Page 130 of Wyatt
Aw, Dad.Wyatt pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, rubbing away the grit in them. But the burning continued.He was your biggest fan.
No. How could—
A whimper from the bed opened Wyatt’s eyes. Mikka was moaning, as if caught in a bad dream.
The door opened and Gerri came into the room.
Mikka cried out again.
“Oh,” she said and moved toward the bed.
“I got this, Ma,” Wyatt said.
“I know you do, son.”
Then he slid onto the bed with Mikka. The poor kid was shaking, still dreaming hard, so Wyatt pulled him against his chest, smoothing his hair. “Shh.”
Mikka shook against him, fighting him, but Wyatt held him tighter. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s going to be okay.”
Finally, his body began to still.
“That’s right, little man. Go back to sleep. Rest. Daddy’s here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
13
She just needed a distraction.
Coco sat on a rough-hewn picnic table, her hands tied behind her back.
The arching hemlock and cedar trees cut off any warmth, the morning dew seeping in through the grimy Blue Ox jersey and into her bones to keep her shivering.
From the hue of the pewter gray sky, it had to be early.
Someone had to have figured out she was missing by now.
The scant wind stirred a pine fragrance into the air and blew ash from the blackened, lifeless firepit. Dead pine needles littered the spongy ground. Parked near it all sat a teardrop camping trailer.
A dirt trail led away from their camping area, and Coco eyed it, gauging the distance between her and the lunatic who was pacing near the firepit, mumbling to himself.
She hadn’t gotten a good look at him last night—and thanks to whatever drug he’d given her, the memory was hazy at best. But in the meager light of dawn, he embodied the definition of crazy terrorist, at least in her mind.
Herpanickedmind.
White. Deeply tattooed arms, gauged ears, and a deep port-wine stain up his neck. He wore a two-day grizzle, his hair almost military short, and bore the build of someone who still took the time to work out.
When he wasn’t plotting evil schemes and kidnapping women out of hospitals.
At least she was out of the grimy, soiled trunk. She’d tried not to let herself drift back to the bathroom in Russia, not to let the darkness find her pores, the nightmares find her soul.
She’d spent the past half hour fiddling with the duct tape strapping her wrists together. The fact that he hadn’t bound her feet suggested that even if she did try to run, she wouldn’t get far.
He turned abruptly and stalked over to her. Considered her. He had feral breath, cracked, bloodshot eyes, and fit every nightmare of kidnapper her father had seeded in her.
She drew in a breath, trying not to cower, but she’d already made up her mind.
If he tried to rape her, she’d survive. She refused to become a statistic, a random Jane Doe body found in the woods someday, half eaten by wolves, the victim of a rape-murder.
She wasn’t going to abandon Mikka. Not when she was all he had.