Drool Baby (A Dog Park Mystery) (Lia Anderson Dog Park Mysteries) (25 page)

Maybe she could work her way into a standing position and hop over to the windows and break one with her head. After the way she screwed up, that was about
all her head was good for. It might work, but the glass would fall out, not in. With the steel mesh over the windows, she wouldn't be able to angle her
head to break off a shard with her teeth. Which she couldn't do anyway with the gag in her mouth.

She looked in the other direction, towards the doorway, and eyed the protruding hinges. She didn't think they would help her get her hands untied, but
maybe she could hook the gag over the hinge and pull it off. Would that work? Only in the movies.

Where would she find something sharp? Not here, where the floor was a dirty open space devoid of any objects. She'd have to look elsewhere.

She sat upright and wiggled on her butt experimentally. If she rocked from one hip-bone to the other, she could "walk" forward an inch or two. She turned
to the left, facing the door and began her trek. After a dozen "steps" she was two feet closer to the entrance and her heart was pounding.
Geezelpete, you
could do an entire aerobics class based on getting yourself untied.
She rested, then began again. After four intervals of butt-walking, she finally reached
the doorway.

The next room was a small interior space, like an office. It had no windows. The floor was covered in shag carpeting and there was a dark shape against the
left-hand wall. She assumed it was a desk.

There had to be a light switch somewhere. It should be by the door, on the side opposite the hinge. She wiggled
up against the jamb, then painfully worked her feet under her and pushed up. Slowly, slowly, thighs and calves screaming, glutes flexing, until her
shoulder bumped into a switch plate. Just a little more, up over the lip of the plate, she felt the switch and shoved up. Nothing happened. She felt around
with the edge of her shoulder and determined that the switch was on. She leaned sideways against the wall, to avoid crushing her hands. No electricity.

She decided to go for the desk and tried an experimental hop. Her bad ankle gave way. She lost her balance and fell against the wall, sliding down to the
floor. Friction from the carpet made butt-walking harder. It took six intervals to get to the desk.

She rolled onto her back, crushing her numb hands, and
tried to pull out the bottom drawer with her foot. Her shoe slipped off the pull. Locked or stuck, she couldn't tell. She tried the rest of the side
drawers. No luck. Then she tried the middle drawer. Success.

Lia lay on her side and rested for several minutes, stretching her chest in an attempt to ease the pressure on her arms. After her breathing slowed, she
rocked and rolled until she she had enough momentum to use her left knee to shove herself back up into a sitting position. Considering each move carefully,
she brought her knees up to her chest, then tucked her tied ankles beside her hips and rocked forward onto her knees. She stood on her knees and "walked",
an inch at a time, over to the open drawer. This was less comfortable than butt-walking, but do-able on the carpet.

She leaned over and used her chin to pull out the drawer more. Then she felt around inside the drawer with her chin and cheek. She wondered what the point
was. With her mouth gagged and her hands and feet tied, how could she get something out of the drawer if she found anything? Maybe she could pull the
drawer all the way out with her feet and dump it on the floor?

Then a memory surfaced. An old desk of her father's. You could not pull out the side drawers until you opened the middle drawer. Maybe she could open them
now. She rolled back on her haunches, and raised her bound feet, catching the toe of one foot under the pull. She rocked back and the drawer came with her.
She pulled again and the drawer tumbled and turned, spilling a small jumble on the rug.

With a few minutes of maneuvering she was able to lean back and feel the pile with her hands. A few pens, paper clips, a pushpin. A push pin! Something
sharp! She picked it up, but no matter how she contorted, she could not reach her bound ankles with her hands. Which is what she deserved for dropping out
of yoga. She swore that if she got out of this mess, she would go to yoga three times a week, at least.

She rested again, then tackled the other two drawers. No knives, no handy telephones. No joy. Just a couple of phone books. By this time she was exhausted.
She wanted to lay down, go to sleep, and forget where she was. But time was passing, and she had no idea what time it was, when her captor would come back,
or what would happen when the mysterious "Bucky" returned.

