Page 39 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

S KIP, ENCLOSED IN cool darkness, swam back into consciousness.

For a moment he had no idea who he was or what had happened, and he was abruptly seized by panic.

But as he struggled to sit up—gasping for breath, head pounding, and black spots blossoming in his vision—the attack came back to him, first in fragments, then in force.

Once again he realized he was bound in the dark with leather straps, his hands behind his back and his ankles tied together.

How long had he been there?

It felt like days he had been drifting in and out of consciousness.

Panic blanketed him once again.

He made another effort to sit up, every bone in his body aching.

They had beaten the crap out of him.

At least his head seemed finally to be clearing—a little.

“Hey!” he cried out.

“What’s going on? Hey! ”

Nothing.

The air smelled of earth and dirt, and the darkness was absolute.

He was still underground.

He practically choked, hyperventilating in terror.

Who had attacked them—and why?

Where was Edison? He dimly remembered, through a haze of pain, Edison getting a terrible beating.

He struggled and screamed, then screamed again.

The sound was muffled, dead.

But there was no sound, no light, nothing.

At last, he managed to struggle upright, then began pushing himself backward with his feet—the only way the leather strips allowed him to move.

The ground was hard dirt, and his heels dug in as he forced his way backward.

And then, suddenly, he encountered something—a wall.

He felt with his hands.

It was smooth and felt as if it had been plastered.

He could tell it was slightly curved.

“Hey! Someone! Anyone! ”

It was like shouting into a hole.

The panic surged again, and Skip fought to tamp it down.

He had to think, figure out what to do.

If only he knew what was going on, where he was, who these people were, what they wanted, then maybe…

He heard a faint groan in the darkness.

It came from the other side of the cave, or well, or whatever hole he was in.

With an effort, he turned around and began digging his feet in, pushing himself in the direction of the sound.

His head pounded, and one of his eyes felt swollen, almost shut.

There was blood crusted around his nose.

He was thirsty and hungry.

He gave a cry of surprise as his tied hands encountered something soft and yielding—a body.

He slowly let his hands crawl over the clothing, the skin.

He opened his mouth to cry out Who is it?

—and then, for the first time, realized it might in fact be better if he made no sound at all.

The body moved, and he heard another groan.

Christ, it sounded like Edison.

“Edison!” He shook the body as best he could.

“Edison, is that you?”

No answer.

Skip prodded again, eliciting another moan.

It sure as hell sounded like Edison.

It had to be Edison.

He must be badly injured.

“Edison,” he whispered.

“It’s Skip.”

A groan, followed only by heavy, stertorous breathing.

Oh my God . Skip felt panic seize him again.

What had they done to trigger this?

Had they come across a group of killers dwelling in a remote canyon?

Had they stumbled onto a crazed militia, or a group of paranoid back-to-the-land survivalists?

And then he heard another sound in the darkness.

This one came from above.

He listened intently, holding his breath.

There was a muffled scraping, and then a narrow rectangle of light appeared overhead, growing wider as some sort of covering was slid back.

It sent down a shaft of light that, quite suddenly, made clear to Skip where he was: at the bottom of an ancient kiva, a circular underground chamber that was the center of religious ceremonies for Pueblo Indians.

A square hole in the roof had opened up, and now a crude wooden ladder was descending.

A face appeared in the square of light, backlit and featureless.

Turning, Skip saw that the body next to him was indeed Edison.

He felt horrified: the man was savagely beaten, face purple and swollen, blood caked around his nose and mouth.

His feet were bound together by the end of a thick cord, and another dozen feet of what looked like steel cable was loosely coiled nearby.

His shirt was torn and his eyes were but half-open, unseeing slits.

Good God, he looked as if he was dying.

“ What’s going on? ” Skip cried, unable to keep himself from shouting.

“Why are you doing this?”

The dark silhouette in the square of light did not move, simply looking down on him.

“My friend needs medical attention!”

No reaction.

And then there was another scraping sound, the square of light became a quickly diminishing rectangle—and then silence once again reigned in the cool dark.

His head began to whirl, and he laid it down and sank back into unconsciousness.