Goodbye Arizona by Claude Dancourt Read Free Book Online Page B

departed the hotel with Mr. Turner?”
    Eden turned a very deep pink. Marcus opened his mouth. “What?”
    “Mr. Turner!”
    He whipped his head toward the sheriff to argue. Before he could proffer a sound, his phone chimed.
    The image attached to the wordless text message curdled his blood.
    ****
    Deb jolted awake, gasping for air. Her head fell back on the hard surface under her as she struggled to breathe. She forced her lungs to work, inhaling and expulsing the stale oxygen, almost relieved by the uncomfortable humidity around her. For a terrorizing minute, she felt trapped underwater, drowning.
    With another deep breath, she straightened up, and blinked to accommodate. Her vision cleared from a golden blur to a world of honey-colored flat surfaces and white angles. She fluttered her lashes and finally made out wood panels and square ceramics.
    She placed her bare feet gingerly on the tiled floor. It was warm, hot even, but not unbearable. Deb looked down at herself. She was down to her underwear, but sweat still pearled on her skin.
    “At least my bra and panties match.”
    Hearing her own voice and the attempt at humor quieted the harried pulse in her veins.
    Whoever had taken her clothes and shoes had tossed a small spongy towel on the bench next to her. The fabric was damp, and it clung to her skin, but once Deb had wrapped it around her torso, she felt better. She pushed tangled locks away from her clammy cheeks, and braced herself on the bench to stand.
    The small effort it required pushing upright made her giddy. Blood pounded on her eardrums. She pressed one palm on the wall to support herself against it. The room around her reeled so badly that her head hurt. Her throat burned. Nausea battled the rampant fear lurking too close to the surface. Deb fell on her knees and vomited.
    ****
    The body on the grainy photograph was twisted in a fetal position. Eden grouched, “What is it now?”
    Marcus’s eyes stayed glued to the small screen. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. Deb… What had happened to Deb? Minutes ago, he was arguing with her and now… Her face was flushed, her skin unnaturally red. He tried to swallow so his heart would regain its normal place inside his chest.
    He fisted the Southern Belle’s blouse with both hands. He almost yanked her off her feet. Eden screeched, “Marcus!”
    “What did you do? What did you do to her?”
    “Mr. Turner.” The blood pounding in his ears made him conveniently deaf. “You’d better tell me this minute where Deb is, or I swear—”
    Pooley picked up the phone he’d dropped, to scan the image. At the same time, a text’s arrival pinged. She read it aloud.
    “‘But shh, here comes the beautiful Ophelia. Nymph, please pray for my sins.’”
    ****
    With her stomach empty, she felt better, and managed to stand on shaky legs.
    The room was about twelve feet wide, with a semi-circular wooden bench on one side. The opposite wall was also paneled, and bare, except for one minuscule frosted-glass window, and a knob.
    “Here you are. Open Sesame.”
    Deb grabbed the handle and pulled. And pulled again. “Damn it. Come on !”
    She shook the knob over and over. Her throat seized up, as the heat and panic made it hard to breathe. Sweat trickled down her spine, dampening her palms. She nearly lost her footing on the humid floor and sank back on the bench.
    Her eyes tingled.
    No crying. It’s okay. You’ll think of something. Just calm down, Deb, you’re going to be all right.
    Deb took in wobbly gulps of air, one painful hiss after another, until she felt steadier. She licked her lips, choosing to blame the salty sweat instead of tears. She glared at the closed door, and remained seated.
    She wasn’t hungry, so she could assume only a short amount of time had passed. A couple of hours, maybe even less than that. “It’s still daylight. Your kidnapper couldn’t go far with you in tow. It was already risky with all these people around to take you,”