Killertrust (9 page)

Oh
God, what is that
awful smell
?
Her
stomach roiled. She nearly retched. She shivered violently.
Where am I?
Why am I so cold?
The foul odor combined with bone-penetrating frigid air brought Rhetta
around. When she tried opening her eyes, she realized they were already open.
Lying on her stomach, head turned sideways, she was staring into absolute
blackness. She had no idea where she was, except that she knew positively she
wasn’t in her bed. She was so cold she was shivering uncontrollably.

She strained to roll over but
the effort produced a searing pain in the back of her head. She reached up and
touched it gingerly, and felt a thick, sticky glob. She drew her hand back and
the coppery smell of her own blood made her stomach clench. She struggled to
remember what had happened. Her head began to spin. She felt the nausea rise
again, and gulped to keep from retching.

She lay still, gathering her
senses. It hurt to think. She was so cold, and her head throbbed. She couldn’t
see anything but she could smell rotting food. She felt the panic rise. Where
was she? What happened? A familiar memory identified one particularly nasty
odor as stale pizza. She gagged. Why was she lying with rotten pizza? Was she
in a garbage can?

Taking a deep breath, and using
all the strength she had, she managed to turn over and sit up. A wave of
dizziness and nausea flooded her. She squeezed her eyes shut until it passed.
The throbbing at the back of her head intensified. Trying to get her bearings,
she thrust out her right arm and her hand slammed against a metal wall. Her
ring connected with the side, clanging loudly. “Ow,” she yelped. Slowly she
tilted her head back and gazed upward, but saw nothing but blackness. With her
left hand, she reached out, and soon felt another metal wall. She explored
underneath herself, and felt plastic trash bags and crushed cardboard boxes.
She was atop a mound of garbage. She tried to stand, but couldn’t—the pile
under her was too spongy and she was too wobbly. She slumped down heavily, realization
rocking her
.
I’m in the Dumpster. Dear God, what’s happened?
Gathering all her strength, she tried again to stand,
this time bracing herself against the side of the bin with one hand, and
reaching above her with the other. She pushed against the metal lid, but it
held snugly. She tried again, but it wouldn’t budge. She visualized the key
that Evan had brought them, which she’d left on LuEllen’s desk. The lid was
locked firmly in place. She began to feel woozy from the exertion, so despite
the repugnance for where she had been sitting, she eased herself back down.
This time she couldn’t control the nausea. She turned her head and vomited.

Tears of pain, frustration,
and disgust streamed down her face. How on earth would she get out? She fumbled
around for her purse and her phone. After plunging her hand repeatedly into the
pile of garbage around her and coming up empty-handed, she abandoned the
effort. The sickening realization blanketed her like a bad smell. Her purse
hadn’t accompanied her into the Dumpster. Whoever had slugged her had stolen
it. She’d planned to go shopping, so she had a good deal of cash in it, plus
her credit cards. Then she felt her hands and realized she still wore her rings
and her watch.

She tried to remember exactly
what happened. She hadn’t seen whoever sneaked up behind her and conked her.
Because her purse was gone, she was sure the motive was robbery. What about her
jewelry? She still had it on. Her ruby ring, a gift to herself for her fortieth
birthday, had cost a bundle, even on sale. The diamond solitaire she wore next
to her wedding band exceeded two carats. Why hadn’t the thief taken the rings?

She began banging on the side
of the bin, shouting for help, hoping that Evan or Jeff, or anybody would hear
her. She’d even be glad to see that weird Philip Corini. Then, abruptly, she
stopped, as reality slapped her upside the head.
If the thief
threw me in here, it’s probably because he thought I was dead. If I make a
racket and he’s anywhere around, he may come back and finish the job.
She began to feel sick and clammy all over again.

She tried to remember what
day it was.
How
long have I been in here?
Her teeth
were chattering from the cold. She didn’t know how long she’d been out and
couldn’t see well enough through the darkness to read the time on her watch.
She tugged her blazer tighter around her for warmth.
I remember, now.
I was going shopping
.
It’s Friday. The garbage pickup isn’t until early Monday morning. I have to
get out of here! I may die before Monday. Oh God, was that the plan?
Tears
trickled down her cheeks
.
I don’t want to die today.

