Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (19 page)

With her right hand she gripped the scalpel in a defensive reverse knife-edge-out hold with her thumb firmly planted at the butt of the scalpel, and in her left hand the scissors, clutched to stab. Whirling around on her heels, she carefully evaded the glass containers she had inadvertently smashed, dashing past the crumpled doctor and toward the exam room door.

Reeling in misery on the stone floor, “Julia, don’t leave. Believe me, you don’t want to do this,” Doc warned.

Ignoring him, she darted out, closing the exam room door. Once in the extra wide hallway she surveyed the surroundings she had just minutes ago cataloged in her mind.

To her right: three doors—all metal like the exam door—plus directly ahead a double-wide opening into an adjoining room. The first door she knew was the bathroom, no need to bother with it. Speeding toward the second door she cautiously turned the handle, pushed it open: an office with no outlet. Hurrying to the final door: a studio apartment of sorts. “Doc’s quarters,” Jewels mumbled. The archway must lead to the way out.

Maintaining a defensive hold on her weapons, she clutched them close to her breasts while stealthily entering the room that appeared to be a combination triage center and waiting area. Instantly she spied the metal door at the opposite end of the room, hastened toward it.

Once at the door, she cracked it wide enough to peek out with one eye.

The hallway was wide and long. Vaguely lit with florescent shop lights dangling from the ceiling. Quiet, except for the humming of the bulbs. The stone walls glittered from seeping water. The air smelled of mildew. Was this a basement? No. Seemed more like a medieval dungeon.

Opening the door wider, she slipped through. Once in the corridor it became apparent she was at the hall’s end. “That makes the decision easier,” she whispered to herself, regarding which way to go.

The stone was hard, uneven and iceberg-like on the soles of feet, shooting pinches of pain up through her ankles like mild electrical shocks.

Pressing forward, multiple hallways came into view, flowing into an intersection of sorts. Pausing and prancing in place like a jogger stuck at a stop light, she debated her choices. Right? Left? Or keep going straight? Straining her eyes to see down each of the dimly lit passages, one grabbed her attention. About forty feet straight ahead she caught sight of a staircase. A hint of a triumphant smile edged across her tense face as she rationalized one would probably escape from an underground cavern by moving
up
toward the surface.

Proceeding with light steps, she drew her arms into a high guard position—scissors slightly away from her face about nose level to block incoming blows, the scalpel cocked in the power position near her chin to strike—silently gliding toward the stairs.

When she was nearly halfway to the stairs, a burst of sunlight suddenly radiated through the opening, illuminating the stairwell and practically the entire hallway. Shrinking from the sunbeam like a vampire into the shadows, she plastered her back against the damp stone wall.

Voices. Two men for sure ... maybe more ... standing in the open doorway gabbing. A wave of clean air breezed over her, freshening the stuffy hallway. Jewels grinned. Sunshine. Fresh air. The door at the top of those stairs definitely led outdoors. She
was
on the right track to freedom and so close.

Laboring to hear their conversation, she only caught bits and pieces. Something about “the bitch” and “blood everywhere” and some kind of a “struggle,” followed by a burst of raunchy laughter. A sinking feeling drowned her gut. Obviously they were talking about
her
.

“Better go check on our feisty package. Cooman wants to meet her,” one man loudly announced.

The voice rang alarmingly familiar. It was her kidnapper.
Hide!
Retreating from the stairway she darted back toward the junction of halls. Hopefully one of the other corridors would lead to another exit.

Within mere feet of the crossroads she slammed on the brakes. A surge of footsteps drummed against the stone floor intermixed with the hum of masculine voices. Echoes distorted the sounds. Were they coming from one of the tunnel-like hallways, or all of them? Regardless, the poor acoustics foretold of the imminent arrival of
more
men ... no doubt in the employ of her kidnapper. Any moment she’d be trapped. What the hell was she going to do?

