Chapter Twenty-Three

“The Hidden Prison”

1.

Her mouth was dry, and she had soiled herself, but she was alive. That much she knew. There was no possible way at all for death to hurt so. Annabelle lay in darkness, total darkness, as it were, trussed up like a hog, her injured arm throbbing with a red ache. The back of her head similarly pounded from the blow she had taken. Her scalp felt tight and strange, probably from dried blood. A front tooth was also chipped, a reflex gnashing no doubt when the blow came. Annabelle spat in an un-lady like fashion.

“Hello?” she called. There was no answer. She had not expected one.

She wriggled her fingers. She still had feeling in her hands, which meant one of two things, either she had not been tied up long, or the bonds were not tight. She tried them. There was room to move.

When the Chiricahua had first taken her to their camp, they had tied her outside the lodge of their chief. They bound her hands and feet with strips of deer leather and left her there. Under the summer sun, she soon grew thirsty. Food and water were left for her, several feet away, but in her condition she could not reach it. After a while, someone would come along and collect the food and water, and it was given to another, usually an elder, one of the infirm, or a child. She cried herself to sleep for two nights in frustration, and when she could take no more of what she believed was their cruel tricks, Annabelle struggled out of her bonds. She struggled until her wrists bled, and the slickness of the blood gave her the advantage she needed. When she was free, a woman ambled over with a bowl of dried venison and mesquite beans. Annabelle ate, and she was given as much water as she could drink.

That was how they taught you so you would never forget. Escaping from bonds like this was second nature to her, now.

“Hello?” she called out again, and again, there was no answer.

She tried to sit up, but found she could not, at least not without some help. Instead, she tried rolling about, testing the limits of her cage. She did not roll far before her face struck something hard and rough. She winced as the material bit into her cheek. It stung enough that she was sure she had drawn blood. She squirmed back and rolled over so she could feel the surface with her hand. Wood.

A more thorough inspection told her she was in a medium-sized room, probably some random supply closet. She was surrounded by wooden crates, there to muffle the sounds of her cries, if need be. Whoever her captor might be, he planned to keep her here.

Annabelle was starting to sweat, having rolled about and struggled to sit for as long as she had. The stink of her was terrible. It was plausible, then, that she had been here a while. As thirsty as she was, the fact she had been left to sit in her own filth, and the dried blood on the back of her head, supported this.

What if I’ve been left here to die? But no, that didn’t make sense. If they had wanted her dead, she would never have woken. She would have been pushed out an airlock, or had her throat slashed.

Something in her counselled patience. Her captor would return soon, and she would learn what was in store for her. Knowing something of her predicament would tell her also what she needed to escape. In the meantime, she had to keep her mind sharp, and when the moment arrived, she needed to remember every detail she could, about her captor’s identity, her predicament, everything. More importantly, she had to remain calm. As dangers went, even if she had been left to die in this room, it was not the worst she had ever seen.

If anything, she was worried for Nathanial. Did he know she was missing? If he did, he was no doubt worried for her safety. With the bomber still on the loose, that placed him in considerable danger, as he would no doubt look for her.

“Hello?”

This time, a door panel slid open. The thin beam of a bulls-eye lantern played off the crates, sweeping across her face and blinding her.

“Hello?” she called again.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

And just like that, Annabelle recognised the voice.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.