Count All Her Bones

  “Can you toss it to me? Or by me?”

  The seesaw of emotions continued as he contemplated how far away she was. “I don’t see how. We’re, like, twenty feet apart, and it’s not like I can really swing my arm.”

  “What if you pushed yourself to your feet and tossed it high?”

  He shook his head, forgetting again that she couldn’t see him. “I think the chance that it would work is about zero. Can’t you walk me through how to do it? And quick, before one of them comes back here?”

  “I’ll try. You just need to do it right once, then you’ll be free and can bring me the wire. Okay, let me think. Is it flat or round? If it’s round, you can make it act like a key. If it’s flat, you can shim it between the teeth and the cuff.”

  He rolled it between his fingers to be sure. “It’s round.”

  “Then we’re making a key. Are you right-handed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “First twist your wrists so they’re nearly parallel and throw your elbows out to give yourself as much room as you can. Then you have to find the keyhole on your left cuff. It will be on one edge or the other, not in the middle. Be careful not to press the cuffs against anything, or they’ll ratchet even tighter.”

  Griffin did as she said, sliding the tip of his right index finger over both sides of the cuff until he located a small hole. “Okay. I found the keyhole.” The corner of the post was digging into his back, but he ignored the pain. His focus had narrowed to the tiny keyhole. If he could just do this, he could save them. That was all he asked, that they be allowed to live. Or at least that Cheyenne would.

  “Now put just the tip of the wire into the keyhole and bend it over until the wire is parallel with the cuff.”

  “Which direction do I bend it?”

  “That part doesn’t matter. Handcuff keys aren’t complicated. You’re going to end up with a bend of about forty-five degrees, but the end piece is going to be really short, like a quarter of an inch long. You don’t want it to be too long, or it won’t fit into the keyhole right.”

  Gritting his teeth in concentration, Griffin put the tip of the wire in, pushed it down to bend it, pulled it out, and then traced it with his finger to see if it felt right. His palms and even the tips of his fingers were slick with sweat. He kept looking at the barn door, willing TJ to stay away.

  “Okay, I’ve got it bent. I think it’s right.”

  “Now stick it in the keyhole so that the long, straight piece of the wire runs from one side of your wrist to the other, right up the cuff. Then lift it up so that it moves straight back. When it’s standing straight up from the cuff, slowly turn it away from your wrist. You’re going to be angling that bent tip in toward the body of the cuff. And at some point, it’s going to catch like the key would.”

  Griffin pictured it in his head. Even though he had trouble reading, machines and mechanical things always made sense to him. Once he had taken apart his alarm clock to see how it worked. When he put it back together, he had had one tiny leftover plastic part, but the clock still told time.

  Closing his eyes and holding his breath to help him concentrate, he put the wire back in the hole again, oriented the way Cheyenne had said. Slowly, he lifted it up until it was at about a ninety-degree angle to the cuff. He began to turn it.

  And then he felt the piece of wire spring away into the darkness behind him.

  Tears stung his eyes. He had failed her. Again. “I’m sorry, Cheyenne. It jumped out of my fingers when I was turning it.”

  “Just pick it up!” Her whisper was sharp with anxiety. “Try again!”

  “I can’t.” He hated having to spell it out. “It was under so much tension it kind of flew. I heard it land, and it’s way too far away.”

  “Just start looking again. If there was one piece of wire, there must be more. I’ll keep looking, too.” Then Cheyenne lifted her head. She sniffed hard. “Do you smell smoke?”

  CHAPTER 25

  COUNT ALL HER BONES

  CHEYENNE

  Cheyenne didn’t need to hear Griffin swear to know that she was right. She did smell smoke. Something nearby was burning. She sniffed again, turning her face from side to side. The fire was on her left, closer to her than it was to Griffin.

  When TJ knocked the cigarette from Dwayne’s hand, it must have landed on some of the moldy hay. And instead of dying out, it had settled down and made itself at home. Now it was growing, and she could only sit and wait as it came for her.

