The Detour (5 page)

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 recognized 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.

He would not have let the sun set on Friday without talking to me.

So was it Saturday? Had to be.

When Billy couldn't reach my cell, he would have called my house and talked to my mother. And Mom would have tried to call me, and then she would have gotten worried. She had all the contact information for the retreat.

The retreat!

They had already sent me part of my fee and would have absolutely flipped when I didn't show up. Among the conference organizers, my mom, and Billy, someone had to realize something was wrong.

They would be searching for me. For my car. And they would find it.

Right?

But how far was my car from where I was now?

Maybe miles.

But Flute Girl had been barefoot. Even with soles of leather—or cloven hooves—she couldn't have been all that far from home. Plus, if they had both dragged me to their house …

My car had to be nearby.

And as soon as anyone saw it, they'd call the police. And they would come looking for me.

“They'll find my car.” I breathed out, trying to relax. “And then they'll find me. They will.”

Outside a motor started up. Gravel crunched, and a vehicle drove by the window. The sound disappeared. I rolled to my right, sat up, and slid off the bed onto my feet, careful to avoid the broken plate. I gimped over to the door and pressed my ear against it. Music and canned laughter drifted down from above, one of those dumb kid shows on television. A chair scraped.

I stood up straight. Mrs. Dixon left Flute Girl home alone?

A door slammed. Then nothing.

I went back to the bed and sat down, perusing the mess of spaghetti and broken china that lay scattered on the green floor. I sighed. I still didn't feel like cleaning up. I leaned over. Maybe some of those noodles were still edible.…

A door slammed overhead.

I sat back up.

Quick footsteps covered the floor above and came down the creaky stairs.

I slid off the bed and went over to the door. I pressed my ear to it. “Hello?”

Someone was definitely there. Probably that little freak Flute Girl, messing with me.

Click!

I stepped back, waiting.

The door opened. A small brown cardboard box slid to a stop in front of me as the door slammed.

Click!

I carefully knelt by the box. With the makeshift sling holding my shoulder immobile, my movements didn't hurt as much as they had at first. Or maybe I was adjusting to the constant pain.

Without touching the box, I did a close examination. The edges of the top were tucked snugly together, but there wasn't any tape. With a few fingers of my right hand, I nudged the box.

What was that sound? I bent over the box.

A buzz. Definitely a buzz.

“Oh my God.” Flute Girl had brought me my phone! I smiled and murmured, “I take back everything I said about that little jack wagon.” I sat down and pushed the box between my two legs, anchoring it. “Don't hang up, don't hang up!” I slipped the fingers of my right hand under the edges in the middle and pulled. The top of the box flopped open all at once, freeing the four angry bees that had been trapped inside.

Two flew straight for my face. I screamed and waved my hand at them. I kept screaming, first because of what my hysterical flailing was doing to my shoulder, but then because of the sting in my right hand as one nailed me.

I kicked the box away and fell back on the floor, then rolled over and painfully crawled to the wall. I got myself upright and leaned against it, legs out straight.

I'd been stung. And I was allergic.

I didn't know exactly what was going to happen. The first and only time I'd been stung was when I was far too little to remember. But when I was ten and put up a fuss about wearing my MedicAlert bracelet, my mother told me, “You nearly died. It was the only time I have ever seen your father cry.”

As I leaned there against the wall, a wave of heat coursed over my entire body, like I'd stepped into a furnace. The sting on my hand was already a blister about the size of a quarter. My heart began to race—was it because of my freak-out? Or was an elevated heart rate part of the allergic reaction?

A second later, my breathing grew rapid and shallow.

I screamed, “Help! Please!”

My vision swirled a bit, and my heartbeat sped up even more. I shut my eyes for a moment. “Calm down, calm down.” When I opened them, my hand was red and swollen, already a third larger than my other hand. I tried yelling again. “Somebody! Please!”

My throat felt funny. Tickly. I swallowed once, and then tried again, but a knot thickened there, partially blocking my swallows. And it began to hamper my breathing.

Click!

The door opened. Flute Girl stood there, wearing a dirty gray Mickey Mouse shirt and a nasty grin on her face.

I managed to spit out a whisper. “You little bitch.”

She shrugged and backed out, shutting the door.

Click!

I tried to get my feet under me, possibly stand up. But my legs trembled and wobbled, then gave out. I collapsed onto my right side. The four bees lazily circled overhead as I lay there.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Nasty suckers probably wondered how long it would take for me to die.

