Purgatory Ridge

Jo realized she was holding her breath. She let out a deep sigh of relief. “Okay. We’re getting there. Now, Grace, can you get a piece of the broken glass off the floor?”

Grace knelt, then went down on her butt, and slid to where shards littered the old wood planking. She lay on her side, rolled a bit so that she could sweep her fingers across the floor. “I’ve got one. It’s pretty fragile, I think, but the edges feel good and sharp.”

“Grace, I’m going to lie down with my back to yours. I want you to try to cut the tape that’s around my wrists.”

Jo maneuvered herself to the floor and edged backward until she felt Grace Fitzgerald’s bound arms touch her own. She repositioned herself-careful of the shattered glass under her-so that her wrists were even with Grace’s hands. She waited. “Well?”

“Jo, I’ll be cutting awfully close to your wrists. I’m afraid if I slip-”

“Do we have a choice?” Jo broke in.

“All right. But, Jo, if it goes wrong… I’m sorry.”

“You’ll do fine, Grace.”

She made her words sound strong and positive, although she knew that the skin at her wrists was very thin and the glass very sharp and it wouldn’t take much of an error for an edge to slice right through to an artery.

“Here I go.”

Jo closed her eyes. A moment later, she felt the prick of a jagged edge. “That’s me,” she told Grace quickly.

“Sorry. How’s that?”

“I don’t feel anything. You must be on the tape now.”

The process was awkward and slow, mostly because Grace was reluctant to put a lot of pressure against the duct tape. As it turned out, she wasn’t concerned just about Jo.

“Are you all right?” Jo asked, hearing small, painful grunts from Grace.

“I may be doing more damage to my fingers than the tape,” she answered. “The glass is getting slippery. And I don’t think it’s from sweat.”

“I can feel the tape beginning to give. Can you stay with it?”

“I’d cut off a finger if I thought it would get us out of here. Unhhh.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Mom?” Scott called out with concern.

“I’m fine. Just fine. How you doing, kiddo?”

“Feeling a little sick.”

“Hang on, sport. We’ll all be out of here in a minute.”

Grace took a deep breath. Jo felt again the cut of the glass on the tape, and the grip around her wrists loosened dramatically. She forced her hands apart, breaking the last of the tape that held her. She sat up quickly, picked up a piece of broken glass, and cut her ankles free.

“Now you,” she said to Grace.

The light had faded almost completely. The fish house was filled with a deep, dismal gray that was all the narrow windows would admit of twilight. Although color was nearly impossible to tell, Jo knew that in a stronger light, the dark that dripped over Grace Fitzgerald’s right hand would have been bright red.

“Oh, Grace,” she whispered gently.

“Just cut me loose.”

Jo did, carefully and quickly. “Let me see.”

Deep slices scored Grace’s palm and fingers. All the wounds bled freely and all looked severe enough to require stitches to close them. Under normal circumstances, her injuries would have been at the center of concern. As it was, she pulled her hand back and said, “Now my ankles.”

Jo cut the last of the bonds that held Grace prisoner, then freed Scott and Stevie. Before she turned her attention to LePere, she tore a wide strip of material from the tail of her blouse and gently wrapped Grace’s bleeding hand.

“Thanks,” Grace said.

“No. Thank you.” Jo put her arms around Grace and thought how, aside from Rose, she’d never felt such love for another woman. “You’re remarkable.”

“Just desperate,” Grace said with a smile. “Come on. We still have to get out of this damn place.”

Jo set to work on the ropes that bound LePere. Stevie snuggled next to her and took hold of the loose tail of her torn blouse for comfort. She paused a moment in her cutting and gave her son a kiss on the top of his head. “We’ll be home soon,” she promised.

When he was finally free, John LePere sat a moment rubbing where the ropes had bit deeply into him. Although he was a little wobbly, he stood and headed quickly for the door. He tried his shoulder as a battering ram.

“I just finished making this place like a fortress,” he told the others. Then he cursed himself.

“The windows,” Jo suggested. “Maybe we can squeeze through.”

LePere looked doubtfully at the nearest window. “There’s only five or six inches between each bar.”

Jo glanced down at Stevie, who still clung to the tail of her blouse. He was so small for his age. “What if one of us could get through? Is there a key to the lock?”

“In a drawer in the kitchen.”

Jo knelt and spoke to her son quietly. “Stevie, you know how I sometimes call you a little monkey?”

He nodded.

“I want you to be a little monkey for me, okay? I want you to squeeze through that window”-she pointed-“and help us all get out of here. Can you do that for Mommy?”

Stevie stared up at the high window. His face was full of fear. “I don’t want to.”