She eyed the other door. This one was on its hinges, but was cracked open. She knee-walked over to the door and shouldered it open. A huge open space, more
than two thousand square feet, with a bank of windows on the right. There was a dark hulk along the far wall. It was a long piece of equipment, something
with a hood and a conveyor belt, maybe. Looked like some boxes on the conveyor belt part. She eyed the machine. Maybe there would be something, the point
of a screw, a piece of metal, something protruding from one of the legs where she could reach it with her hands or feet.

It was an island in a sea of concrete, and Lia eyed the distance and died a little, inside. She would have swallowed, but she had no saliva. She sighed
through her nose. She couldn't knee-walk on the concrete. She was back to butt-walking.

It took forever to cross the expanse, and she counted her progress by the pale squares of moonlight that fell on the floor and flowed and bounced over her
body as she bumped along. When she finally reached the monstrous contraption, she fell against one of the legs and wept.

As she leaned against the metal monstrosity, she considered her next move. If there were any screw points or other sharp bits of metal, they were most
likely to be underneath the long conveyor belt. which was about three feet off the ground. Maybe on one of the legs or braces.

She found it on the third leg she checked. Someone jury-rigged a support with a pointed wood screw that protruded at least an inch from the back side of
the leg, about eighteen inches from the ground. She crouched under the conveyor, and maneuvered her numb hands against the point. She suspected she'd
scratched herself several times before she felt the tug of the point biting into the cloth. She rocked and tugged and twisted, and finally she felt some
give in her bonds. She stretched out her aching arms to keep the cloth tight and continued her work, frenzied now, slamming her head against the bottom of
the conveyor. She fell over twice and had to work her way back into position.

And then the last bit parted.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
She thought the prayer but could not say it because she was still gagged. She brought her arms
in front of her and sat on the floor. Her useless hands lay in her lap as she willed the circulation back into them. She wept again, with relief and with
anger.

Why would someone do this to her? Kill her boyfriend, kill her patron, drug her partner into insanity. Kidnap her for who knows what purpose. As she sat
there and waited for sensation to return to her hands, she had time to think. None of it made any sense. Who except Anna and Marie knew where she was that afternoon? It
couldn't be either of them, they had both left. Was it someone random? How could it be with everything else that had happened? Why couldn't she remember?

Sensation stabbed into her hands, reminding her that she had more to do. She began wiggling her fingers and rubbing her hands, shaking them out. When she
had some control, she felt for the knot at the back of her head. She tugged on it, sliding it around so that the knot was over one cheek where she could
more easily reach it. She picked at it patiently until it loosened, then pulled the gag off. She coughed several times, and tried to work saliva back into
her mouth. If only she could have water. Was the water off, too?

She had to take care of her feet next. This knot was much tighter from all her moving around and she could not pick it apart. She scooted out from under
the conveyor belt and used her arms to haul herself upright against the machine. She felt around on top of the belt and the hood. There was a screw driver
lying by the control panel.

Energized, she sat back down on the floor and began attacking the pantyhose wrapped around her ankles, stabbing and clawing it apart. The screwdriver was
an imperfect tool, but once she created a sizable hole in the pantyhose, she grabbed the edges of the hole with her fingers and ripped it apart, bit by
bit.

She stood up, stuffing the remains of the pantyhose in her back pocket. There had to be a bathroom in this place. Maybe she would luck out and find running
water. She found the bathroom in a small hall. The taps were not running, but when she lifted the lid on the toilet, water remained in the tank. She dipped
one end of the panty hose into the tank and used the damp nylon to scrub her hands. Then, disdaining a grimy mug sitting on the back of the sink, she
dipped her hands into the tank. She scooped water out of the tank, and it dribbled down her arms and face as she drank it. It ran down her neck, leaving a
damp blotch on her shirt. She scooped out more and splashed her face, dampened the back of her neck.

