Stalking the Muse

Helen Chapman

"I'd like to thank you all for coming. I have plenty of literature here on the table. Please help yourself."

The small conference room in the hotel filled with applause. This was a totally new experience for Shane Hart. It hadn't been all that bad, although now that it was done, all he could think to do was concentrate on straightening the papers and copies of his book arranged on the table. Since his first novel had debuted just before Christmas he had been deluged with requests to lead discussion groups at writers' conferences. This was the first one he had accepted.

Shane had been just a regular guy, divorced, working every day at a bank, buying his groceries at the local Piggly Wiggly and eating from the drive-thru at Krystal's on his way home a couple nights a month. Perfectly normal. Until he decided to put together the stories he heard growing up.

His was an old Southern family, filled with people with names like Mary Jane and Billy Ray. Generations before, the family had money, land and slaves. The money and most of the land was gone, the slaves freed. All that was left were the old house and the stories, some of which toyed with the supernatural. Things like voodoo and even a woman some distant kin had accused of witchcraft. His daughter had taken his stories, put them together and asked him to make them into one single, cohesive tale. It hadn't taken all that much work to turn it into a novel. He hadn't even known his daughter had submitted the damned thing until he had received the acceptance letter from that agent. From there, the manuscript had gone to auction. All it had taken was two hundred years of living.

"That was a lovely presentation, Mr. Hart."

Shane looked up to thank whoever had spoken. It was a woman in her thirties. Reasonably attractive, dark, wavy hair, cheekbones that would be envy of any model, and a sun-kissed tan he'd bet didn't show any bikini lines. Her voice had the lilt of the deep, cultured South, much further south than Shane's own stomping ground. He would have guessed southern Alabama or perhaps Georgia.

"Why thank you, young lady." He smiled broadly, flashing the teeth he had just had whitened at his dentist's office in preparation for this gig. He knew it was a vanity, but he was man enough to admit he was vain. It was then he noticed she was the only attendee left in the room. The others had apparently hurried off to their next lecture.

The woman returned his smile. "Mr. Hart, I'm working on an article for the Journal about the conference. Would you mind giving me an interview?"

Wow. Two firsts in one day. His first official gig as an author, and his first professional interview. "Certainly." Now what?

The woman's smile broadened. "That's wonderful, Mr. Hart. If you'll be around a while, I would love to buy your supper. I can do the interview then, and we'll have a good meal besides."

Shane thought he could do worse than sit across a table from this woman. Besides, he would be getting a free meal. "That would be great. You name the place."

Shane arrived in the hotel's dining room at seven. As he scanned the tables, he realized then he had neglected to ask his benefactor's name. Now he couldn't even ask the host to be taken to her table. He decided to go into the bar and wait. It was obvious she wasn't here yet. He could sit in the bar, watch the door and enjoy a cold beer while he waited. Shane considered it a win-win.

The bartender had just poured his glass of Winter Wheat when Shane felt a presence behind him. No one touched him; there wasn't any sort of physical contact. He could just "feel" someone or something there.

"You can't hide from me in here, Mr. Hart."

It was her. The woman for the interview. Whew! He was starting to get a little nervous, starting to believe his own stories. No time like now to complete introductions. "Hello, Ms...?"

She ignored his prompt. "The hostess has a table for us in the back corner. That way we won't be disturbed." She turned abruptly and headed toward the restaurant.

Shane enjoyed the view of her walking away for a few steps before he began to follow. She had changed out of her jeans and top from this morning, and was now wearing a skirt and jacket, with a very feminine lacy blouse. He was glad now he had taken time to shower and shave and put on a tie before he came down to his meeting.

He followed her to the hostess' stand, and they were taken to a table in a secluded corner or the restaurant. The nearest diners were at least ten feet away. The perfect place for an interview. Or a romantic dinner. Shane shook that thought off. He was here to do a professional bit of PR, not to get laid. Then again, should she offer, he didn't think he'd turn her down.

The hostess left them with their menus. Shane opened his and glanced quickly through the list of prices. He could order the most expensive thing, since her paper was footing the bill, or he could order his usual restaurant meal: an appetizer and a dessert. He decided to wait and see what his benefactor ordered, and to place his own requests accordingly.

"So, what do you recommend, Ms...?" He still didn't know her name. This was getting ridiculous. He was ready to call her Hey You just to get her attention.

She ignored his hint. "Their tapas are very good. Would you mind if we shared some of the small plates?"

