Read Buried Secrets for Free Online
Authors: Joseph Finder
Taylor about something on her iPhone …
She only knew that she was sleeping on top of a bed. No sheets covering her. They must have slid off her during the night. She preferred being under a sheet, even on the hottest days when there wasn’t any air-conditioning. Like that awful year at Marston-Lee in Colorado, where there was no air-conditioning in the summer and they made you sleep in bunk beds and she had to bribe her bitch of a roommate for the top one. The bottom bunk made her feel trapped and anxious.
Her hands were at her sides. She fluttered her fingers, feeling for the hem of a sheet, and then the back of her right hand brushed against something smooth and solid. With her fingertips she felt some kind of satiny material over something hard, like the slatted wooden safety rails on the sides of her bunk bed at Marston-Lee that kept you from falling out of bed and crashing to the floor.
Was she back at Marston-Lee, or just dreaming that she was?
Yet if she were dreaming, would she have such an incredible headache?
She knew she was awake. She just knew it.
But she could still see nothing. Total perfect darkness, not even a glimmer of light.
She could smell the stale air and feel the soft yielding mattress below her and the soft pajamas on her legs … her fingertips scuttled over the soft fabric on her thighs, which didn’t feel like the sweatpants she usually wore to bed. She was wearing something different. Not sweatpants, not pajamas. Hospital scrubs, maybe?
Was she in a hospital?
Had she gotten hurt, maybe been in an accident?
The ice pick was driving deeper and deeper into the gray matter of her brain, and the pain was indescribable, and she just wanted to roll over and put a pillow over her head. She raised her knees to gently torque her body and flip over, slowly and gently so her head didn’t crack apart …
And her knees hit something.
Something hard.
Startled, she lifted her head, almost an involuntary reflex, and her forehead and the bridge of her nose collided with something hard too.
Both hands flew outward, striking hard walls. A few inches on either side. Her knees came up again, maybe three inches, and once again they struck a solid wall.
No.
Fingers skittering up the sides and then the top, satin-covered walls barely three inches from her lips.
Even before her brain was able to make sense of it, some animal instinct within her realized, with a dread that crept over her and turned her numb and ice-cold.
She was in a box.
She could touch the end of the box with her toes.
She started breathing fast. Short, panicked gasps.
Her heart raced.
She shuddered, but the shuddering didn’t stop.
She gasped for air, but couldn’t get more than a few inches of air into the very top of her lungs.
She tried to sit up, but her forehead struck the ceiling once again. Couldn’t move.
Couldn’t change positions.
She panted faster and faster, heart juddering, sweat breaking out all over her body, hot and cold at the same time.
This couldn’t be real. She had to be in some kind of nightmare: the worst nightmare she’d ever had. Trapped in a box. Like a …
Satin lining. Walls of wood, maybe steel.
Like being in a coffin.
Her hands twitched, kept knocking against the hard walls, as she gasped over and over again: “ No … no … no …”
She’d forgotten all about her headache.
That light-headed feeling that accompanied the hardness in her stomach and the coldness throughout her body, which she always felt before she passed out.
And she was gone.
9.
By the time I got back into the Defender headed down 128 South toward Boston it was after noon. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Marshall Marcus really did have a serious reason to fear that something had happened to his daughter. Something he’d actually anticipated.
In other words, not an accident. Even if it had nothing to do with the brief abduction a few years back. Maybe it was nothing more
She only knew that she was sleeping on top of a bed. No sheets covering her. They must have slid off her during the night. She preferred being under a sheet, even on the hottest days when there wasn’t any air-conditioning. Like that awful year at Marston-Lee in Colorado, where there was no air-conditioning in the summer and they made you sleep in bunk beds and she had to bribe her bitch of a roommate for the top one. The bottom bunk made her feel trapped and anxious.
Her hands were at her sides. She fluttered her fingers, feeling for the hem of a sheet, and then the back of her right hand brushed against something smooth and solid. With her fingertips she felt some kind of satiny material over something hard, like the slatted wooden safety rails on the sides of her bunk bed at Marston-Lee that kept you from falling out of bed and crashing to the floor.
Was she back at Marston-Lee, or just dreaming that she was?
Yet if she were dreaming, would she have such an incredible headache?
She knew she was awake. She just knew it.
But she could still see nothing. Total perfect darkness, not even a glimmer of light.
She could smell the stale air and feel the soft yielding mattress below her and the soft pajamas on her legs … her fingertips scuttled over the soft fabric on her thighs, which didn’t feel like the sweatpants she usually wore to bed. She was wearing something different. Not sweatpants, not pajamas. Hospital scrubs, maybe?
Was she in a hospital?
Had she gotten hurt, maybe been in an accident?
The ice pick was driving deeper and deeper into the gray matter of her brain, and the pain was indescribable, and she just wanted to roll over and put a pillow over her head. She raised her knees to gently torque her body and flip over, slowly and gently so her head didn’t crack apart …
And her knees hit something.
Something hard.
Startled, she lifted her head, almost an involuntary reflex, and her forehead and the bridge of her nose collided with something hard too.
Both hands flew outward, striking hard walls. A few inches on either side. Her knees came up again, maybe three inches, and once again they struck a solid wall.
No.
Fingers skittering up the sides and then the top, satin-covered walls barely three inches from her lips.
Even before her brain was able to make sense of it, some animal instinct within her realized, with a dread that crept over her and turned her numb and ice-cold.
She was in a box.
She could touch the end of the box with her toes.
She started breathing fast. Short, panicked gasps.
Her heart raced.
She shuddered, but the shuddering didn’t stop.
She gasped for air, but couldn’t get more than a few inches of air into the very top of her lungs.
She tried to sit up, but her forehead struck the ceiling once again. Couldn’t move.
Couldn’t change positions.
She panted faster and faster, heart juddering, sweat breaking out all over her body, hot and cold at the same time.
This couldn’t be real. She had to be in some kind of nightmare: the worst nightmare she’d ever had. Trapped in a box. Like a …
Satin lining. Walls of wood, maybe steel.
Like being in a coffin.
Her hands twitched, kept knocking against the hard walls, as she gasped over and over again: “ No … no … no …”
She’d forgotten all about her headache.
That light-headed feeling that accompanied the hardness in her stomach and the coldness throughout her body, which she always felt before she passed out.
And she was gone.
9.
By the time I got back into the Defender headed down 128 South toward Boston it was after noon. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Marshall Marcus really did have a serious reason to fear that something had happened to his daughter. Something he’d actually anticipated.
In other words, not an accident. Even if it had nothing to do with the brief abduction a few years back. Maybe it was nothing more
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