Thank you to those who left reviews. They are very much appreciated. It is gratifying to know that I am succeeding in making at least a few readers uncomfortable… and I mean that in a good way.
.
Chapter Two
Panic eases as the energy that fed it burns away, leaving its victim exhausted. Reid's heartbeat slows from its wild racing… breathing returns to a steadier cadence… Cheeks are damp… His throat feels sore… strained…
Lips press firmly together. Mind struggles to break free of its thick fog and focus. The panic is still there… waiting… watching…
Deep slow breaths…
He closes his eyes, trading one darkness for another. It makes things less real. He can pretend he is somewhere else… which is easier said than done.
The soft whistling continues to rise and fall.
Calm.
The box is a blessing and a curse. The tactile sensation of the wood is a reminder of where he is, that he has been buried… possibly even forgotten. It's a reminder that his movement is restricted, that he is at the mercy of another, by a madman or by fate. Yet it also gives boundary to the darkness, proving that it is not eternal as his sight would claim… reminding him that there is little that could possibly hide with him in the small space… no unseen horrors waiting to strike…
It's a conundrum: to consciously touch the wood or not? Which fear was greater: the achluophobia or the claustrophobia?
He can't decide.
He shifts so his shoulder and backside rest against one side of the coffin. This means his back is guarded. It's a compromise.
Assess the situation. What do you know?
My body, Reid considers. It still aches. Feels… bruised. Sore.
Has he been in a fight? Some sort of struggle? It explains the pain. He would have fought tooth and nail before allowing himself to be put in this situation. Thankfully, other than his arm nothing seems broken. His abdomen hurts, but that could simply be due to a blow to the stomach. He only hopes his kidneys weren't injured too badly.
He shifts. Clothing feels stiff. Dropping his hand, he touches his shirt. Familiar cotton. Torn in places. Several buttons missing. No vest. No jacket. He touches his wrist. No watch. His lips twist as he lowers his hand further. Flakes come off under his questing fingers. He thinks for a moment, rubbing it between the long digits. Dirt. Dried mud. There could be dried blood, but he has no way of knowing.
His hand reaches his pockets. Empty. Where was his phone?
Calm.
Deep breaths.
Depending upon how deep he lay, a cell phone signal might not reach him anyway.
The fingers on Reid's injured arm tap a nonsensical pattern on his chest.
Can't be too deep, he figures. Despite the idea popularized by Daniel Defoe's novel A Journal of the Plague Year, most bodies are not buried six feet under. Even if I was, the box would have likely collapsed under the strain of all the dirt.
The light would have been nice though…
Are the others already tracking my phone, wherever it is? What will they find?
An image flashes before his eyes. Garcia, as seen through a laptop, is at her workstation, surrounded by computers, frantically searching for the tiniest lead that would help solve their latest case. It could have been an image from any of a number of cases… but no. This was different. Red hair pinned up in several braids, flashy green earrings reminiscent of fly-fishing hooks, an ochre top, sparkly green-rimmed glasses… Even without sound to accompany the memory, he knows. This is different. It doesn't associate with any remembered cases. Unless he's forgetting more than he thought…
Breathe.
Calm.
Best not to consider that at this time.
So… next question. What case had they been working on?
He focuses his mind back, before the plane. His memory of that time was still solid, still clear. J.J. walks past him dressed in black slacks, a green blouse, and her blonde hair pulled back into a tail. She looks back at him as she picks up a pile of files and a cup of coffee from the desk.
"We'll be flying into Lakeview, Oregon and driving from there." She frowns. "The area is pretty remote."
Memory shifts. A map appears in his mind. Lakeview, population 2294 according to latest census. Located east of Klamath Falls and west of Hart Mountain, a national antelope refuge. Other small towns nearby included Plush, Adel, and Frenchglen… Nearby being relative. It was approximately 41.47 miles from Lakeview to Plush… and another 71.81 miles to Frenchglen.
The image wavers. His mind closes around the memory, refusing to offer any more details. A sharp spike of fear strikes his brain…
The darkness is closing in… reaching into his mind… feeding on the darkness already there…
No! Breathe deep… steady…
Transient global amnesia, caused by mild head trauma. Symptoms usually last less than 24 hours. It would resolve itself on its own. Memories were already starting to return. Until then, he needs to figure out how to get out of his current situation.
Reid moves his hand, hesitating momentarily before brushing his fingers across side of the coffin. The shallow scratches… as though someone had already tried to get out. Would he find broken fingernails beneath him? Dried blood on the wood? The smell no longer stings his nose, but it still hovers… stale… old… he isn't the first to be trapped here.
The question is, had the previous occupant been released prior to death by dehydration, or after?
Profile the situation.
The unsub was obviously experienced. Been doing this for some time. Wasn't interested in a quick death. Sadist. He already deduced that the box was likely built for women. The question then is: why is he here?
In the wrong place at the wrong time.
He isn't sure where the thought comes from, but he accepts it as fact.
So. The air vent implies that the unsub wants to keep his victims alive for a period of time. He eventually retrieves the victims, although whether alive or dead at the time of retrieval…
Probably alive, he decides. When you consider that this place had been used before, and that there was a vent to keep his victims alive longer, I doubt the unsub would have just sat back and watched the final death. He would want a hand in it. Maybe even extend the moment out. Which means communication. Either someone dwells close enough to hear their screams for help, or there is some other means to keep track of the confined victim. A camera… or two-way radio…
He shifts. His foot strikes the end of the box and he freezes. Breathing quickens.
