Speak the Dead by Grant McKenzie Page B

handle. The handle was unlocked and the door swung open. She looked at Jersey, her expression serious. “That’s not good.”
    Jersey’s jaw clenched tight as he withdrew his weapon and followed Amarela into the apartment.
    â€œSally!” Jersey shouted. “Sally, you in here?”
    A multi-colored cat hissed at Jersey before scampering under the television stand to hide behind a box of DVDs. Its ears were tucked low and its eyes were filled with distrust.
    Amarela moved to the bathroom and nudged the door open with her foot.
    â€œTub’s full of water, but no naked girl.”
    Jersey eased over to the bedroom door and turned the handle. He entered in a combat crouch, but apart from a pile of discarded clothes and a rumpled bed, the room was unoccupied.
    â€œAll clear,” he called before making his way back to the main room.
    â€œThere’s nobody here.” Amarela joined her partner and nodded at a near empty glass of wine sitting on a coffee table. “Looks like she was planning a relaxing bath before bed, but either changed her mind or was interrupted.”
    â€œNo sign of a struggle?” Jersey voiced aloud.
    â€œNothing. Maybe a boyfriend stopped by and made her a better offer.”
    Jersey’s eyes narrowed.
    â€œHey,” said Amarela, “I’m just saying. You’ve only known her one day. You don’t know what she’s into.”
    Jersey entered the kitchen and found the wall phone dangling by its cord. He lifted the receiver and hit redial to watch the last number called appear on the base’s tiny digital screen. Only five of seven numbers appeared, but Jersey knew the number well—it was his own.
    â€œBag the wine glass,” he called out, needing to displace his rising panic with action. “I want it tested for GHB or its ilk.” GHB was an acronym for gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid, a colorless, odorless liquid known by many names on the street, such as Easy Lay or Grievous Bodily Harm, but was most commonly referred to as the date-rape drug.
    Jersey cursed under his breath. Sally was missing, and he couldn’t get over the feeling that it was all his fault.

25
    A wakening in a dark, cramped and uncomfortable place, Sally’s first thought was, When did I fall sleep? The last thing she recalled was the glass of wine and the odd thought that her consonants slurred before a heavy, incoherent weariness had suddenly fallen over her. After that, her memory was frighteningly blank.
    Now her tongue was thick and wooly, her throat parched, and her ears stuffed with cotton. The aftereffects of a drug.
    She cursed and blinked, making sure she was truly awake. The darkness remained undisturbed.
    Stay calm , she told herself, but even her inner-voice was shaky. As panic made her breath quicken and her heart race, the terrifying image of being trapped inside a coffin filled her thoughts.
    Sally bolted upright, her stomach muscles doing all the work, and smacked her head with a loud bone-on-metal clang. Sally cried out as something sharp bit into her scalp, and with a whimper, she collapsed flat on her back again. A warm wetness dripped from a painful gash in her skull.
    Cursing again, Sally tried to move her arms and legs, but they were bound together at ankles and wrists. She moved her head to the right and saw only a deeper darkness, but when she moved it to the left there was a pinprick of dim red light. Raising her bound arms, she felt the lid. The hard metal was flocked in a thin layer of cloth, not that it had done her head any good.
    Concentrate. Where am I?
    Taking a deep breath, Sally tasted stale, sickly air. Beneath her, rhythmic waves radiated through tense muscles like a boat on a choppy lake. But the steady rumble and occasional jolt wasn’t that of a boat.
    She was in the trunk of a car, she reasoned, her head was throbbing, and she needed to pee. Badly.
    Rolling onto her left side, Sally drew up her knees and kicked