Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

over her mouth before she could scream. The other thug grabbed her legs, and they carried her down the hall. She’d fought as best she could, finally managing to get a leg free and kick the thug at her feet in the groin.
    She’d flailed for a moment, getting in a few more shots, but he was too strong and had grabbed her ankle in a vice grip. She thought he’d torn her Achilles tendon. Looking down at her legs, she saw the red marks from his fingers just above her shoeless foot. Leaning down to massage her ankle, another wave of nausea made her reconsider the move.
    They’d dragged her into a car. She vaguely remembered one of them muttering something about “getting the stuff and shutting her the hell up.” Then the world faded into darkness. Until she’d woken up here. Wherever here was.
    The room was small but plush. A silk duvet covered the single bed. A small, mahogany vanity with an ornate, brass-framed mirror stood to the side. Two wingback chairs upholstered in midnight blue velvet sat on either side of a small table. A crystal carafe of water and a single glass sat waiting for her.
    She pushed herself up from the bed and teetered on wobbly legs before the world settled uneasily into place. She limped over to the table, poured a glass of water and gratefully drank it down.
    If only the ground would stop swaying like that. Leaning heavily on the table, she closed her eyes. The distant clang of metal and a soft scraping sound were strangely familiar, but her brain couldn’t find the answer.
    Bleary eyed, but feeling closer to human again, she lifted one of the louvers and peered out the window. It was dark outside, save for that damnable light that hung outside her room. Squinting into the glare, her eyes slowly adjusted. A white railing stood a few feet away, beyond that, darkness. A fluttering streak of creamy white appeared then disappeared on the horizon. And then another.
    The ocean.
    She was on a boat. It had to be King’s boat. Could she swim for shore? How far out were they? She tried to stem the tide of questions that flooded her brain and concentrate on facts. She was on a boat. Judging from the gentle, nauseating, rocking, they were still moored to the dock. Score one for the good guys.
    She padded awkwardly across the carpet to the door and tried the handle. Locked. So much for one for the good guys.
    She leaned against it, and the reality of her situation slowly sank in. She was King’s prisoner. Maybe she always had been. Only now, the cage had just gotten a whole lot smaller.
    Elizabeth hobbled back over to the bed and sat down heavily. What was she supposed to do now? Wait to be rescued? Simon would...
    Simon. Her heart clenched at the thought of him. Had King taken him too? No. He wouldn’t do that. But he would kill him.
    “Oh God,” she gasped. What if Simon was dead? She flushed with panic. No, don’t think like that. Simon was alive, she told herself. He had to be.
    * * *
    Thunder rolled in the distance as Simon pulled open the doors to the church. He moved quickly down the center aisle, searching fervently for a glimpse of the old priest. All he saw was a dour looking woman kneeling in a pew, mumbling a prayer and caressing the beads of her rosary. Then, in the shadows at the far end of the room, he saw a stirring of black robes.
    “Father!” he called out, oblivious to propriety and the glare from the old woman. He dashed down the aisle, but stopped short when he saw it wasn’t Father Cavanaugh, but a young priest.
    “Please, sir. A little restraint—”
    “Where’s Father Cavanaugh?” Simon demanded.
    The young priest clasped his hands in front of him. “I’m Father Fitzpatrick. Is there something I can do for you?”
    “Is he in his office?” Simon asked and started toward the side door.
    “Please, sir. He’s resting,” the priest said trailing along behind. “Perhaps I can help you.”
    Simon ignored him and yanked open the office door.
    “Sir, I have to insist...”
    Father Cavanaugh was lying on the small couch.
    “You see,” Father Fitzpatrick whispered. “Come, let’s...”
    Again, Simon ignored him and made his way into the room. Even before he reached Father Cavanaugh’s side, he knew something was wrong. A palpable presence of something malevolent lingered in the air. The way the priest was laid out was familiar. Hands clasped over his chest, a crucifix resting underneath. Then it struck him. He wasn’t sleeping, he was