No… steady… calm…
His body is already stiff from lying in one position. He isn't used to being still, or lying on such a hard, unforgiving surface. His body doesn't have enough extra fat or muscle to provide more comfort. There is an ache in his back… in his hips…
Taking another deep breath, he runs his hand along the sides of the box again. There are hinges along the upper edge. Which means the weak point is on the opposite side… unless there is a latch holding the box closed. It wouldn't take much to keep someone on the inside from being unable to open it. His earlier panic had already proved that the lid wasn't lifting off any time soon.
His fingers keep exploring. After a moment he frowns. He finds what feels like a plastic covered wire tucked along the bottom edge of the box. It emerges from the vent… something he missed before in his struggle to keep his panic in check. The other end… he traces it down. The wire is loose. He tugs on it, and something rattles.
Reid's breath stops.
It's down near his thigh, behind his bent knees. He had made no notice of it in his earlier panic. This was exactly why he needed to remain calm.
He carefully pulls at the wire, drawing it upwards…
There! His fingers explore its shape. Plastic. As long as his hand… button on its side, dial on top… a two-way radio.
Relief makes his arms weak. His fingers fumble with the switch, and a tiny green light appears. It isn't enough to see by, but it is enough to ease some of the pressure in his chest.
He rests his finger on the push-to-talk button, and after a moment's hesitation, presses down.
"Hello?"
There is no answer; only static. Was the receiving end even turned on?
"Hello?" His fingers shake, the light dancing in the dark like a lone firefly in the night. He licks his upper lip. "Is there anyone there? I need help!"
The radio feels cheap. He doubts that it is repeater capable, so its range will be fairly limited.
The average hand-held radio is advertised at thirty miles given optimal conditions… no obstructions, mountain to valley… in reality the range is closer to two miles. Yet the antenna suggests a range of possibly more than two miles to the other radio. It seems a large distance to travel to keep tabs on a victim.
"Can anyone hear me?"
Maybe it was night, and the person on the other end was asleep. There was no way of knowing except…
He frowns… realizes he feels slightly chilled. It's currently late spring. If he's not buried too deep, the temperature should get progressively warmer as the day progresses or cooler with continuing night, barring meteorological disturbances such as a sudden cold front or snowfall. Although if he was buried in a grove of trees or some sort of shelter…
The wind.
The whistling sound hasn't completely stopped; the tone continuing to rise and fall in unfamiliar patterns. Like a breath of focused air over a whiskey jug. It was the wind blowing over the vent. Which increased the likelihood that he was somewhere out in the open. Potentially visible…. And possibly exposed to the sun.
His mind whirls.
While some engineering sources cite the resistance to heat flow of dirt at .25 per inch, they don't normalize for soil properties and moisture content. The accepted R-value is typically .80 at 20% moisture with one inch equivalent to approximately two feet of soil. If I could somehow track the change of temperature, I might be able to calculate depth…
Which would get me where? It wouldn't help the more immediate problem: possible impending hypothermia. And secondly…
He breathes out loudly through his nose. Even if he were only two feet under, he still doesn't have the strength to force the lid off. There was no room to maneuver. Morgan could probably shove the box open with brute force. Unfortunately, Reid's strength lay not in his physical abilities, but in his mind.
"Don't know if I'll be able to think my way out of this one," he mutters. "Never learned the magic trick of escaping from a locked box either." Once again he pushes the button on the radio. "Hello? Is anyone out there?"
Of course, if Morgan were trapped in here, he would likely be worse off. Only an inch shorter, but much broader across the shoulders and chest, he would have even less room to maneuver. Hotch wouldn't do much better. Slightly shorter, Rossi might have a bit more of an advantage. J.J. and Emily… he could imagine Emily kicking her way out. The box didn't stand a chance. And Garcia…
The image that came to mind brought a tiny smile to his lips. Garcia, vibrant makeup smeared about her face, bright red hair matted with mud, overly large handbag over one arm, crawling out of the earth like a vengeful zombie ready to deliver some serious whoop-ass on her attacker.
When he gets back it will definitely time for another zombie night marathon.
"Can anyone hear me?"
What if no one ever answers?
The thought causes his breath to quicken again. He forces himself to breathe slow and deep. No hyperventilating. All avenues must be considered. If his presence here was a spur-of-the-moment decision, an accident, then they could have abandoned all evidence on the other end; especially if he had been caught while doing an investigation. Maybe he had found something… seen something… hwe couldn't recall. But his team wouldn't give up searching until he was found. Which might put pressure on the unsub to dispose any and all evidence of his burial.
The team would find him. They would.
You have approximately three days… perhaps longer if you keep exertion to a minimum and the temperature remains at a steady, comfortable level.
Already his mouth feels dry from a combination of fear and lack of fluids.
"Is there anyone out there?" His voice quivers as he fights back panic. He coughs, clearing his throat. His eyes remain focused on the tiny spot of light.
The device runs on batteries. He can feel the panel on the back.
How long before the batteries die and the light goes out?
The radio had been switched off. He doubts the last victim had done so. Even faced with taunts and tormenting words, he can't imagine shutting off the only connection with the outside. Or turning off the only speck of light in this all-consuming darkness. Which meant it was likely that someone had turned it off after releasing their last victim. Maybe even replaced the batteries in preparation for the next. He could only hope.
.
TBC…