Especially
not in a Dumpster.

She had thrust
her hands
into her pockets in
an effort to keep them warm. When she did, she cried, then laughed, giddy with
gratitude.

She had
found her iPhone!

“What
did you just say?” Randolph asked. “We must not have a good connection. I could
have sworn you said you were in a Dumpster.”

“That’s
what I said. I’m in a Dumpster, and I think it’s the one as big as a boxcar
behind the office. It’s locked. I can’t budge the lid. Can you come and get me?
Someone whacked me on the head and threw me in here. I think I was knocked out.
I just now found my phone.”

“Whacked
on the head? Are you all right? What happened?”

Rhetta
told him. At least all that she could remember of it.

“Did you
call 9-1-1? Do you need an ambulance?”

“I did.
The cops are on their way. I just need you to come and get me. I’m so cold and
I don’t feel good. I want to go home. Bring a ladder, or a stepstool and maybe
a hacksaw.” She tried not to sob, even though that’s exactly what she wanted to
do. By now she had worked herself up into a full-blown mad. She hated that she
often cried whenever she got mad. She didn’t want Randolph thinking she was
going all girly on him and crying just because she was trapped in a smelly
garbage Dumpster. Which, until she’d found her phone was exactly what she had
done. Finding her phone was an answered prayer.

She
didn’t go to church as much as she should, but that didn’t stop her from
praying for a way out. She’d always heard there are no atheists in foxholes.
She was there to attest that there were none in locked Dumpsters, either.

The
egg-sized lump on her head throbbed every time her heart beat. And right now it
was beating wildly. The pain reverberated like a drumbeat in her head. She
yearned to get hold of whoever did this to her, and shake him ’til his teeth
fell out. And then conk his noggin just so he’d know what it felt like.

“I can
hear the sirens now, Sweets, so the cops should be here in a second.”

“I’m on
my way. I have a stepladder in the back of the truck. I’ll drive down and get a
hacksaw from the garage. Stay connected ’til the cops arrive. I sure hope they
can get you out so you won’t have to wait until I get there.”

She
heard him rustle around the kitchen, open and close the door. Then the familiar
sounds of the Artmobile firing up.

As she
listened to the comforting noises of Randolph coming for her, she heard a
vehicle approach the bin, and a siren power down. Help had arrived. She heard
voices and shuffling around the front of the bin.

“Anyone
in there?” Deep, male voice. She prayed again that it was from a man in
uniform.

“Yes.
Please help me out!” Rhetta sobbed with relief.

“Are you
all right?”

“I’m
freezing. Please, hurry.” Her voice cracked and her teeth chattered. She
clutched the phone, Randolph still on the line.

 His
inquiry was followed quickly by a sawing noise.

Rhetta
chattered into the phone, “They’re here and must have a hacksaw. I hear them
sawing through the lock.”

“All
right, I’ll skip looking for a hacksaw. I’m on my way.”

The
Dumpster lid flew upward and a light beam wobbled over the rim to her. “Ma’am,
are you all right?” an officer asked.

“No. No,
I’m not. I got walloped on the head and tossed in here. My head hurts.”

To
Randolph, still on the phone she added, “I’m going to hang up now. The police
are here. I want out.”

They
pushed the lid open all the way, and shone the flashlight in as best they
could. “Is there anything in there for you to stand on?” an officer asked. He
played the light beam around the interior. He snugged up close to the Dumpster
and reached up as high as he could, trying to direct the beam back toward
Rhetta. “God, this stinks,” he muttered.

Rhetta ignored
his comment. “I’m already standing on it. This pile of garbage.”

She
couldn’t scramble out over the top. When she tried clambering up, she was too
short to get any purchase. Plus, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to pull
herself up to the edge. Her head throbbed.

“If we
can get a ladder in there to her, we won’t have to get into the Dumpster,” the
cop said to someone Rhetta couldn’t see. “Is there a ladder nearby?” The
officer then aimed his light beam around the outside of the Dumpster.

Oh gee, don’t inconvenience yourselves on my account
.
Rhetta
forced herself to keep her retort locked up in her mouth. “There’s probably one
in my building, but I don’t have my keys. They were with my purse. My husband
is on his way, and he’s bringing a ladder.” She began shivering harder now. The
wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped considerably.