Panic-stricken, she frantically glanced about for options, eyeing the ceiling. Floor. Walls. That’s when she saw it: a three-foot square door at ground level. Could she be so lucky a little door would appear in the middle of the dark hallway right where she needed it, at the exact moment she needed it? Perhaps. But what was behind the door? A maze of water pipes? A panel of electrical breaker boxes? Oh, please God, no. Let it be a storage closet. And let there be enough space to fit inside. Better yet, let it be the entrance to an escape tunnel. Her eyes brightened. Hope soared.

The thud from her kidnapper’s big boots thumping down the rock stairs reverberated through the corridor. Voices and footsteps coming from the other end of the hallway grew louder and clearer.

Urgency escalated. It was now or never. Pitching her weapons into her left hand for safe keeping, she engulfed the wooden knob of the curiously placed door in her right hand, “Please, dear Jesus, let this be a closet,” she mumbled, sucked in a deep breath then flung it open. A puny hollow. A godsend! Diving inside on her knees, she skidded to a rough stop. Jerking on the bottom edge with her fingertips, she slammed the little door nearly shut, leaving it open just a crack.

Her hideout was cramped, a cavity slightly bigger than a tipped over cardboard box from a new washing machine. The floor was grimy. Granules of grit peppered the soles of her bare feet and ground into her shins, even through her jeans. It was dark, but not so dark she was without sight. The walls were stacked rock like those in the hall. Cold radiated from them like the inside of a refrigerator. Large restaurant-sized tin cans of vegetables, beans, tuna, and stew were neatly stacked floor to ceiling at the back. It felt and smelled like a cave. Though it wasn’t an escape tunnel, or even much of a storage closet, it was a perfect mini safe house ... for which she was grateful.

Milliseconds later an army of black laced-up boots rapped past the little door.

Once the slap of boots beating against the concrete floor faded, she cautiously repositioned her legs for comfort and dusted off the tiny rocks imbedded in her pants piercing her shins. A long sigh of relief exited her body through puffed cheeks. Exhaling her breath caused
something
to sway in the air. Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, she recognized the
something
immediately: a spider. Amazon-sized. Dangling from the ceiling dangerously close to her arm.

Automatically she gasped. Wanted to scream. Wanted to burst out of her hideaway. But slapped her hand over her mouth, saving herself from being discovered.

In numbed horror she slowly looked up. The spider was hovering at the edge of its web that stretched from the floor to the ceiling of the nook. She held her breath. And her ground. Maybe if she didn’t move, the eight-eyed monster would go away or at least just relax on its web for a while.

The gargantuan hairy-legged spider, as if in her kidnapper’s employ and knowing her deepest fear, proceeded to scurry around the perimeter of its expansive web, advancing closer and closer toward her shoulder.

Driven by her will to survive in this kill or be killed situation, the intimidating fuzzy spider didn’t have a chance against the jaws of surgical scissors, even in the hands of an arachneophobic woman. Wielding the razor-sharp shears with the precision of Edward Scissorhands, she julienned her latest instigator of terror.

Pinching her face in repugnance, she watched the cutup pieces of the big spider fall to the floor, like pigeon shit dropping from a high tension wire.

One of severed legs twitched on the ground.

Recoiling at the sight, she flicked the chopped up body parts away with the tip of the scissors. Breathing deeply and slowly, she mentally congratulated herself for defeating the eight-legged assailant and solving yet another hair-raising crisis.

But an additional and much bigger problem was brewing. Moments earlier her kidnapper had announced he was headed to “check on our feisty package,” obviously a reference to
her.
That could only mean one thing: injured Doc Callahan and the vacant exam table were about to be discovered. And when that happened, no doubt her kidnapper would be hellbent on finding her.

ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES EARLIER - FRIDAY, 6:55 A.M.
As usual, Belinda arrived at work early. She loved working for the newspaper and especially loved being Jewels’ secretary.