  She was going to die here, handcuffed to a post. She and Griffin both were. Die in this abandoned barn, unable to move as the flames licked their skin and then turned them into human torches. Her hand was still throbbing from a single cigarette burn. What would it be like to feel that times a hundred thousand? If she and Griffin were lucky, they would pass out from smoke inhalation before the fire reached them. She imagined the authorities raking the ashes, how they would count all her bones before sending them back to Danielle and Nick.

  No! She couldn’t die here. She wouldn’t! But what could she do? How much time did they have? Cheyenne turned her head until she caught an orange flicker of it in the corner of her left eye. “How big is it?” she asked Griffin.

  “It’s still pretty small. Like less than a foot around. But there’s plenty of old hay for it to burn. Try kicking all the stuff around you away. If you do, maybe it won’t be able to get to you.” She heard his feet start to scuff over the earth.

  But fires made sparks, the way a maple tree dropped hundreds of helicopters in the hopes of spreading its seeds. Even if they managed to push away all the fuel around them, eventually a spark would land on their hair or pant legs or the posts they were chained to. And then they would burn to death.

  Griffin made a noise, low in his throat. It sounded like a choked sob. He had spent weeks in a burn unit. Dying in a fire must be a regular feature of his nightmares. “I’m going to yell for TJ,” he said. “Maybe he’ll help us.”

  Or maybe he would let them burn as punishment for Cheyenne’s biting him. And if he was here, she couldn’t work on getting out of the cuffs. “No! Wait!” she said. “Let me think for a second.” Something Griffin had said earlier was echoing in her head.

  “What are you doing, Cheyenne?” Griffin’s voice broke. “At least try to kick the hay away.”

  Then it came to her. Her watch! She twisted her wrists behind her back. Her finger moved from the face—it was a little after four in the morning—to the band. It was made of rubber and, like Griffin’s belt, it closed with a metal prong and buckle. Only much smaller. The prong was narrow, thin, mostly flat. But basically the right size. She just needed to flatten it a bit more if she wanted it to fit between the cuff and the rachet.

  “Let me just try one more thing,” she said, already unfastening the band.

  “Hurry. The fire’s starting to spread.”

  Holding one end of the watchband, Cheyenne twisted her head and her bound hands. She reached for the other end of the band with her open mouth. The handcuffs cut into her wrists, but still her jaws met only air. Pushing past the pain, she torqued her body, thrust her jaw forward, opened her mouth wide—and finally caught the buckle end between her front teeth. Hooking her tongue through the buckle, she inched it slowly back toward her molars. The band tasted of body lotion, and she resisted the urge to gag. Finally she maneuvered the prong between her back teeth and crushed them together. Then again. She just hoped they didn’t crack before the prong flattened. Then she reversed the whole process until the watchband was back in one hand. With the other, she ran her finger over the prong. It was now basically flat.

  To shim a cuff, you had to slide in the shim and then press down on the cuff and the shim at the same time. Shimming was both easier and harder than picking cuffs. Easier because it didn’t require as much skill. Harder because if you did it wrong, you would just end up with a cuff so tight it cut off the circulation to your hand.

  Cheyenne was concentrating so intensely that even t
hough she was starting to cough, she paid little attention to the smoke. Pressing her left cuff between her torso and the post to hold it still, she found the spot where the rachet disappeared into the cuff, and jimmied in the prong. When it felt seated, she said a silent prayer that mostly consisted of Help me! She pressed both the cuff and the prong in at the same time. The cuff tightened, beginning to cut into her wrist, but then she felt a tiny shift within it.

  And when she twisted her left wrist, it opened.

  She raised her hands—one free and one with a dangling cuff—over her head and shook them, both in triumph and to try to coax back the feeling.

  “You did it.” Griffin’s whisper mingled excitement and fear. “Now get me out. And hurry!”

  When Cheyenne pushed herself to her feet, the muscles in her thighs and calves cramped. She felt like a wooden doll come to clumsy life. Moving in the direction of Griffin’s voice, she didn’t even take time to pull out her cane. Instead she folded her right arm across her belly like a bumper and swung her left arm like a feeler. The space seemed as empty as it felt and sounded. In nine strides, her outstretched hand hit the post Griffin was chained to. She fell to her knees, groping for his cuffs.