“Hold
on, Ma’am, I have a blanket in the patrol car.” She didn’t hear the trunk open,
but heard it slam shut. “Ma’am, I’m going to throw a blanket in to you.” He
tossed it over the side and she caught it.

“Thanks,”
she said, truly grateful, and began tugging the blanket around her. Her teeth
chattered at high speed while her shivers kept time to the chattering.

Just as
she wrapped herself up, the sky lit up with headlights. Randolph had arrived.
He drove straight to the Dumpster, and was out of the truck almost before he
had time to put it in park, leaving the motor running. “Officers, I have a
ladder. I’ll climb up there,” he said as he went to the truck bed and grabbed
the ladder. He flattened it against the bin, then began climbing calling out to
Rhetta. “I’m here, and I’m coming in there to get you.”

When he
reached the top, he leapt into the Dumpster unhesitatingly, and landed on the
garbage. “Help me get the ladder inside here,” he shouted down to the cops.
They pushed the ladder over the side. Randolph set it against the bin’s
interior wall. Rhetta hugged his neck as he scooped her up. “Are you all
right?” he whispered as he hugged her fiercely. She nodded and hugged him back
as hard as she could between shivers. “All right, then, let’s get you out of
here.” He steadied the ladder and helped his shaky wife up the ladder and out
of her Dumpster prison.

An
officer shouted as Rhetta reached the top. “Can you ease yourself over?” She
shook her head.

“I’ll
help her over,” Randolph said, climbing up behind her, and steadying her as she
slid her legs over the top of the bin, and sat on the narrow wall.

“I’m
going to toss the ladder over again, so she can climb down,” Randolph shouted.

Rhetta
gripped the side as hard as she could while Randolph turned her loose for a
moment to hoist the ladder back up and over. After he did, she half slid, half
stumbled down the ladder where the officers caught her. They held her arm as
she regained her balance. Not waiting for the cops to slide the ladder back
over, Randolph hoisted himself up and over the side of the Dumpster, and
scurried down the ladder.

“Do you
feel up to giving us a statement, ma’am?” one officer asked Rhetta. “If not, we
can follow up with you at the hospital, or at home. The sooner we know what
we’re dealing with, the sooner we can apprehend this guy.”

“I want
to get her right to the hospital,” Randolph answered before Rhetta could.

“I
understand.” The officer, said.

“It’s
okay, let’s get this over with now, Randolph,” Rhetta said. The officer nodded
and guided her toward the patrol car. He fished his notepad out of his pocket.

Randolph
hugged Rhetta’s shoulders and held her close in the backseat of the warm patrol
car while she gave her statement. In a few minutes, the officers were done.

Rhetta
pointed to her SUV. “Streak is still here. Can you make sure it’s locked?”

As
Randolph checked the Trailblazer and found the doors locked, the officers
jogged to the front door of Rhetta’s office to search out any clues. The door
was secure, with no sign of Rhetta’s purse anywhere around, and no sign that
whoever had attacked her had tried to get into her office. The outside light
near the door was still out.

Randolph
tucked Rhetta into the front seat of the Artmobile where she melted into the
warmth of the truck’s interior. The officers tapped at the driver’s door
window, and asked if Rhetta would please come to the station as soon as she
felt up to it. She agreed, and handed Randolph the blanket to give back to
them. They went to their car, then pulled out of the parking lot. Randolph
followed.

Rhetta
lay back against the soft seat back and closed her eyes, savoring the tiny
whiff of her husband’s aftershave, a distinct improvement over the rank smell
of her clothing. Eyes closed, soaking up the warmth from the electric seat
heater, she said, “You know, Sweets, I feel better. Let’s just go home.”

“Sure,”
Randolph said, and turned on to Kingshighway. Then he barreled straight for
Saint Mark’s Hospital. Rhetta closed her eyes and sighed, but didn’t protest.
Her head still throbbed. She opened one eye and glanced at the truck clock. The
LED read 10:35. She’d been locked in the Dumpster for more than four hours—some
of that time, unconscious. She shivered.

 Someone
had tried to kill her.