Daylight was just about to hit me so I ran. The light blistered my skin before I ever reached the hole where Winkler had been buried. The blisters that were forming on my exposed skin began to blacken as I tossed the dead man inside the hole, and the pain I felt as my skin started melting is indescribable. I was shrieking from the agony as I shoved the dirt I'd removed from the site into the hole. Then, my arms black, my face most likely black and the rest of my body beginning to boil, I burrowed into the loose earth until every bit of me was covered. After that, I can't tell you what happened. I might have been dead, but wasn't I already?
* * *
When Winkler punched the code into the keypad outside the gate and let himself in, his entire staff—the ones that were still on their feet, anyway—all rushed him at once, demanding to know what had happened. Winkler was dazed and couldn't give coherent answers right away so Davis, Glen and Phil hauled him into the kitchen. Glen, who had some medical training, checked Winkler over and then started pouring fluids into him. "No soda, you need water and juice," Glen ordered. Winkler said something rude to Glen. Glen just laughed at his employer.
"Where the hell were you?" Phil demanded.
"Metal box buried in the middle of nowhere," Winkler choked a little on his orange juice, coughed a bit and then continued. "Lissa pulled me out of there. Don't know how she found me. Some dead guy was there, on top of the box."
"Where's Lissa now? Did she bring you back?" Davis asked urgently.
"Don't know. She stayed behind. Told the guy driving the van to drop me off here. So he dropped me off here and left." The van was still parked in front of the gate; the farmer had left it there and walked away.
"So, we don't know where she is?" Davis was a bit more concerned, now.
"Try calling her cell," Phil suggested. Davis pulled his cell out and hit Lissa's number on speed dial. There wasn't an answer.
"Fuck," Davis breathed, trying again. Still nothing.
"Now what?" Glen asked.
"She got me out of that hole and she seemed okay," Winkler was sipping more juice. "Is there anything to eat?" Davis herded the cook into the kitchen and she started making breakfast for all of them.
"Do you remember anything about where you were? What if those shitheads who buried you found her out there?" Davis was back to worrying about Lissa.
"I don't remember," Winkler rubbed his forehead.
"Stop bothering him. We'll worry about Lissa later," Glen growled. "She's a big girl. She can take care of herself." Davis almost growled at Glen but held back. Phil got on the phone and managed to find a doctor willing to come to the house for a fee. The physician pronounced Winkler "In good condition but dehydrated," and charged a thousand dollars.
"I could have told you that," Glen muttered angrily after the doctor drove his Mercedes out of the driveway. They still hadn't heard anything concerning Lissa and they were all worried.
That was nothing compared to Gavin's anger and distress when he emerged from the guesthouse after darkness had fallen. Davis informed him that a Good Samaritan had left Winkler and the van in front of the house before disappearing. Davis also informed Gavin that Lissa was missing; she'd pulled Winkler from his underground tomb and sent him back with the unknown driver. "We can't reach her by cell and Winkler was still drugged enough that he has no idea where he was," Davis paced a little. Gavin looked thunderous.
"You didn't go looking for her?" he was growling, now.
"Where the hell were we supposed to start?" Davis raked a hand through his hair. "We have absolutely nothing to go on."
"We had nothing to go on last night as well," Gavin swore a little. "Lissa was the one who figured things out enough to go look."
"If she comes back, I don't know if I want her going off by herself like that again." Davis was allowing his anger free rein. Gavin's was mostly held in check. If he allowed his anger to surface, somebody might die.
"Keep trying her cell phone," Gavin ordered. "It's dark, now."
Davis gave Gavin a long look and pulled out his cell phone.
* * *
We don't breathe when we sleep. If I'd tried, I would have suffocated there in the cold, wet soil. A dead man lay buried next to me—so close I touched his flesh when I scrambled out of my makeshift grave. My clothes and skin were covered in mud as I crawled out and I probably looked like a creature from one of those swamp movies. That didn't do much for my ego, let me tell you. Dirt and mud caked my hair, too. Rain was falling as I stood at the edge of the wheat field, beating down on my back as I shoved the displaced dirt over my exit hole. The dead security guard could stay there and rot for all I cared. I figured he'd led the kidnappers straight to Winkler, handing out phone numbers and the address so they could lure him away from the house and then take him. The kidnappers had killed the former security guard for his trouble.
Now, all I had to do was clean myself up as best I could, find a ride into town and explain to Winkler and the others where I'd been all day. No problem. I walked across the road and then to the edge of the deep ditch where the Jaguar lay. Here was transportation, if it were on the road instead of in the ditch. I'd seen the keys; they were still in the ignition the night before. The farmer had come to get his tractor earlier, I imagined, it wasn't parked next to the wheat field where he'd left it.
I stared a little longer at the Jaguar. Was I a vampire or not? Time to find out how strong I was. I'd see if I could pull Winkler's Jaguar out of the ditch using my bare hands. Grabbing the back bumper, I heaved a little, lifting it right up. I decided that vampirism might have its perks—the jury was still out. Pulling it out of the ditch was a little harder; the soft ground sucked at the front wheels, creating deep ruts as I heaved and tugged on the vehicle. It took nearly five minutes to get it out of the ditch and onto the road, but I did it.
The Jaguar started right up, thankfully, but hunger was now gnawing at me. I'd ignored it at first, but my body had healed itself from the extreme sunburns I'd gotten and was now demanding to be fed as compensation for the daytime restoration. I checked my reflection in the rear-view mirror as I drove toward Oklahoma City. My mud-streaked face was frightful. Nobody was going to allow me to approach them like this. Nobody.
The hitchhiker, dressed in faded jeans, old boots and an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a ragged t-shirt was walking backward along the side of the road, his thumb out, a backpack slung over his shoulder. He'd do fine as a meal—if he consented to get into the car with me, that is. I slowed down and pulled over, rolling down the passenger window to talk to the boy.