Free Hellbox (Nameless Detective) by Bill Pronzini Page B

believed that with all her heart. But how could he know where she’d been taken, and by whom? And where she was being held when she didn’t know herself?
    He’ll find out. Clinging to the thought, repeating it in her mind. Believing it and not believing it at the same time.
    The battle with terror was harder now that night had come. Inside of her prison, it was pitch dark, not a glimmer of light anywhere, the single window covered with some kind of shutter and the only door tight in its frame top, bottom, and sides. The blackness magnified the smells of old wood, dust, linseed oil, paint, rodent droppings, and God knew what else. Scurryings in the walls and sporadic night sounds outside seemed magnified, too, thick with possible menace. Balfour had been back once while it was still light, to check on her; she’d pretended to be unconscious and he’d stayed no more than a minute. If he came back in the dark …
    She rid her mind of that thought, shifted position in an effort to ease the numbness in her hands and legs. She could barely feel her fingers; pictured them swollen, like the fingers on gloves inflated with helium. Bruises throbbed on her arms, a blood-scabbed rip in one knee gave off little twinges of pain. Her throat felt as if it she’d swallowed hot sand. Once, a long time after Balfour had left her the first time, she’d given in to the urge to scream, but the only sounds she could make were painful squeaks and she hadn’t tried it again.
    She could still feel the marks of his thick fingers on both sides of her neck, as if they’d made permanent indentations in the skin. But he must have stopped choking her right after she blacked out, otherwise she’d be dead now. Assaulted by a wild-eyed stranger because she’d “screwed something up” for him. Senseless words, senseless attack … as if he’d had some sort of psychotic break. He hadn’t said anything in the pickup or when he’d put her in here to give his actions a rational explanation. Hadn’t said anything at all.
    Stopped choking her. Stopped just in time.
    Focus on that. If he wanted her dead, he’d have finished the job then and there, wouldn’t he? Why bother to tie her up, bring her to his home, confine her in this storage shed, unless he had something else in mind?
    Rape?
    Torture?
    Both?
    Kerry shuddered at the thought of his hands on her bare flesh.
    God, if he was that kind … But he wasn’t, or he’d have done something by now. Unless he was savoring the anticipation. Fragments of atrocity stories she’d read or heard flickered across her mind and she shuddered again. She could bear sexual assault, no matter how brutal or how many times he repeated the act, if he let her go when he’d finally had enough—
    He wouldn’t let her go. She’d seen his face and knew his name, she could identify him. He was known and didn’t seem to be liked in Six Pines, lived somewhere in Green Valley … his pickup had still been on the logging road when she regained consciousness and they hadn’t driven far to this property, what must be his property. Crazy man, but not crazy enough to turn her loose, let her walk away …
    The fear broke through her defenses again, a black wave of it that left her weak and shaking before she could lock her mind against it. The rumpled piece of old, dirty canvas she was lying on gave off a mixture of rank odors that made her suddenly nauseous. Her stomach convulsed; she twisted onto her side, head down, to keep from choking on the thin stream of vomit that came up.
    She spat her mouth clear, wiggled backward away from the vomit odor. The stiff canvas rustled beneath her, cold and crawly on her bare arms and legs. Something touched her face, skittered across it. Bug. Spider. She recoiled, shook her head, and brushed it off against the curve of her shoulder.
    Outside, the dog started barking at something.
    The dog frightened her, too. Pit bull, as big and ugly as its owner. It had made a lot of noise,