One Grave Too Many

unconsciousness, and she collapsed but didn’t pass out. She could feel herself being dragged into the van. The door slammed closed, and they tied her arms behind her and then her feet together. She prayed someone in the parking lot saw what happened to her.
    The van started moving. Backing out of the parking space, then forward. She listened to the road sounds. They were going slow through the parking lot, bumping over the speed breakers. She counted them. Four before they turned left out of the lot. She knew which exit they took. Maybe that would help later—if she got out of this.
    “What do you want?” she asked, and was met with silence.
    They weren’t going to let her hear their voices.
    Left turn—about five seconds and a left turn. She listened. A helicopter overhead. That would probably be a traffic chopper, or maybe one carrying someone to or from the hospital. She could find out. What time was it? She left the hospital about 4:15—it was now probably 4:25.
    The van stopped. The engine idled, traffic sounds passed. Red light. About thirty seconds after, they started again. Definitely a red light. They speeded up, then slowed. Another red light. It had probably just turned yellow.
    “Careful,” someone whispered. Male.
    There were at least two of them. One was warning the other not to get stopped.
    They drove for another minute and stopped again. Another traffic light. Three so far. In her mind’s eye she could see the route they were taking. This time they turned right. They were taking a route that was on the way to the museum. Abruptly, they turned left and stopped.
    Where was this? She tried to think of what was here. Houses?
    They started up again, turned right and onto a rough road and stopped again. She heard doors slam. They were leaving her here?
    Diane lay there for what seemed like hours and listened. She heard faint road noises, but nothing else. She shifted her position until she was sitting up, leaning against the side of the van. She wished she’d gone to the bathroom before she left the hospital.
    Who is it, she wondered. Grayson? Or the killer of the bony remains sitting in her vault? Or maybe someone else she’d managed to really piss off. Maybe it was the Odells. She tried to smile, but even the Odells didn’t seem the least funny right now. Concentrating on remembering the turns and stops kept her mind busy early on, but now fear welled up inside her, threatening to overwhelm her. What were they waiting for? Was this some kind of torture? Softening her up with the dread of waiting? Waiting for time to pass? Waiting for someone?
    She worked at her bonds but they were tight; she kept pulling at them anyway. She was growing hot and sick from the hood over her face. She inched her way to where she thought the rear of the van was. She raised her legs and dragged her feet along the back, feeling for the handle. She found it and tried to manipulate it with her feet. It was locked or she was clumsy. She started beating on the door with her feet as hard as she could. Nothing, no one came, and her legs were getting cramped.
    OK, she needed another plan. She scooted toward the front until she ran into the back of the seats. Now, to work her way into the front seat. She stood and hopped through the opening between the seats and tried to feel with her fingers behind her for the keys. She found the ignition, but the keys weren’t there.
    Hopping and turning around, she tried the front visor with her head. She found it, but couldn’t get a grip on it. She wedged her nose between the visor and the ceiling but couldn’t get the visor to budge. She gripped the edge with her teeth and pulled and was rewarded with a clink of falling keys.
    Now, to look for them. Squatting, she felt the front seat with her face. Good. The keys were there. She was too frightened to feel any joy. For all she knew they could be watching her through the windows. She stood again, turned with her back to the driver’s seat, squatted and felt for the keys with her fingers.
    They . . . no, it . . . was in her grasp. Thank God there was just one key on the ring, and she didn’t have to worry whether or not it was right-side up. She maneuvered until she fit the key into the ignition.
    She hesitated. What would be the best thing to do? Get out and run—blind? Or try to drive the van blind? She opted to stay in the van and turned the key. The van started.
    She grasped the gearshift lever in her hands and tried to pull