She drank.

When she finished, he took her empty and tossed it into the trunk, then walked over to the crate and retrieved the pistol, shoving it into its holster. When he came back to her, he reached for her hand. She snatched it away, but he reached for it again and this time held on. He pulled her toward the door. “Where are we going?”

“Bathroom.” He pushed open the door just wide enough to walk through, then stood aside and hitched his head.

She looked outside. “In broad daylight?”

“There’s nobody to see you.”

“I’ll wait till it gets dark.”

“I’ve got to sleep. I don’t want to be woken up for you to take a bathroom break.”

“I won’t bother you.”

He appeared to mentally count to ten, then said, “There’s another option for me, you know. I could call Panella back, say to hell with all of you. I tell him where we are, then tie you up and split. What will he do? Dispatch a replacement who’d probably do you for fifty grand. Even less than Mickey settled for. Which should give you an idea of the caliber of guy who’ll show up. I can almost promise he won’t be nearly as nice or restrained as me.”

He gave her time to think it over, then added, “You have two minutes of privacy before I come out looking for you.”

She went outside. Two minutes was more than adequate time. She finished in half that, then ran toward the far side of the building, thinking that perhaps there was a reason why he hadn’t shown it to her earlier. But as she rounded the corner, she was disheartened to find that the view from that side was as dismal as the other. If anything, the reeds behind the building looked taller and spikier, the water from which they protruded even more opaque and viscous.

She made it back to the door just as he emerged. Noticing that her face was shiny with perspiration, he guessed the reason. “Go exploring? I could have told you there isn’t a boat to go with that busted outboard. I already looked.”

Smart-ass. She stepped around him and went back into the building. He followed, and when he reached for her hand, about to put another clip cuff on her wrists, she asked, “Is that really necessary?”

He just gave her a sardonic look.

“A tightly tied bandana would work just as well.”

“Not even near.” He turned her around.

“Can you at least leave them in front?”

“Not while I’m asleep.”

“What could I do with my hands tied?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t want to be surprised. Don’t move from this spot.” He went outside.

She didn’t move but she did conduct a visual search of the place. He’d hidden her phone. The phone battery. The car keys. Where, where, where?

When he came back inside, he was still buttoning up his fly. “Get in the backseat and lie down.”

“I’ll swelter inside that car.”

“You want me to take your clothes off?” At the look she gave him, he snickered. “I didn’t think so. Go lie down.”

“When are you going to call Panella back?”

“After he’s had time to think it over. Or, you could tell me how to contact Josh and we could be done here.”

“I can’t.”

“Then get in the car.”

“If you wait too long, Panella may—”

“Stop stalling. I’m tired.”

Unprepared to engage in another wrestling match, this time with her hands tied behind her, she went to the car, got in, and lay down on her right side. “My arm goes to sleep in this position.”

“When it does, roll over.”

“I’ll chatter, sing, keep you awake.”

“I’ll put a gag in your mouth.”

He went to the trunk and rummaged among the things in it. She listened to the clank of license plates, the thump of the tire iron, the rattle of empty plastic bottles and sacks of canned goods, trying to think of ways in which one or the other could be used to debilitate him, at least long enough for her to get off a 911 call.

The tire iron would be ideal, but even though he left the trunk open, what good was having access to its contents with her hands bound behind her?

When he came back into her range of vision through the open backseat door, he was carrying a folded bright blue tarpaulin, which he dropped to the floor. He turned to her and, as though he’d been following the track of her thoughts, addressed the helplessness she felt.

“I’ll leave your feet free. There’s not much you could do without the use of your hands. I guess you could try running to the main road before I chased you down, but whatever you tried, you’d fail.”

“If I’m going to die anyway, I had just as well try to escape.”

“I admire that fighting spirit, Jordie. Truly I do. The thing is, I don’t wake up in a cheerful mood on the best of days. If you woke me up trying some doomed-to-fail stunt, I’d be so pissed off I’d likely tie your feet together, gag you, shut the car doors, and then it really would be sweltering in there. Or I could always put you in the trunk.”

As he turned away, she said under her breath, “You’re not all that nice.”

He came back around. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

He gave her a hard look, then his eyes tracked down the length of her body and all the way back up, pausing in places that grew warm under his scrutiny. “I’m not all that restrained, either.”

He always had the last word, disallowing her to enjoy even a small triumph. Resentfully she watched him unfold the tarp. “I suppose you use that to wrap bloody bodies in.”

“It comes in handy.” He spread the tarp over the grimy floor a few yards away from the car, then popped open the first two snaps on his shirt and pulled it over his head.

She quickly looked away to avoid the sight of his bare chest.

“Jordie.” He came to stand just beyond the open backseat door. “Jordie.”

Feeling foolish and cowardly, she jerked her head back toward him. “What?”

“Pistol.” He touched the holster at his hip. “Cell phone.” He patted his right jeans pocket. “Cell phone battery.” He patted his left jeans pocket. “You might manage to get one away from me, but not all three.”

His hands remained flat against his pockets, bracketing the frayed fly of his jeans, which she was relieved to see he’d finished buttoning. The waistband was low and loose, curled slightly forward away from his torso where skin and hair were sweat-damp.