She relieved herself in the toilet, deciding not to flush to preserve the water in the tank. Refreshed, she went in search of a door. At the end of the
hall was a short set of steps leading down to an exit. She turned the knob and pushed. Nothing. She felt around for a deadbolt. She found a double
deadbolt, one that key-locked from the inside. "Shit, shit, shit, damn!," She told the darkness.

She found two more doors, both locked tight. She continued to explore the building, looking for a way out. It was a two story, at least 100 feet long. The
second floor windows were not covered with steel mesh, but they were over twenty feet from the ground. No convenient dumpster full of mattresses to jump
into.

She saw no landmarks through the window. She wasn't positive, but thought she might be in the industrial section of Northside, East of Hamilton Avenue,
near Springrove Cemetery. This was the closest place such a building could be located.
I could scream my lungs out and nobody would hear me, not until
Monday morning. Nobody will drive past here on a Sunday.

She toured the windows, trying to get a better sense of her location, checking for a fire escape, any way to get out. The doors were metal. Even if she
found a hatchet, she wouldn't be able to hack her way out. She wondered if she could build a fire somehow, get attention that way.
Sure, that's a great
idea, if what you want is a memorial stone at the park.

An ancient freight elevator was open on the second floor. Non-functional, since there was no electricity. She walked inside and spied the hatch on top. She
went through the rooms, found an old oak chair and dragged it into the elevator. By climbing on top, she was able to reach up through the hatch. She could
probably pull herself up, climb the ladder on the side of the shaft and get out on the roof. But then what? She'd be stuck until someone drove by.

Think, Think, Think. Bucky has to come back here before Monday morning. Whatever she's got in mind, she can't let you go. So you've got to be ready.

Could she pretend to be tied up when Bucky returned, then attack her when she got close? Too Hollywood.
She'll know something isn't right the minute she
sees what I did to the desk. You could fix that. Maybe, but better not to let her get in close. God only knows what she'll bring with her.

She decided her best bet was the machine, and the boxes on the conveyor belt. She went back downstairs and busied herself hauling the boxes into the pale
moonlight so she could root through them for a possible weapon. She found an assortment of small hardware, including nuts and bolts, lock washers and
nails. She kept these to the side. Three boxes were full of printed material: order forms, brochures and business cards. The last box held promotional
give-aways: imprinted pens, keychains and pocket knives. She held up one of the knives.
Where were you when I needed you?
She shook her head and stuffed it
into her pocket.

She went back to the machine and peeked under the hood. There was a three foot long two by four.
That's more like it
. She picked it up, hefted it to get a
feel for it, decided it was better with a two handed swing.

A tour of the back offices revealed a spool of phone wire. She picked this up, carried it back to her little arsenal in the main room. Then she sat down to
think.

Bear wanted attention. He stretched up on his hind legs and pawed at John's knee. John kept banging away at his keyboard. Bear dropped down and started
chewing the laces of John's cross-trainers. John continued to ignore him. Finally, Bear bit his ankle.

"Okay, Kitteh," John said, leaning back in his chair. He patted his lap and Bear jumped up for a cuddle, purring as John scratched behind his ears and
stroked the dense brown fur. John stood up, carrying Bear out onto the porch while he walked out the pain in his back. He watched the quarter moon through
the leaves of the tree he could no longer climb.

"This one doesn't feel right. I think I may have found it," he told the cat.

There was nothing to say the death was a homicide. Then again, there was nothing to say it wasn't, either. The overdose was ruled an accidental death. But
there were too many ways to make something like that happen.

He should call it a night. Play with the cats. Go to bed. But he had to know. He felt the tingle, the gentle nudge which indicated a push from his guides.
So he went further back in time. It was tedious, hacking into payroll files, then HR files, then police reports.

Eventually he found it. Twelve years ago. A bathtub drowning. The decedent had taken sedatives and then fell asleep in her bath and slid under the water.
The only questionable part of the report was the source of the sedatives. She didn't have a prescription and no one knew where she'd gotten them. He
continued looking. Two hours later he dug up an insulin overdose.