Girl, Stolen (20 page)

Everything
was slightly off, Cheyenne realized. She sniffed. Inside the confines of the car, she could smell something familiar about the cop. She sniffed again. It was the sharp, medicinal smell of peppermint overlaying the earthy smell of tobacco.

O
h, no
.

Cheyenne flashed back to a hard voice demanding all her phone numbers. Griffin’s dad had smelled like that.

Roy hadn’t needed to change his appearance. He just changed his voice, pitching it lower. But what he couldn’t change was his smell.

Cheyenne knew Roy was going to drive her to her death.

Shoot her here and he might attract attention. Plus, he would be left with a bloody mess in his car. He must be planning to drive her to the house, all the while chattering about what they would do “back at the station.”

She remembered the mobile he had been using. Maybe she could snatch it and call 9-1-1. Maybe if she was really lucky, he wouldn’t notice that she had it and she could hold it behind her back while she pressed the numbers. She might even buy a second or two before he heard the voice of the operator or noticed what she was doing.

It was hopeless, but what else could she do? If she got out and ran, he would tackle her in a moment and drag her back. Give up on all pretense.

The engine started up. Cheyenne swept her left hand over the seat between them. Her fingers closed over what they found.

Only it wasn’t a phone.

It was a gun.

“Hey!” Roy sounded surprised. Too surprised to keep using his phony voice.

Cheyenne transferred the gun to her right hand. It wasn’t very big. But it felt heavy and real and nothing like a toy. Did it have a safety?

“You make one move, and I’ll shoot you.”

She had wanted to make her voice full of authority, unwavering. Instead it came out high-pitched and shaking.

Roy’s only answer was a laugh.

Something streaked across the small slice of vision Cheyenne still had left. Roy’s hand, trying to grab the gun from her. Her finger tightened on the trigger just as his hand closed around her fist.

The sound of the gun firing was so loud that it sucked all other sounds after it.

And then the silence was broken by Roy’s scream.

“You
shot
me!” He sounded more affronted than injured.

How badly was he hurt? Bad enough that he would die? Or not bad enough to keep him from hurting her?

Cheyenne realized she was still holding the gun.

“Get out!” she screamed.

“What?”

“Get out of the car! Or I’ll shoot you again.” She pressed the gun forward until it touched flesh. Wet flesh.

“Okay, okay!”

She heard the door open and Roy scramble out. An “oof” as he fell onto the road. Still holding the gun, Cheyenne leaned forward, found the door handle, and yanked it closed. A second later she snapped down the lock, just before Roy grabbed the handle from the outside. Now that the gun barrel was no longer dimpling his flesh, he was obviously rethinking having left the car. And he wanted back in.

The other door! Cheyenne leaned to her right, found the lock just in time. Her hand was sticky. It must be blood. The passenger door rattled.

“Let me in, Cheyenne.”

“No!”

“Come on, I’m hurt. I need to get to a doctor. Let me in and I’ll drive us to a hospital and let you go.”

Where had she shot him? Cheyenne didn’t know. His arm? His belly? His chest? It seemed quite possible that Roy was telling the truth. Maybe he did need to get to a hospital.

“Cheyenne – I’m going to bleed to death. Please, for the love of God…”

Slowly, she raised her hand.

He must have come back to the other side of the car, because suddenly the driver’s side door began to jiggle, making her jump.

“Let me in, Cheyenne!” His voice was louder and angrier now. “Let me in or you’ll be sorry!”

Or maybe she had just nicked him.

A sudden loud bang, right next to her ear, made her scream.

It happened again. Roy was, Cheyenne realized, hammering the window with a rock. A big rock.

The third time he did it, the thump sounded more muffled. It was followed by a curse and the sound of the rock falling to the ground. He had smashed his own fingers instead of the window.

Good
.

Cheyenne pressed the tip of the gun up against the glass near where she thought Roy was. She pressed hard to try to keep her hand from shaking. “Stop doing that or I’ll shoot you again!”

“Really?” Roy laughed. “I don’t think so. You’ll miss me by a mile. Or maybe the bullet will ricochet and hit you. So go ahead.” And then he smashed the rock down again.

A
s she pressed the nose of the gun against the window, Cheyenne realized Roy was right. Even if the bullet didn’t ricochet – and she wasn’t quite sure how that worked – even if it did go through the window, wouldn’t she still be cut by flying glass? And Roy probably wouldn’t even be hurt. All she would accomplish would be to create a huge gaping hole. And then he could get her.

Frustrated and afraid, Cheyenne started to cry.

The rock banged against the window again, making her jump. Her foot touched the accelerator, and the car engine raced.

She had to do something, but what?

Then she had a sudden memory. Her mom sitting beside her, letting Cheyenne drive around the empty winding roads of a nearby cemetery on a damp Saturday afternoon.

Could she just drive away?

Another bang. It was only a matter of time before the window cracked and then broke.

Okay. She could do this. The engine was still on. Cheyenne turned in the seat and set down the gun. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that it cut into her fingers.

She quickly rehearsed what she remembered. The accelerator was on the right. The brake on the left.

But wait. The car was clearly in park now. And Cheyenne needed it to be in drive. But the one car she had driven had been an automatic. What if this was a stick? She had no idea how to use a clutch.