Shane shook his head. "No, not at all. So long as you don't mind if we share dessert too."

The reporter smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I don't mind at all."

The waiter appeared, pad at the ready. The reporter ordered for both of them, requesting beef carpaccio, squid, and several things Shane didn't quite recognize. She also ordered a bottle of white Lambrusco. Shane thought it might be a little sweet for his taste, but he'd drink it if she did.

The sommelier appeared with an uncorked bottle and poured a small amount in a glass. He swirled it and sniffed lightly, making sure that his nose never contacted the glass, and that his gloved hand only held the glass' stem. He passed the glass to Shane. He didn't know much about wine, other than since his book had sold he was able to afford the kind that didn't come in a box. What the hell. He'd try anything once.

In imitation of the sommelier waiting so expectantly, Shane swirled, sniffed, then took a small sip. He swished it around his mouth the way he had seen those experts do at wine tastings. He wasn't about to spit it out though. He swallowed, then smiled. It was rather good. Neither overly sweet nor dry, it was the Goldilocks of white wine. It was just right.

The pair were left alone with full glasses while they waited for their small plates to arrive. The reporter asked some small questions, more or less to break the ice. Shane gave small answers, volunteering nothing. A basket containing a thinly sliced baguette and a small pot of butter and another of soft goat cheese appeared as if by magic. They continued their verbal sparring until a food runner arrived with a tray held on her shoulder. She arranged the plates in the center of the table, and stepped aside quickly to allow the waiter to lay two empty plates for the diners and to refill their wine glasses.

Shane looked at the food arrayed before him. He hadn't recognized some of the names when she was ordering. Now that it was here, he still didn't know what he was about to eat. He knew the battered and fried squid to be calamari, and carpaccio was paper thin slices of raw beef on a bed of greens, dressed with balsamic vinegar. The rest looked good, even if he had yet to learn the names of the food, much like his hostess.

The reporter looked over the ten plates and took up her fork. She selected something from four of the plates, and Shane followed her lead, choosing the same viands. He matched her mouthful for mouthful, all the while watching her face for some sign of...anything. She was an enigma, this reporter. He hoped to discover more about her. But first, her name.

"I find myself at a disadvantage. You know I'm Shane Hart, but I don't know your name."

She laid her fork down, wiped her mouth as she swallowed and looked up at him. "No, I suppose you don't." She smiled sweetly, her air of mystery enveloping him. "So, tell me Shane. What possessed you to write about your family the way you did?"

Shane wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. First she changed directions so fast she gave him whiplash. Then she asked a question that sounded as if she was slamming his book. His book that had spent the last four weeks on two different "best seller" lists. He decided to ignore her sarcastic tone. "Well, you know, they tell us to 'write what we know'. I know about my family. Had them all my life in fact." He smiled at her, trying to impart a bit of levity. It wasn't working. "I grew up hearing stories from my granny and my aunts about the old days and the old ways. My daughter asked if I could write the stories down for future generations, then submitted it to an agent. He liked it, and, well, one thing led to another as it were."

She nodded as she speared another slice of the bloody raw beef. "And what about the people? What did they think about you writing those stories?"

What the hell was wrong with this woman? "Well, they buy it, so I reckon they like it just fine."

"No, the People. The ones your family called Our People. You know. The like they said Our House and Our Horses. The People."

Now he knew where this was going. This reporter must be some bleeding heart trying to make him apologize for the inequities of generations past. He had dealt with these rabid types before. "Well, I'll tell you. I didn't ask them. And you know why? Because on January 1, 1863, Lincoln freed them. I don't know where their descendants are or who they might be."

The reporter looked at him across the table. She had a peculiar sneer on her face. Shane didn't like this one bit. "Did you even try to find them, Mr. Hart? Did you make any effort at all?"

Shane started to answer. "Well..." Then he caught himself. He seemed to be saying "well" an awful lot today. As a writer, and a published one at that, he knew better than that. He had a pretty decent vocabulary after all. He shouldn't be at a loss for words. "Ms Whatever Your Name Is, I did not try to find my family's 'people'. I was retelling stories as they were told to me. No more, no less. This is not a book of history, or of social importance. It is an entertainment for a hot summer evening on the porch, or for a cold winter night in front of the hearth."

Shane was finished with his food. He wanted to be finished with her. He tossed his napkin on the table and started to stand.