In her happy-go-lucky way, she flittered through the office, tidying Jewels’ desk, trimming and adding fresh water to the two-day old bouquet of flowers on the credenza, commissioning the coffee maker to work, and turning on her computer. From the fax machine she gathered the press releases that had come in overnight, scanning the subject lines as she straightened the papers. One caught her eye: FEMALE COMPANION OF LATEST GRIZZLY ATTACK VICTIM MISSING.

“Hear ye, hear ye! The latest missing woman invalidates the theory that the killer grizzly only attacks men,” she announced to an empty office. Adding in a lower tone, in defense of Jewels’ hypothesis, “But what the hell do they know anyway? Can’t even find the woman. Coulda been killed by a pack of wolves. Or nabbed by some psycho.” Of course she was oblivious to the lethal truth in her last speculation.

Bored with the fax sheets, she efficiently distributed them to the IN box of the appropriate staff and returned to her desk.

A message flashed on her computer screen: YOU HAVE NEW MAIL. The equivalent of
idiot lights
in cars. The flashing message created a sense of urgency. Belinda hated that. Everything was always urgent. Always important. Scooting in the chair over to the keyboard, “All right. All right,” she spouted to the computer, annoyance in her voice.

“YOU HAVE 37 NEW MESSAGES,” the computer’s gentle feminine voice announced.

“Thirty-seven,” Belinda shrieked. Browsing the sender addresses, she stopped at number thirty-three. It had been sent last night by Jewels.

Double clicking the mouse on Jewels’ message, she opened it. MAY BE GONE FOR A WHILE. PLEASE FEED GOMER.

Contorting her face with puzzlement, “Who’s Gomer,” she wondered, popping the piece of neon green gum she was chomping.

A few seconds later the message sank in. Her eyes widened and mouth dropped open, staring at the screen. “Oh, shit,” she gasped, swallowing her gum then coughing. “Jewels is in trouble.”

One hand wildly massaged her throat to assist the wad of gum struggling to go down while her other madly rifled through the old fashioned Rolodex on her desk. “Thank you, God,” she exclaimed, upon finding the desired business card. Picking up the desk phone, she urgently pounded out the number with her index finger.

Nervous habit caused her to scoop up a pen and tap it rapidly on the top of the desk.

One ring.

“Come on,” Belinda demanded, using the pen now as a knife to impulsively stab the top of her desk.

Two rings.

“FBI Special Agent In Charge Hines—”

“Thank God,” Belinda exclaimed, hurling the pen across the desk to collide with a desktop speaker connected to her computer. “This is Belinda. Belinda Parker, Jewels’ secretary?”

“Oh yes, and how are you today? Did you give Jewels—”

“This isn’t social,” she interrupted, twisting the phone cord around her finger. “Something’s happened to Jewels.”

“Happened? What do you mean?”

“She left me this special message—”

“Message?”

“E-mail. It said she was going to be gone for a while and I should feed Gomer.”

“Gone for a while?”

“No, you don’t understand. The message is
feed Gomer.
”

“Who the hell’s Gomer?”

“Feed Gomer is a distress code. It means Jewels is in big trouble and needs help.”

“I’ll be right over,” Hines said, immediately hanging up the phone.

ABOUT TWO MINUTES LATER. “Everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, his tone curious.

“Oh, Howard. Jewels is in trouble. Really big trouble.”

His handsome features distorted into deep concern. “Talk to me,” he said, parking himself in the visitor’s chair next to Belinda’s desk.

Belinda gulped. “Jewels sent this coded e-mail to me last night that she was in trouble, but I just got it this morning.” Her voice quivered. “I called Agent Hines and he’s coming right over.”

“Did you call her house? Cell?”

Belinda negatively wagged her head.

“You try her home, I’ll call her cell,” Howard said, punching the speed dial number he had designated for Jewels’ mobile phone.

Belinda did the same with the Press land line, calling Jewels’ house.

Both got voice mail.

“I’m scared for her, Howard. Jewels wasn’t right yesterday. I think something bad happened at the diner.”

“You mean something more than her friend being murdered and dying in her arms?”