My breaths turned to wheezes, high pitched. My lips and nose tingled.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Vaguely, I caught the crunch of tires on gravel.

I squeezed in a breath, which only half entered my oxygen-starved body.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

A door slammed.

I squeezed in another breath. It felt like a fourth of the air I needed.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Faint voices murmured overhead.

I breathed again. Tried anyway. Barely any air that time.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Click!

The door swung open.

“Oh, balls.” Mrs. Daryl Dixon stood there, staring at me.

I reached up a hand to her, with only enough breath for one word:

“Epi.”

She whirled around and disappeared, leaving the door open.

Oh, would that I had enough energy to do something about that …

I closed my eyes and rolled flat on my back.

Calm down, calm down.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Breathe.

Innnnnnnn.

Ouuuut.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Innnnn.

Ouut.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

In—

In—

In—

That one caught.

No more breaths.

And no more air.

My eyes snapped open, my mouth shutting and closing like a pathetic guppy. I was a fish, stranded on the beach, aching for water.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

How apropos, that the bees' mindless droning was about to sing me out of existence. I had breathed my last and was going to die sprawled on the floor of a strange basement. My gaze darkened around the edges as my eyes brimmed with tears. As much as I wished for air, my lungs remained empty.

No one would ever know what happened to me.

Bzzz.

A blurry face, leaning over me. Mrs. Dixon was back, brandishing the EpiPen I kept in my purse.

In case she had no clue where to administer the shot, I clumsily reached out the fingers of my left hand, bending my wrist that way as much as the sling would allow, trying to motion to my thigh.

My eyes closed, tears squeezing out.

Bzz.

I tried, once more, a last-ditch effort for air.

But my paralyzed diaphragm refused, my locked-up throat denied me. I was done. My parents would never know what happened to me. Rory would go on and kiss some other girl before me. All of my dreams were done.

Bzz—

A second later, there was a violent punch to my thigh where Mrs. Dixon jabbed the needle in. My body jerked, automatically reacting to the blow.

But there was no air to cry out with the pain.

Seconds passed. Seconds I didn't have.

The pain from the shot gradually receded as the fist clenching my chest began to loosen.

I gasped my first ragged breath.

Bzzzz.

Another breath came, then another, each marginally less raspy and laborious and painful than the first. I began to hope, to
believe
in the possibility that—for the time being—I would not be dying after all.

My eyes opened.

Mrs. Dixon squatted a few feet away from me, her forehead scrunched up. Was she actually worried about me? She noticed my open eyes and blew out a breath. Relief?

Bzzzzzz.

As I lay there, slowly coming back from my near-death experience, she rolled up a magazine.

I dropped my head to the side. She stalked the bees, slamming the magazine down. I imagined their bodies crushed, innards oozing out. They'd get no sympathy from me.

I set my swollen right hand on my chest, relaxing as it rose up and down, calming more as my breaths grew deeper and stronger.

Mrs. Dixon
should
have been worried. Kidnapping was one thing. But having your kid murder someone? That was something else entirely.

The buzzing finally stopped. She tossed the magazine on the table and walked back over to me.

I wasn't sure if I had the power of speech yet, but I had to try. My voice was soft and shaky, but still audible. “She tried to kill me.”

Mrs. Dixon shrugged. The casual gesture implied she couldn't give a crap. But the tightness of her arms to her sides betrayed her. She had been scared, perhaps still was. Yet she tried her best to seem uncaring as she held her chin high. “Well, now I saved you. So that makes us even.”

Even?
What was she thinking? Even if I had wanted to speak, there were no words.

She pointed. I couldn't see exactly where, but knew exactly what she meant when she said, “And you'd better clean that up or you won't be getting any more food.”

Then she walked out and slammed the door.

Click!

That was it? I could have died on her watch, and that was it?

Lacking the power to yell anything after her, I simply raised my red, swollen right hand. As viciously as my zapped, anaphylactically shocked body would allow, I snapped up my middle finger.

 

{6}

EXHAUSTED FROM THE
ordeal of almost checking out for good, I couldn't do anything but lie there, my right cheek on the green indoor/outdoor carpet. In addition to all my previous aches and pains and bruises, there was a new laundry list of afflictions:

My face was hot and sweaty.

My thigh ached from the EpiPen assault.

I was still not entirely convinced that each breath would not be my last.

My stung hand throbbed and resembled a swollen, misshapen claw.

I remained on the floor, listening to the hubbub upstairs as Mrs. Dixon yelled at Flute Girl.

“What were you thinking? What do you think would happen if she had died? What would we have done then?”