"Mr. Hart, please. I'm sorry if I came across too strong. I just feel strongly about some subjects and my mouth runs away with itself. Please, allow me to make amends. Let's finish our meal, shall we? No more questions, okay? Besides, we still have half a bottle of wine, and I owe you a dessert. Truce?" She offered her hand. "I'm Patricia, by the way."

Only a first name, but it was a start. He shook her hand lightly and resumed his seat, still cautious of her, but willing to give her another chance.

They made small talk for the rest of the meal, little tidbits here and there about other authors' presentations at the conference. Patricia had attended several of the groups today, and had stories about each one. Shane had spent the time after his own group trying to decide if he wanted to do a breakout group on Saturday. It was a premium group, where participants paid extra, and was done as a round table. He wasn't sure if he was ready for a full on Q&A session for ninety minutes. He was glad to hear about other writing professionals' foibles and faux pas.

Patricia ordered dessert. Not one to share, as they originally planned, but two different ones: something called a molten cookie cake served with a scoop of ice cream, and a Bourbon sauced bread pudding. They both partook of the bounty, eating and laughing and wondering how the famous guest of honor managed to fit his hat on top of his Larry Fine 'fro.

By the time they finished their meal, Shane felt as if they were becoming friends. They parted company in the lobby when Shane got on the elevator to ride back up to the seventh floor to his room. He let himself in with his key card, hung his jacket on the back of the desk chair and flopped down on the bed. He turned on the television and was pondering if he should take a shower when someone knocked on the door. It was almost eleven o'clock at night. Who the hell could that be? Only one way to find out. He went to the door and looked through the peep hole. He recognized the maroon jacket of the staff and opened the door. "Yes?"

The bellman held up a tray. "Mr. Hart? Miss Patricia asked me to bring this to your room. May I bring it inside?"

Shane opened the door wide and allowed the bellman to pass. He put tray holding a treasured bottle of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel, along with a bucket of ice, a pitcher of water and a glass on the table by the window and left the room as inconspicuously as possible.

Shane sauntered over to the table and picked up the bottle. A note was tied around the bottle. "Mr. Hart, I offer my sincere apologies for my unladylike behavior earlier. Please accept this as a way to make amends. Perhaps we can meet again to complete our interview for my article." The note was signed "Patricia".

Any woman who would send him a bottle of first class liquor wasn't all bad, considering the prices this place charged, it had probably set her back a couple of hundred bucks. He would give her another chance, sure. But first he was going to sample the offering.

Three ice cubes in the glass. Never two, never four. Three was the right number. Two fingers of Bourbon in the bottom of the glass, then a quick splash of branch water. He grabbed the tv remote and found something interesting on one of the movie channels. The only thing that would have made this better was a good cigar, but the damned hotel was smoke free. He wasn't about to go up on the roof of the parking structure for a stogy. He only smoked one or two a year anyway.

He propped his feet on the bed and leaned back in his chair. He sipped his drink, savoring the burn as it trickled down the back of his throat. Shane finished his first glass and poured a second, with just a touch more water this time. He was starting to feel sleepy when he reached the bottom of the glass. Rather than pour a third, he added more ice and water only. Halfway through the glass, and he didn't remember getting into bed.

Or leaving the hotel. Yet when he awoke, he was in a small room, far smaller than the small suite he had at the hotel. There was one high window, obviously on facing east as the morning sun was pouring in. The king sized bed was gone, replaced with a narrow cot. The walls were painted the same nondescript eggshell white, but the floor was concrete rather than carpeted. He suspected the bucket in the corner took the place of his bathroom. The real give-away was the heavy iron shackle around his ankle.

He followed the chain to a ring mounted between the bricks in the wall. It seemed it would be easy enough to work that loose, if he didn't starve to death before he succeeded. He walked off the room, trying to see just how far his chain would allow him to go. The room was long and narrow, with a door in the far end. His tether was just long enough to keep him within four feet of that door, and his hope for escape. The window was too narrow to fit through. But if he could pull the bunk over and stand on it, he could perhaps see where he was.

The cot was heavier than he thought. He tried dragging it, but it didn't want to budge. He stood on one end, put his foot on the end and shoved. It finally moved, just an inch. He shoved again. It slid a little further. It seemed to take forever, but he finally got it below the window. He climbed up on the thin mattress and had to stretch to look out the narrow opening. He saw a field, trees, and a few cattle. Okay. He was on a farm. Cows looked like Brown Swiss, so it was most likely a dairy operation. There was no glass in the window, and a light breeze blew in, carrying with it a peculiar odor. He sniffed, not sure what it was. It wasn't the smell of a barnyard, that much he knew. It wasn't wood smoke either, but the smell was familiar none the less. He just couldn't put his finger on it.

