Free The Brain Vault (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 3) by Lawrence Kelter Page B

extended forward for precaution—sensory organs adapted for survival like an insect’s antennae, searching, sensing, directing.
    An electrical generator rested on the floor. It was large and heavy, with sharp metal corners he seemed unable to avoid. He had smashed his leg into it several times before finally growing savvy.
    Doe fine-tuned his hearing—the house was silent. He’d heard the front door close, the car starting and pulling away. Still he waited several minutes to be absolutely sure. The threat of more electric shocks had trained him very well. At times it was little more than a pulse. Other times, when he had been “bad”, the jumper cables had been clamped on with the current running until he had passed out. As a result, he had learned to stay perfectly still during those occasions when his hair was sheared and his head measured and marked. How long? He wondered. How long before they were ready for the next step. How long would they keep him alive? Not long. I have to do it now.
    Doe counted the seconds until five minutes had elapsed, and then pushed the remnants of the two pills from his mouth. They were soft from saliva absorption but they had maintained their integrity. He could distinguish the Valium’s small button shape and the Ambien’s oblong contour as he ground them into powder between his thumb and forefinger and flicked it away. He was no longer bound to the bed as he had been in the past. His captor was relying solely on sedatives to keep him secure. The reason, he assumed, was because they felt he had been broken, and no longer had the will to escape.
    One foot off the bed, then the other—cigarette butts beneath the pads of his feet. He scraped the sole of one foot against the other to remove the butts, and then turned to face the bed. Beneath the frame, stashed by the headboard, a paper grocery bag had remained unnoticed for days. Doe retrieved it. Holding it between his hands, he pressed lightly on the sides of the bag. It was still there, still inside. He placed the treasure on the bed for safekeeping and moved to the opposite wall, the outside wall, where a solitary window was covered with wrought iron bars and a shade.
    He tore away the shade. On prior nights, he had opened it cautiously so that his work would go undetected. There was no need for precaution tonight. The bars were secured to the inside of the window, lag bolted into studs. It was not uncommon for the windows of a ground level dwelling to be covered with security bars, but Doe’s prison was three levels up; the top level of a New York brownstone.
    Doe’s fingers explored the exposed metal threads of the three-inch lag bolts that he had wormed out of the two-by-four studs, one excruciating micron at a time over a period of weeks, twisting the bolts with his raw fingers. The plasterboard around the bolts had been ground away. Doe could now feel the hard pulp of the pine studs by pressing his fingertips into the holes. A mere half-inch of the lag bolt’s thread remained buried in the wood. Doe took hold of the bars with his two hands. One foot up against the wall and then the other, he positioned himself like a huge spider over the bars and began to tug.
    He was amazed by how firmly the last half-inch of the bolts still held. Push with the legs. He stiffened his back and squeezed with every ounce of his strength. He felt his runner’s legs growing rock hard, his muscles becoming tetanus from the strain. I’m still strong, he thought, I can do it. Sweat ran into his eyes. A cramp developed in his calf, forcing him to ease up. He took that foot off the wall and waited for the pain to stop and then back on, the moment it disappeared. Pull, pull, pull, goddamn it. Pull! The shade had been destroyed. It would be impossible to hide his efforts—if he didn’t get out now, the torture would be devastating. The bars would be reinforced, making future attempts impossible. It was now or never. His back felt like a bow that had