  “Hurry,” he urged. “Oh God, please, Cheyenne, hurry.”

  “Cheyenne!” TJ yelled from outside. “Hang on, Cheyenne. I’m coming!” The barn door rattled and squealed as he began to slide it back open.

  Adrenaline shot through her veins. Where could she go? What could she do? TJ on one side, the fire on the other, and Griffin trapped in the middle.

  “Follow my lead,” she said into Griffin’s ear, and then she hurried the nine steps back to her post, sat down, and put her hands—one cuffed and one not—behind her back.

  “Help me! TJ! Put out the fire!” It was crackling hungrily now. Cheyenne let her panic show in her voice.

  She heard him rush past her, then his big boots stamping over and over as he coughed. When she turned her head back and forth, the orange flickers were gone. The smoke was now so thick it felt like cotton in her lungs.

  “Thank you so much for saving me.” Cheyenne needed to coax him closer. If she made the first move, he would see it coming and it would be over before it began.

  “I shouldn’t have.” His tone was petulant. “Not after you bit me.”

  “I was just scared.” She made her voice soft and meek. “I’m sorry.”

  TJ’s only answer was a grunt.

  “My wrists are hurting me. I can’t feel my hands. Please, can you help me?”

  “I’m supposed to leave you alone, remember?” he said sullenly.

  “I’m sure Dwayne didn’t mean you should let my hands die from lack of circulation.”

  “I don’t have the key.” She heard him turn and start to walk away.

  “Please, TJ, please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bit you. I wasn’t thinking.” She made her voice break. “Can you just look at my wrists? Maybe you could move the handcuffs to a different spot or something.”

  He made an annoyed growl. “I guess.” She heard him start back toward her. He sounded like he was about six feet away. She turned her head, trying to see him. Held her breath, trying to hear him. And when it felt like he was only a few inches away, she launched herself forward, sweeping her arms along the ground as if she was pulling his feet in for a hug. Her palms grabbed the backs of his heels just as her shoulder found his knees and drove forward.

  TJ yelled as he fell, landing so hard she actually heard something crack. Keeping hold of his legs, she scrambled up to sit on his chest, her knees on either side and high into his armpits so that he couldn’t buck her off.

  Cheyenne pulled her right fist back. Her fingers were wrapped around the empty handcuff so it was like a set of brass knuckles. And then she hit TJ’s temple as hard as she could.

  And felt him go limp.

  CHAPTER 26

  CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR

  CHEYENNE

  “You did it, Cheyenne!” Griffin shouted. “You knocked him out! I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Sorry. It was just automatic.” Cheyenne felt a little sick at how quickly she had reacted. Thinking hadn’t even really entered into it. All those months training with Jaydra must have rewired her brain.

  “No,” Griffin clarified, “what I meant was, that was kind of amazing.”

  Cheyenne barely heard him. Her stomach dropped. TJ wasn’t moving. Was he dead? She gave his shoulder a shake, and he let out a huffing sound, but nothing more. She gingerly touched his temple with the fingers of her empty left hand. It was slick with blood. She pressed a little harder, sliding her fingers in a circle. If she had broken his skull, it wasn’t obvious. Which was a relief.

  “He’s still breathing,” she said.

  “Right now I’m not sure I would care if he wasn’t.” Griffin said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “Jaydra’s been teaching me self-defense.”

  “Jaydra?”

  Cheyenne remembered that it was really Dwayne, not Griffin, who knew about Jaydra. “My bodyguard. The same one who taught me how to get out of handcuffs.”

  “Whoever she is, she did a great job. And speaking of handcuffs, hurry and get mine off. We need to get out of here before Dwayne gets back.”

  Cheyenne got to her feet. Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out her cane and shook it. The clack of the rods snapping into place had never sounded so good. With a cane, her strides were longer, so instead of counting steps, she walked in the direction of Griffin’s voice until her cane tapped his leg. She went to her knees. The watch was still on the ground behind him where she had dropped it. In a few seconds, his cuffs were off.