The knob on the door turned. Shane got down quickly and sat on the edge of the cot, trying to look nonchalant. He crossed his legs then realized how ridiculous he looked. Too late.

The door swung wide. All he could see was a figure in the doorway. It appeared female;with the back lighting he couldn't really tell. She stepped in and closed the door. "Good morning, Mr. Hart. I hope you slept well."

"Patricia?" He should have known. "What the hell is going on?" He wasn't a great writer. He wrote one lousy book for shit sake, and had a couple of lucky breaks. So why was he here in this room like James Woods in Misery? If he got out of this, he planned to write a long letter to Stephen King about that damned book.

"Yes, Mr. Hart. Patricia. I hope you enjoyed my little gift last night. And I apologize for the drugs in the water pitcher. But it was the only way to make sure you got enough to knock you out."

Shane figured he didn't have a choice but to play along. "Okay. So I'm here. Just where is here by the way?"

Patricia looked at him hard. "You really don't know where you are, do you? Well, I do declayah, Massa Shane. Ya'll should know your own quahtahs. Your people lived in places just like this, sleeping twelve and fifteen to a room. They cooked, they ate, loved, lived and died in these crowded little rooms."

What the hell was wrong with this woman? Why was she talking like Butterfly McQueen all of a sudden? "You know Patricia, I appreciate the history lesson. But the joke is over. Unlock the shackles and let me out of here, and we'll forget all about this."

She sneered. "It's no joke, Mr. Hart. Or should I call you cousin?"

That got his attention. "Cousin? I know every one of my cousins. You're not one of them."

She stepped closer. "Really? You think you know every one of your cousins? What about the ones who are several generations removed? You know your third and fourth and fifth cousins?"

He nodded, sure of his genealogical skills. "Yes. I'm met or talked to every one of my cousins when I traced our family tree. I went back to when my ancestors came over from England. Hell, I even spoke to a couple of cousins in Manchester. The one in the UK. So no. You are not one of my cousins."

Her smile was starting to scare him. "Not quite, Massa Hart." Her accent became thick, a parody of southern dialect. "You done forgot about your kinfolk down he-ah in the quahtahs. You just nevah know how many cousins you might have down he-ah."

Shane shook his head. "No. I don't believe that."

She was done playing with him. "Let me tell you, Mister Hart." She stressed the Mister, making it sound like a curse. "I read your book, and you left out some important things. You mentioned a woman accused of witchcraft. You never said anything more about it, other than she was accused. I know a lot more about it than you. You see, Mr. Hart, that woman was my great great grandmother. It was your great great grandmother who accused her. Do you know why the accusation was made?"

He shook his head no. What she was saying couldn't have been true. It was just too much of a coincidence.

"It's true, Mr. Hart. My great granny was also your great granddaddy's mistress. No, that's the wrong word. He visited her in the quarters when your great granny was indisposed. Apparently, Miz Hart was indisposed a lot, because your granddaddy and my granny had six babies. When Granny took sick with the last one, your granny got tired of your granddaddy's philandering ways. So she accused my granny of witchcraft. The men from the church came out, and had a trial." She snorted. A most unladylike sound. "The trial consisted of Miz Hart telling what she wanted them to hear, and my granny standing there in chains, not allowed to speak in her own defense.

"When they were done, they found her guilty of being a witch. But your great-granddaddy said he didn't want her hanged, because she was a good breeder. She'd already given him five babies and another one was on the way. Couldn't he just have her punished instead? So they whipped her. Fifty lashes on her naked back. Your granddaddy was so generous. He waited until the day after she had given birth to baby number six before he had the punishment carried out."

Shane stood. He was afraid where this was going. He did not want to be punished for any imagined insult committed by an ancestor. "Patricia, what does this have to do with me? Or you? The people you're talking about have been dead for 100 years or more."

"You know what I want, Mr. Hart? What we want? We want recognition. We want to be acknowledged by you and the other people in your class." She spat out the words, making "class" sound like an obscenity. "Those fine members of the southern gentry who consider themselves above the rest of the world. The ones who rate other people by the quality of their predecessors rather than their portfolios or their worth as human beings."

