The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 70
Brunner's blood turned to ice within his veins as Watson's powerful hands closed about his arms.
"Remember," George said pointedly, "I need him alive when you're through with him... but only just."
CHRIS had been sleeping peacefully when the faint, muffled screaming awoke him. It was unmistakably Brunner. As long as he lived, he would never forget the sound of that hated man's voice.
At first, he thought he was having a nightmare, but as he came fully awake and the screaming continued, he realized he was not dreaming at all.
His heart raced. Brunner is here. In this house. George could be in trouble. Frantically, Chris pulled himself upright. He scanned the room and zeroed in on the door. What was he going to do?
The sounds of violence were issuing upward through a ventilation grate in the floor. He recalled that when he was younger, he would lie at that very grate and listen to the adults conversing below. The ductwork connected to the lower floor and channeled sound from certain rooms in the house directly into the guest bedroom.
In order not to disturb Brianna lest she begin to cry and alert Brunner to his location, he slowly, carefully crawled out of the bed and moved on silent feet to the bedroom door. He tried the knob. It was locked.
"No," he whispered through gritted teeth. He was trapped.
The faint sounds of shouting and cursing continued unabated as his eyes swept the room, searching for some other means of escape. The casement window, he knew, did not open wide enough to afford an exit.
Anxiety mounting, he focused on the closet door. The attic.
The shouting stopped, and he rushed over to the vent. Dropping to the floor, he pressed his ear to the register and listened intently. He thought he could hear George speaking, but he wasn't sure. Carefully, he worked his fingers into the grating and pulled it free. Cupping his hands around his ear, he repositioned himself and strained to hear what was being said.
"At three fifteen this afternoon," George was saying, "you, my associate Watson, and Christian James will drive onto the eastbound ferry to Mukilteo at the front of the queue. When the ferry is underway, you will start the engine, press your foot into the accelerator, and drive the car into Puget Sound."
Chris was horrified. His stomach lurched. This had to be some kind of a joke. George would never harm him. Would he?
"Passengers will report that within the car, a struggle was underway---ostensibly Chris James, fighting for his freedom. Tragically, he too will be killed in the accident. Meanwhile," George continued, "I will place a call to 911, victim of a gunshot wound." His voice became dramatic, delivering the impassioned speech he had rehearsed. "He was a madman. Demanded I hand over the diamond. He shot me. I lost consciousness. Chris! He's taken Chris. You have to stop him." George laughed. "So you see, Brunner, you can still be useful after all."
Brunner spoke next, his voice cracking with pain. "You think Watson and Chris are going to go along with this?"
"Watson will be equipped with SCUBA gear," George replied, "so he will be quite unharmed. And Christian," he continued, "will be heavily sedated. I am not a monster. I love the boy. I owe him a humane, peaceful demise. He will be completely unaware throughout."
Chris choked back bile. He was certain he was going to vomit.
George... George, who had been a father to him, who had been his dearest friend, his closest ally. George had been the monster under the bed all along. All this time, George had been the one pulling the puppet strings. The betrayal took his breath away. This was an evil he could never have dreamed of.
Chris could listen no more. He had to get out of this terrible place.
He had to take his daughter and get the hell away from here. Now, right now, before they came for him.
Heedless of the sudden heartache and the sheer magnitude of this newest horror, he forced down the trauma and climbed onto the bed.
Gently, he shook Brianna awake. As her eyes fluttered open, he pressed a finger to her lips to keep her calm. "Baby," he whispered urgently, "the bad man is back." Fear arose in her eyes. "Shh, shh. Be still, little one. We have to be very quiet. Quiet as a mouse," he instructed. When he was certain she understood, he removed his finger from her lips and gathered her into his arms. Quickly, quietly, he tiptoed to the closet and pulled open the door. Inside, up in the ceiling, there was an entrance to the attic.
He squeezed Brianna gently. "Remember," he whispered to her, "quiet as a mouse."
She nodded, her eyes wide and serious. Carefully, he placed her on the floor and pulled the closet door closed. Making as little noise as possible, he stood on tiptoe and opened the hatch to the attic. Once the ladder was extended, he scooped Brianna up and levered himself into the darkened space overhead.
Motes of dust swirled lazily through streamers of sunlight spilling in through ventilation openings. He carefully pulled the ladder back up, searched around, and located a nail protruding through one of the rafters.
Pulling the frayed rope taut, he looped it around the nail and tied it off. It wouldn't be proof against a dedicated assault, but it would provide a brief reprieve---perhaps enough.
Quickly, he maneuvered from rafter to rafter, making his way toward a slatted grate in a gable at the far end of the attic. When he had been younger, this grate had been loose enough to allow exit. It was a short drop to a flat section of roof just outside. From there, he could make his way around the house and climb down a