  “Before we leave, we’d better lock up TJ.” She shimmed off her own remaining handcuff, the one she had used as a weapon.

  They each took an arm and dragged TJ to the post that had been Cheyenne’s just a few minutes earlier. The metallic smell of his blood made her stomach rebel.

  “How badly do you think I hurt him?” She pulled his hands back, and Griffin fastened them together with the cuffs that had seconds earlier been on her wrists.

  “I think you just knocked him out. Nothing permanent.”

  “But what if he doesn’t wake up?” She remembered the cracking sound when he fell. Maybe he was in some kind of coma.

  “You only did what you had to do,” Griffin said. “Besides, he’s probably okay. I mean, he’s still breathing.”

  “But I can hear blood dripping on the floor.”

  “Head wounds always bleed a lot.” Griffin’s tone didn’t sound as confident as his words.

  They both jumped when TJ let out a long, low groan. Cheyenne grabbed Griffin’s arm. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait a sec,” Griffin said. “TJ might have a phone. If we call the police, maybe they could get here before Dwayne does.” Cheyenne heard the sounds of hands sliding over cloth, another groan as Griffin shifted TJ. “Here it is, in his back pocket.” A pause. “Oh.”

  “What?”

  “It’s completely smashed,” Griffin said. “I can’t even get it to power up. It must be from when you knocked him over.”

  So that was the cracking sound she had heard. “Then I guess we just go. But where?”

  Griffin put his lips next to her ear. She shivered at the touch of his breath. “Just in case TJ’s more awake than he looks, let’s go over by the barn door where he can’t hear us.” He took her left arm. Her cane was still in her right hand, and she let it trail behind her. As they got near the sliding door, the air became fresher. After Griffin slid the squealing door open a little farther, she stepped outside, leaned against the wall to steady herself, and took grateful gulps of the clean-smelling air.

  “I guess we’ll have to run,” he said in a low voice, “but I’m not sure how far we’ll get.”

  “Don’t worry, I can keep up.” In PE, Cheyenne ran with a partner, both of them holding a strip of old towel, and she was pre
tty fast.

  “That’s not it.” Griffin sighed. “You can’t see where we are, but I did last night. There’s only one road and nothing else but flat fields. And whatever is growing in them is not that tall, so if we try to cut across, Dwayne will see us a mile away.”

  She imagined Dwayne pushing the accelerator down, the van bouncing over furrows until it hit them and threw them high in the air.

  “We don’t have any choice, though, do we? We just go and hope someone else drives down the road before he does or that we make it someplace before he gets to us.” Cheyenne caned a few feet farther, then turned in a circle.

  “Is the sun rising?” Her watch said it was about four thirty, and it seemed to her that in one direction the sky was lightening.

  “Yeah. It’s just starting to get light.”

  Just orienting herself using cardinal directions made Cheyenne feel better. She pointed with her cane. “Let’s go that way. North. That should be toward Portland.”

  Instead of answering, Griffin swore. “I see headlights. I think it’s Dwayne coming back.”

  She thought of Octavio, of the bullet hole in his chest. Would she and Griffin soon be lying dead in the back of the van next to him? Where could they go? What could they do? If they tried to leave now, Dwayne would surely see them.

  “There’s another door around the corner.” Griffin grabbed her arm. “It seems like a separate space. Maybe we can hide there and Dwayne will think we’ve left—and then we really can leave after he goes looking for us.”

  After yanking the barn’s sliding door closed, he hurried her around the corner, then opened what sounded like a regular door. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of mildew.

  “There’s a stack of old hay, like three or four bales deep and taller than our heads,” Griffin said. “I think we can squeeze behind it.”

  It didn’t seem like the best choice, but there weren’t any others. As Cheyenne folded up her cane, she heard Griffin suck in his breath. He leaned down and picked something up. “We got lucky,” he said. “Someone left a hay hook behind.” He took her hand and put her fingers on it. She traced its shape. It had an open metal handle shaped like a rectangle. The handle was fastened to a long shaft of metal that ended in a curve with a wicked point. It made her think of Captain Hook.