The sour cherry surprise

As she lay there, blinded only by the darkness, Des took inventory of herself. She lay on her side in a fetal position, ankles bound together as tight as her wrists were. Something was stuffed in her mouth, she realized, her tongue probing it carefully. A rag of some kind. Her head ached something fierce, and the back of her neck felt wet. Her head wound must have bled. Her ribs throbbed where they’d kicked her. Arms seemed to be bare. The ground felt cold against them. Her fingers groped for the back of her shirt. It felt like a T-shirt or, no wait, a polo shirt. Right, she’d changed out of her uni before she got here. Which was when? How long had she been unconscious? How much time had passed since Molly made that dash for the door?

And where was Molly?

Had the little girl taken a bullet or gotten away? Was she safe? Was she lying dead somewhere? Or was Molly down here with her in this root cellar, bound and gagged same as she was? Des made a soft, inquiring noise through that rag in her mouth. More like whimper than anything else. Listened for a response. Heard nothing. Not so much as the sound of someone else breathing. She was alone down here.

Unless Molly was with her but was dead.

Slowly, Des tried to wriggle into a seated position. But she couldn’t seem to make her body obey. Any sort of a movement made her head ache so badly that she began to feel really nauseated. Which was so not an option. Not with that damned rag stuffed in her mouth… I cannot throw up. I must not throw up. I will choke on my own vomit and die a horrible death like Mr. Jimi… She flopped back down to the damp earth, beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. Breathed slowly and evenly through her nose, in and out, in and out. Steadying herself until the nausea passed. But she would have to take it easy. Was showing all of the classic symptoms of a concussion, including that weird memory muddle when she’d first come to. Thinking Mitch would be there by her bedside. Whew, how ill was that?

She could hear sirens now. And cars approaching. Lots of cars. Brakes squealing. Doors slamming. There were rapid footsteps on the creaky kitchen floorboards directly over her head, followed by the murmur of angry voices. She did not hear a girl’s voice. No Molly. Just the two men, Clay and Hector. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. Only that they were arguing about something.

The gunshots, of course.

The troopers on the barricade had heard Clay open fire and now the cavalry was coming. Which meant she hadn’t been out for more than twenty minutes. Also that Clay and Hector were in some deep, deep trouble. Armed SWAT teams would soon be boxing them in from every direction. As her fuzzy brain grabbed hold of just how utterly screwed those two were, something else dawned upon Des:

I am their hostage.

They hadn’t dumped her down in this cellar to rot. She was their human bargaining chip. And Molly? Molly must be dead. Had to be dead. Why else would they bother to keep me alive? She’d gotten the poor girl killed. Should have called Rico as soon she’d heard from Jen. Shouldn’t have gone in solo. But she had and Molly Procter, age nine, was gone.

Des lay there, grief-stricken and tormented by guilt. And yet also curiously aware that she’d be spared from having to cope with these awful feelings for long. Because she and Molly would be linked for eternity on this night. She was not going to get out of this alive either. It would not end well. She felt it. She knew it. Not because her life was passing before her eyes right now so much as because it was exposing itself to her. Allowing her, once and for all, to see the absolute truth of things with incredible clarity. Like the real reason for those dizzy spells. The elevated blood pressure and pulse rate. The constant clenching in her stomach. Abandoning the art that had given her life so much glorious purpose. Put it all together and it added up to fool. She knew that now. Knew what her own body had been trying to tell her all along:

I should have stayed with Mitch.

She’d convinced herself that she was happy with Brandon. He felt right. Their life together felt right. Hell, it was the life that she was supposed to lead. And Brandon was the man who she was supposed to be with, until death do us part. Except she’d been lying to herself these past three months. She hadn’t taken Brandon back because she loved him. She’d done it because she was nothing more than a great big wuss. Brandon was the easy choice. The safe choice. Not to mention so handsome and accomplished that there wasn’t a sister on the planet who wouldn’t trade places with her in a heartbeat. None of which counted for a damned thing, she realized now-when it was too late to make it right. But at the very least she could admit the truth to herself as she lay here in the Procters’ root cellar on this the last night of her short and unheroic life.

I should have stayed with Mitch.