlic?

  Mrs. Dixon set the plate of spaghetti and garlic bread from last night on the dresser next to the bed. She nodded her head at the bathroom. “I guess you can get yourself in there if you want a drink of water.”

  Before I had a chance to say anything, she was out the door, locking the padlock behind her.

  I frowned at the plate of spaghetti. “What the hell?” I painfully inched my way to a sitting position so I could see the plate. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t the same plate.

  I slowly reached out, my hand hovering above the food. Ice cold. “Are you serious?”

  Apparently she had absolutely no idea how a kidnap victim was supposed to be treated.

  I maneuvered my way to the edge of the bed so my right hand could reach the plate. Balancing it on my lap, I took a moment to appraise the meal.

  The butter on the garlic bread had congealed. With one finger, I poked at the slice. Rock hard around the edges, still semi-soft in the middle, saturated by pooled garlic and butter. I dug some out with my finger and stuck the frigid lump in my mouth.

  I started to gag, but slapped my hand over my mouth.

  You need to eat.

  I forced myself to chew and swallow. “Gah.” I shook my head. But then I pried out some more bread, continuing until all that was left was the stony shell of crust. The noodles and marinara sauce looked unappetizing as hell. I wasn’t a big fan of meat, especially hamburger that had sat out all night, but the chill of the plate reassured me. At least it had been in the fridge and not growing bacteria that would consume my organs while I slept.

  Any of the noodles not covered by sauce were shriveled and brittle. I twisted the fork in the middle of the pile until it was laden with soft noodles and sauce. I stuck the food in my mouth and chewed. Not as bad as the bread, for some reason. I swallowed, and then got another bite.

  I ate cold pizza, right? What was the difference?

  I took another bite. While I was chewing, I attempted to move the dried noodles out of the way. The fork slipped out of my hand. I grabbed for it, but my right knee shifted. The plate slid right off my lap and landed with a crash on the green indoor/outdoor carpet, which apparently wasn’t enough of a cushion because the plate burst into pieces. Spaghetti flew all over the floor.

  Click!

  I stiffened.

  Had she been standing out there the whole time, listening?

  The door slammed open, black-and-orange lanyard with the key clutched in Mrs. Dixon’s hand. Her glare soaked in the mess at my feet. Her face reddened as her eyes narrowed at me. “Ungrateful. Little. Bitch.”

  I blurted out, “It was an accident!”

  She strode toward me, eyes narrow slits. “Disrespectful—”

  I held out my right arm. “I was eating, I swear!”

  Her hand swung at me, and I ducked, trying to avoid the blow. It landed on my good shoulder, not that hard, but I shrieked anyway.

  “Clean it up!” Mrs. Dixon screamed. “You won’t get anything more until you clean it up!”

  My heart pounded, and my face got hot. My eyes filled with tears as I glared back at her. “What do you want from me?” I swallowed, trying to gather my voice, which seemed to abandon me. “Just tell me what you want. Money? I’ll give you money. My parents will give you money!”

  Suddenly petulant, she took a step back, her mouth forming a small O. Her forehead wrinkled. “Is that what you think? That I am doing this for money?”

  I nodded. “Why else would you keep me locked up, not call 911? I was in an accident, for God’s sake. I’m hurt.” And then I realized I wasn’t so much afraid of her, although I should have been. Instead, I was pissed as hell. “Are you even aware of Good Samaritan laws? I’m pretty sure you’re breaking every freaking one.”

  A smile played at her lips. Then she laughed, so hard her eyes filled with tears and she leaned over, setting her hand on her knees.

  What the hell did she find so funny? I sniffled and wiped my nose.

  Still half laughing, Mrs. Dixon finally stood back up. “Oh my God. I told you last night, I don’t want your money.”

  “Then what?” I shook my head. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

  She crossed her arms, eyes once again serious. “I want you to admit what you did. I want you to admit that you”—suddenly she gulped in a breath—“No. No you have to figure it out. You have to remember. Or it doesn’t mean anything.”

  What was she talking about? Something I did after my accident? Before it? Had she seen me driving too fast? Was she worried I might have slammed into Flute Girl?

  Maybe she should tell her little freak-show offspring not to play in the road.

  “Remember what?” My voice was calmer, only because I was doing everything in my power to sound rational. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She turned and walked toward the door.

  “Wait!” I didn’t want her to leave. I didn’t want to be locked in again. I did want to do what she needed me to do. Because I did want to go home. “Please. I will totally do whatever you want. Say whatever you want me to say.”

  Mrs. Dixon whirled around to face me. “I told you that wouldn’t mean anything! Don’t you get it?”

  “Then tell me.” I was on the verge of tears yet again. “Tell me what to do so I can go home.”

  She rested her hand on the doorknob and smiled at me. Then she pointed at the broken plate of spaghetti. “You can start by cleaning that up.” Then she left, the click of the padlock sealing me in.

  {5}

  THE EXCHANGE WITH Mrs. Dixon left me breathless, my heart pounding, sobs catching in my throat. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I needed to calm down. Even though it would hurt to get back up, I lay down on the bed and got as comfortable as possible.

  My eyes closed.

  I would clean up the mess. Later. After I rested and got some strength back. And I suspected they would leave me alone for a while, so there should be plenty of time.

  A few deep, cleansing breaths made me feel a little better, although my head was killing me nearly as much as my shoulder.

  What had she meant? What did I have to apologize for?

  The weird thing was, although she didn’t come out and say so, Mrs. Dixon acted like she knew me. Knew who I was.

  She could have, definitely. Maybe she had read my books. My photograph wasn’t on the covers, but there were shots of me online from signings. If she did know about me, she would have r
ecognized my name if she had looked at my driver’s license.

  Maybe I was totally wrong about her, and perhaps she had attended one of the conferences where I gave the keynote. Or maybe one of my bookstore appearances in Portland or Bend or Salem.

  But if that was the case, what could I have possibly done to make her mad enough to kidnap me?

  Because seriously, once she got caught, she would be in deep trouble. Deep. She would get thrown in jail, and her kid would be taken away from her.

  I could think of nothing to warrant that kind of a risk.

  The events I attended gave me no opportunity to screw up that bad. At conferences, I typically did a panel with other authors or maybe a First Pages event with my editor, where participants read us the first pages of their novels and then we gave our first impressions. If I liked what they read, I was honest. And if I didn’t like it, I was diplomatic, always careful to find something nice to say. I lied if I had to. So the chance of pissing anyone off at one of those events, in my opinion, was infinitesimal.

  Book signings consisted of reading a chapter before signing books. Worst-case scenario was that I could have been crabby or rude or dismissive. But any worse sins were impossible. I was never even alone with anyone; my mom sat on one side and a media escort or an employee of the bookstore sat on the other.

  And the conferences? Either my editor was with me or Billy, my agent.

  My eyes snapped open.

  Billy! Why hadn’t I thought of him before?

  He had called me on the drive because a German publisher wanted to put my books into paperback. Billy advised holding out for more money but wanted to run the specifics by me first. My cell kept fading in and out on the Santiam Pass, so I said I would call as soon as I arrived at the retreat. Billy told me to make sure that I did because he needed to get back to them on Monday.

  So that was Friday. He would have expected me to call him that day, and he knew that I would. Billy was amazing, and I owed him my career. My mom hadn’t wanted me to get an agent; she thought that 15 percent of my earnings was too much of a cut. But I would rather have 85 percent of something than 100 percent of nothing. And I’d made the right call. Billy championed my words from the get-go, and we both made a bunch of money because of it.