He shook his head. He had no idea what she wanted. "Patricia, I know things were horrible in the Bad Old Days. But what can I do about it? What can you do?"

"You can write another book. You can tell the stories of the people on this side of history."

He flopped back and sat on the straw stuffed mattress. He felt the ropes creak under him. "Okay. Let me go. I'll go back to the hotel and start on it tonight." He tried smiling at her, but it came across as more of a grimace.

"Oh, right. I let you go, and you hightail it to the police, and you wind up with a whole lot of free publicity, and your Tar Baby stories get even more press. No, Massa Hart. I do believe you need to stay right here. You can work where you are. I'll bring you a laptop and you can start on that second book you have a contract on. Once it's complete, you can go anywhere you like."

Okay. This might not be too bad. She was going to bring him a laptop. Meaning he could get online and could get word to someone. Then the police would come and he'd be away from this crazy woman. He shoved back on the bed and leaned against the wall, with his feet in the middle of the mattress. He wrapped his arms around his knees. "Okay. Bring me the laptop and we can get started."

Patricia left. Shane wandered around the room, at least as far as his shackle would allow. There was the one high window, too small for him to fit through, even if he could reach it. There was a small table, a single chair, and a small pot bellied stove. The stove looked like a recent addition, as he knew the old slave quarters didn't have heat or cook stoves. Cooking was done outside over open fires. A stove inside would have taken up needed room.

The room was in full darkness when Patricia returned. Shane jumped to his feet. At this point, he didn't care who came through the door. He was thankful to see a living person, even his captor. She handed him a paper bag. He sat on the bed and began to examine his bounty. He found three liter bottles of water, a sandwich and a couple of boiled eggs. Just yesterday he had been dining on gourmet fare. Today, he was handed a ploughman's lunch and was prepared to give his immortal soul for the contents of that plain paper sack.

While he searched the bag for treasures, Patricia set up a laptop on the small table. "You've got about four hours of battery time. Oh, and you'll notice this computer is about ten years old. Meaning even if there was a WiFi signal here, you wouldn't be able to go online."

She sat down in the single chair and turned the screen toward her prisoner. She pressed a key, opening a word processing page filled with text. "I've taken the liberty of putting down the outlines of the stories I heard from my aunts and granny. I expect you to take those stories and retell them in your own voice. You've already got a contract for your next story collection. These stories will be in it."

Shane was busily stuffing his face with his sandwich, and taking alternate swigs from the water bottle. He gulped down the most recent mouthful he had taken, then leaned forward to get a better look at the screen. He used his free hand to scroll down the page. Hmm. These don't look half bad. Maybe he could make something of this after all. "How many pages are we talking about?"

Good. She had piqued his interest. "About forty, twelve different stories, give or take."

Shane finished his sandwich, took one more swallow from the water bottle, then screwed the lid on. He shifted around and pulled the table toward him, and started typing. Patricia watched quietly, waiting to see what he would create.

After about thirty minutes, he turned the screen so Patricia could see it.

She started reading silently. It wasn't long before she turned the laptop back to him. "This is unacceptable. Neither my grandmother nor my aunts spoke that way. This is not Song of the South. No Uncle Remus. They spoke as well as you or I. Well, at least as I. You have to make it right."

How did she expect him to know that? All she did was give him a story outline, and expect him to make something of it. Yeah, the stories were good. But how was he to know that the speech pattern? He had taken it for granted that their vernacular was close to the way his own family spoke. He grew up listening to the Southern patois. He could tell the difference between redneck and white collar. "I'm sorry. I assumed. I'll fix it."

Patricia waited while he made changes. It didn't take him long before he had a good, useable story. This time, he read it out loud to her.

She listened intently, closing her eyes half way through his tale, as he spoke about an uncle and the rabbit he was hunting.

Shane watched her as he read, going back and forth between the screen and her expression. As he finished the last paragraph, her lips curled up in a smile that rivalled la Giocanda. "I take it you approve?"

She schooled her expression. "It's good." She closed the laptop and stood. "I'll be back tomorrow morning. There's a small chest under the bed. You'll find a blanket and a few candles and matches there. Oh, and please don't get any ideas about setting the cabin on fire. I'm sure you know the fire department wouldn't arrive in time. I would hate you to burn to death before you finished our manuscript."

