Wait …
I had no idea how long I had been in the trunk, but the sun had risen high enough that red-tinted sunshine allowed me to see the seams of the blue-brown floor mat that I was resting on. Of course, I told myself. The floor mat disguised a compartment beneath me. The spare tire, along with the jack and tire iron, was in the compartment. The problem was getting my cuffed hands under the compartment lid while my weight was resting on top of it. I maneuvered my backside as far into the corner of the trunk as possible and went up on my toes, even as I pressed my back against the lid. That gave me room to work with; however, with my weight on it, I couldn’t lift the edge of the lid more than an inch or two. Still, I managed to slip my fingers beneath it. The lid was made of thin wood fiber covered by the carpet. I pulled upward. I was determined that if I couldn’t lift the mat, I’d break it. Only it was stubborn. My first attempt failed. So did my second. On my third attempt I pulled as mightily on it as I could, ignoring the pain shooting through my fingertips. Your life depends on this, my inner voice warned me. “Break, you bastard,” I said aloud. Every muscle in my body strained against the lid. Sweat poured off my forehead into my eyes. Then the wood fiber fractured. Then it broke. It sounded like the crack of gunfire inside the trunk, and my head and shoulders made an angry thud on the lid as I flew backward, yet my kidnappers either didn’t hear or chose to disregard the noise.
The carpet remained intact, yet I was able to fold the broken piece of wood fiber on top of the rest of the lid. I uncovered a hole big enough to accommodate a hand—but only one. I rolled onto my shoulder and pressed my back and hips against the trunk wall and lid as I eased my right hand under the wood fiber while slipping my left hand over the top of it. I pushed as deeply as I could until the broken edge of the mat butted up against the strong nylon restraint. My knuckles skimmed over hard rubber but nothing else. I removed my hand and worked the disposable cuffs farther up my wrists. I got maybe an extra inch to work with, although the nylon was now cutting off the circulation in my hands. I eased my right hand back into the hole again. This time my fingertips touched metal. I flicked at it, and it moved toward me a fraction of an inch. I flicked at it some more until I was able to get a firm grip. I strained and manipulated and pulled until at last I was able to ease the tire iron through the hole. Actually, not a tire iron but a lug wrench—one end had a socket that fit over the wheel’s lug nuts, the other a prying tip that was used primarily to remove hubcaps.
He shoots, he scores, my inner voice announced.
My arms and hands were aching, so I dropped the wrench on the floor while I worked the cuffs down to the narrow part of my wrists. I flexed my fingers until circulation returned. My entire body was now smooth with perspiration; I felt the sweat soaking my blue boxers.
“Okay,” I said aloud.
Once I had the wrench, I turned my attention back to the trunk lid. It didn’t take long to realize that there was no opening to insert the tip, no way to get leverage. So again I twisted and turned my body until I had access to the corner of the trunk. I jammed the lug wrench in the space between the metal bracket and the car frame, pressing the pry tip hard against the red-tinted lens. Nothing happened. I pressed harder. Given how many busted taillights I’ve seen over the years, I expected the lens to be fairly fragile. It wasn’t. I pounded on it with the curled tip without creating so much as a scratch.
Put your back into it, my inner voice ordered.
Harder and harder I struck the wrench against the lens. Finally it cracked. The crack grew. A small triangle of plastic chipped off. A hole formed. The hole grew larger. I pushed the wrench through the hole as far as possible. Would anyone on the highway see it? A better question, would anyone be alarmed enough to do something about it? Probably not, I told myself. I needed something else. All I had was my shorts.
Should I dangle them out of the hole like a flag? I asked myself. Well, why not?
Before I could remove them, though, the taillights inside the trunk lit up, and the car began to slow. One bulb began to blink—a right turn. It went out. A few moments later, it blinked again—another right. The car sped up, and then the brake lights flared. The blinking light said left turn. As the car turned, I heard the squeal of tires followed by the bellow of a horn.
“Yes,” I said aloud. This was going to work.
I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my shorts and began to ease them down, trying to work them over my hips. The lights flared again; the car slowed to a halt. A stop sign? I wondered. No. Car doors opened and closed. Dammit.