Leaning forward, Cheyenne felt to her right. No gearshift knob. Just the hump in the middle of the floor. The car must be an automatic. But where was the lever to change gears?

The rock banged down again.

Another flash of memory. Her grandma’s old car, so old it didn’t have seat belts. And the shifter was on top of the steering wheel. Sending up a silent prayer, Cheyenne pushed down one of the wands branching off the steering column. In answer, a sweeping sound. The windshield wipers.

“Hey!” Roy yelled. “Hey!”

She pushed the lever back up. The second wand felt thicker. It shifted down a notch with a satisfying clunk. Then the car moved, all right, but it bumped
backward
.

Cheyenne jammed both feet on the brake.

“Hey!” Roy yelled again. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

What
was
she doing? This was ridiculous. Maybe she should just give up.

She saw movement in her sliver of vision, so it wasn’t a surprise when the rock slammed down on the window again. Only this time, Cheyenne thought she heard a cracking sound.

She pulled the knob down one more notch. Nothing. A third notch. The car jerked forward. Even though her foot wasn’t on the accelerator, it was moving. The front tires crunched over the gravel and rolled onto the smooth surface of the road.

Roy was still yelling, but Cheyenne ignored him. She concentrated on straightening out the car – driving only by sound – so that all four tires were on the road. Only then did she gingerly put her foot on the accelerator. She was too afraid to go fast. If she went off the road and ran into a tree, then Roy would be free to do whatever he wanted to her. Her left front tire chattered in gravel. She jerked the wheel, heard Roy curse on the other side of the window. When the right tire left the road, she corrected more gently.

Outside she could hear Roy’s footfalls. First he was walking beside her, and then running. Each of his steps spurred her to press the pedal a millimeter farther down. When a tire left the road, she adjusted the steering wheel infinitesimally. And then Roy began to fall back.

Cheyenne was just starting to let herself hope when a new sound made her jump. It was the electronic shrill of a mobile.

What should she do? She felt paralyzed. Who could be calling Roy? TJ? Jimbo? Some friend of Roy’s? Whoever it was, she was sure the kind of people who would call Roy would not be the kind to come to her rescue. There was no point in answering it.

Without thinking about it, Cheyenne had lifted her foot off the accelerator. The car began slowing down until it was barely moving.

Then Cheyenne realized something. Once whoever was on the line hung up, she could use the phone to dial 9-1-1. But to do that, she had to find it.

As she was turning her head, trying to get a fix on the sound, the phone gave one last bleat and then stopped. The ringing seemed to have come from the floor of the car. Putting her foot on the brake, she began to rake her fingers through the crumpled papers that littered the floor. She found a wrench, a screwdriver, some tool she couldn’t identify. Finally, her fingers closed around the phone. It was the same bulky phone Roy had handed her the day before.

She had just pressed the number nine when she heard another sound. Roy’s footsteps. Running, but with an odd hitching gait. Listening to them, Cheyenne knew for sure that she
had
shot him. All the same, he was catching up with her.

She pressed the one key twice, then several buttons before she finally found the send key and heard the tones as it went through. Holding it between ear and shoulder – the bulky size was actually useful – she grabbed the steering wheel.

“Nine-one-one.” A woman’s voice.

The rock slammed down on the window again. Cheyenne thought she felt a tiny pebble of glass bounce off her cheek.

“I need the police. Oh, please hurry!” She began to inch the car forward again. But she knew she could never go fast enough.

“What is the nature of your emergency?”

The words ran out of her like water bursting from a dam. “My name’s Cheyenne Wilder and I’ve been kidnapped and now I’m in a car and I’ve locked the doors but the kidnapper is outside and he’s trying to smash open the window with a rock!”

“Does he have a weapon?” The woman’s voice was still calm.

“Just the rock. But the window’s starting to crack!”

“Do you have the keys?”

“Yes.”

“Can you drive away?”

“I’m trying, but the thing is, I’m blind.”

“Blind!” The dispatcher took a deep breath. “Okay, tell me where you are, Cheyenne.”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know.” This time when the rock crashed down, there was a splintery sound. The window
was
cracking. She had to get away. Cheyenne pressed the accelerator a little farther. The right front crunched on gravel. She adjusted, but not enough. The right rear tire had left the road as well. She angled away from the sound. “I’m somewhere within an hour’s drive of the Woodlands Experience shopping center. I’m on a road next to some woods. It’s paved and has gravel shoulders. And it’s quiet. I’ve only heard one car in the past half hour.”

“Okay, I can see which mobile tower is relaying your call. That narrows it down – but not enough. We’ve still got a five-mile radius to cover. I’m alerting all units in your area to see if they can find you.” Cheyenne heard her relay instructions.

Another blow smashed the window. Cracks spread, making a sound like cellophane uncrinkling.

“Cheyenne!” Roy howled. “Cheyenne!”

“Is that him?” A hint of shock crept into the dispatcher’s carefully dispassionate voice.

“Yes!” Cheyenne panted. “Please hurry!”

“We’re coming, Cheyenne.”

After an endless stretch of time that was probably less than a minute, something wailed faintly in the distance. “Wait! I hear a siren!”

“From which direction? I’ve got four cars, but they are spread over a pretty wide area.”