She walked out, but left the door open. He could see a small white car parked outside. He stared after her, wondering if he dared try to jerk the chain from the wall and dash for the car. He never got the chance. Patricia opened the passenger door, took something out, and returned to the cabin. She handed him a sheaf of papers and a pencil. "You can look through these tonight. I'll see you at breakfast."

Shane spent the better part of the night, as long as the candle stubs he found in the chest would allow, reading through the pages Patricia had given him. He didn't know why she insisted he rewrite them. These were good. She could have written them herself and sent them to an agent. Even more important, these stories had something to say. It gave him a new vision of his family's past. What must it have been like to be owned like livestock, to know you could be sold "down the river" to almost certain death in the cane fields? Worst, what had it been like for Patricia's ancestor, whose children were taken into the master's home and made to serve as companions to their half siblings? He read about Granny Concordia, the woman accused of witchcraft. Four of her children were taken from you and sold to the highest bidder. Worst of all, what must her great grandmother felt when she was raped repeatedly by his own great grandfather, then watched her children being raised in his house, made to serve their half siblings.

He began to see "His People" as real people, not chattel. They weren't livestock to be bought and sold, but human beings, He laughed with them as they mocked their masters' foibles. He shed tears when they lost loved ones, and when they were treated cruelly. When he was finished reading, he went back to the beginning and read them again.

By the time Patricia returned with his breakfast, he had only been asleep a couple of hours. It didn't matter. He bounded from the bed to greet her, only to be jerked back by his shackle.

"Patricia, these are wonderful. You don't need me to write these."

She looked at him as she set the laptop on the table, then put down a cardboard tray holding a cup of coffee and a biscuit. "So you approve?"

He sat on the edge of the bed. "I more than approve. These stories lay out everything mine ignored. I just didn't know."

She smiled. Not an expression of triumph, but real joy, knowing that she had gotten through to him, but it was shortlived. "If I undo your chain, will you run to the police and report what happened?"

"Why would I? It would mean losing my writing partner."

"Writing partner?"

It was Shane's turn to smile. "Yes. I think both our names need to go on the cover. What is your last name, anyway?"

She giggled. "Hart." She managed to sober slightly. "My name really is Hart. See. I told you we were cousins. You didn't do your family tree very thoroughly. If you would have checked out the cemetery records for our surname you would have found a whole section of relatives in the ‘colored section'."

Shane stopped in mid bite of his biscuit. "Really? My aunts told me that the former slaves took the family name because they thought so highly of grandpa. Guess that was another family lie, huh?"

"Maybe not completely a lie. But enough of a half truth to make it palatable for them." She started to say something else, but stopped. She had heard something. "What was that?"

Shane chuckled. "Turkeys. I heard them go to water last night, and I guess they're going today. You hear that "plonk plonk' sound? That's the hen. The gobbledy sound is the tom. If you look out the door, you should see the tom in front of your car. He's getting ready to display.Be quiet when you go outside and you'll see a fine show."

Patricia looked out the door, watching the turkey cockerel fan out his tail and challenge her rented Toyota for the hens watching warily. This was what she missed living in the city. She headed out the door, moving cautiously so she didn't disturb the big tom.

Shane watched her go. He didn't care that she was his cousin or not, she still looked damned good walking away. He watched her open her car door, then heard something familiar. No, that couldn't be right. Why would he hear that sound out here?

"Patricia!" He called out, trying to call her back to safety. She started to turn, her hand raised, as the turkey startled and took wing. As he rose up, the noise he dreaded rang out. Patricia crumpled to the ground, her primrose yellow blouse exploding with steel shot and her own blood.

Then he heard boots running across the field outside his door. A man's voice repeating "omygodomygodomygod" as a panicked mantra. A camo-clad figure came into view in the narrow door frame. The man stood looking down at Patricia, nudged her body with his foot. She didn't respond.

Shane could only stare. This couldn't be happening. This was all some sort of sick trick. Like chaining him to a wall in an abandoned cabin. "Patricia?" He called softly, trying to get her attention without attracting that of the camo-covered bubba standing over her.

Bubba turned suddenly, realizing for the first time that someone had witnessed his killing this woman. His expression showed the panic he felt.

Shane forced himself to remain calm. He held up his shackled ankle. "Thank God you're here. If you look in her car, you should find the key to this thing. You think you can get it and give a guy a hand?"

Bubba stood and stared. He studied the room. He looked Shane up and down. He looked back at Patricia's body.

He raised the double barreled Browning and sighted down on Shane.