Tell No Lies by Tanya Anne Crosby Page B

rail bridge like the one his dad had taken him to near Bushy Park. His pop told him that when he and his friends were little they used to jump off the trestle into the river until one of his friends dove into a moccasin bed and died from hundreds of snakebites. It seemed to Cody that his dad had been trying to scare him, but Cody always thought he heard a note of wistfulness in his voice whenever he told that story. It didn’t matter; it worked. Cody wasn’t just afraid of heights; he was terrified of snakes and he used to think that was the most awful way to die—surrounded by fangs in muddy black water.
    But he had another nightmare now.
    One he couldn’t wake up from.
    Dying right here, right now, would be the most awful thing—wet, cold and alone.
    His missed his dad so bad, the ache was a massive lump in his throat. And his mom and grandma were probably sick with worry over him. His jeans were wet, maybe from the river, but he’d peed his pants and maybe other stuff, too. He was too groggy to figure it out. He couldn’t even wipe the snot that was drying beneath his nose because he couldn’t reach it with his shoulder.
    He’d woken up here in the pitch-black, with no memory of getting here. The man in the mask had pressed something sweet over his face and now he was handcuffed to these pipes, his feet tied way too tight with ropes. There was something soft and bunchy shoved deep inside his mouth, beneath the tape—the way they did in those old cartoons when they tied some lady across a railroad track in front of an oncoming train.
    But there was no train coming.
    Outside, there was only silence, except for the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs.
    Cody stared at the trestle. The tracks were rusted, maybe broken, but he couldn’t sit up to get a better look. All the windows were boarded up, except one. On that one the slats were only nailed partway up and jutting above the boards were shards of glass that looked like gnarly icicles wrong side up.
    Never in his life had he wanted his mama more—he didn’t care if that made him a baby. That idiot TC had left him there to die in the woods. The muscles in his throat hurt from trying to swallow around the cloth in his mouth, and he was thirsty. He laid his head back against the brick wall, taking it all in before the last of the daylight was gone.
    He’d never seen this place before—had no idea where he might be—but he smelled water. And stinky mud. There was no mistaking the smell of plough mud. It was strong here—like he was surrounded by it. The inside of the building was empty and appeared as though it had been abandoned a long time ago. It seemed maybe there had been a fire here, because the brick looked like the inside of their fireplace at home, burnt and ashy. A great big rusty metal door sat at the opposite end of the room. It was open and he could see what looked like lockers in the other room—not a single row like at school, but smaller ones stacked high—like maybe at a gym.
    Peering up at the pipes above his head, he thought maybe they were from a bathroom . . . or something . . . but he couldn’t tell that either. The only thing he knew for sure was that they were firmly attached to the wall with cloth wrapped around them, and they wouldn’t budge far enough for him to bang them. Both his hands were restrained in a single handcuff hole, racked above his head and tied again with the same rough rope that was secured around his ankles. Trying to squirm out of them only made his skin raw and almost ready to bleed.
    Outside, the sun was setting fast. The trilling of crickets and croaking of bullfrogs climbed higher and higher. A black crow landed on the inside of the windowsill, perching on the water-stained board. It cocked its head curiously, peering at him. Across the cement floor, something scurried across a dark corner—a mouse, maybe a rat.
    Maybe a snake.
    Fear slithered up Cody’s spine.
    And then he heard it and his heart