Blindside Read Online Free
Author: Catherine Coulter
waked up until just a while ago, tied to this bed in this small bedroom that looked older than anything, older even than his fatherâs ancient Camaro? Maybe it was more than hours, maybe it was days now. He didnât know how long heâd been asleep. He kept praying that his father would find him. But there was one big problem, and he knew it even while he was praying the wordsâhis father wasnât in Tennessee; as far as Sam could see, there was no way his father could find him.
Iâm really scared, Mom.
Forget about being scared. Move, Sam, move. Get your hands free.
He knew he probably wasnât really hearing his mamaâs voice in his head, or maybe he really was, and he was dead, too, just like she was.
He could feel that his pants were wet. It was cold and it itched so that must mean he really wasnât dead. He was lying flat on his back, his head on a flattened smelly pillow, his hands tied in front of him. Heâd pulled on the rope, but it hadnât done anything. Then heâd felt sick to his stomach. He didnât want to throw up, so heâd just laid there, breathing in and out, until finally his stomach calmed down. His mom wanted him to pull on the rope and so he began jerking and working it again. His wrists werenât tied real tight, and that was good. He hadnât talked to the two men when he woke up. He was so scared that heâd just stared up atthem, hadnât said a single thing, just stared, tears swimming in his eyes, making his nose run. Theyâd given him some water, and heâd drunk that, but when the tall skinny guy offered him a hamburger, he knew he couldnât eat it.
Then one of the menâFatso, thatâs what Sam called him in his headâtied his hands in front of him, but not too tight. Fatso looked like he felt sorry for him.
Sam raised his wrists to his mouth and started chewing.
âDamned frigginâ rain!â
Sam froze. It was Fatsoâs voice, loud and angry. Sam was so scared he started shaking, and it wasnât just the damp chill air in this busted-down old room that caused it. He had to keep chewing, had to get his hands free. He had to keep moving and not freeze. He couldnât die, not like Mama had. His father would hate that almost as much as Sam would.
Sam chewed.
There werenât any more loud voices from the other room, but he could still hear the TV announcer, talking more about really bad weather coming, and then he heard the two men arguing about something. Was it about him?
Sam pulled his hands up, looked closely, and then began working the knotted rope, sliding his hands first this way, then that. The rope felt looser.
Oh boy, his hands did feel looser, he knew it. Sam chewed until his jaws ached. He felt a give in the rope, then more give, and then the knot just came loose. He couldnât believe it. He twisted his wrists and the rope fell off.
Unbelievable. He was free.
He sat up and rubbed his hands. They were pretty numb, and he felt pins and needles running through them, but at least they didnât hurt.
He stood up beside the mangy bed with its awful smells, wondering how long it had been since anyone had slept in that bed before him. It was then he saw a high, narrow, dirty window on the other side of the room.
He could fit through that window. He could.
How would he get up there?
If he tried to pull the bed to the window they were sure to hear him. And then theyâd come in and tie him even tighter.
Or theyâd kill him.
Sam knew heâd been taken right out of his own bed, right out of his own house, his father sleeping not thirty feet away. He knew, too, that anything those men had in mind to do to him wasnât any good.
The window . . . how could he get up to that window?
And then Sam saw an old, deep-drawered dresser in the corner. He pulled out the first drawer, nearly choking on fear when the drawer creaked and groaned.
He got it out. It
Iâm really scared, Mom.
Forget about being scared. Move, Sam, move. Get your hands free.
He knew he probably wasnât really hearing his mamaâs voice in his head, or maybe he really was, and he was dead, too, just like she was.
He could feel that his pants were wet. It was cold and it itched so that must mean he really wasnât dead. He was lying flat on his back, his head on a flattened smelly pillow, his hands tied in front of him. Heâd pulled on the rope, but it hadnât done anything. Then heâd felt sick to his stomach. He didnât want to throw up, so heâd just laid there, breathing in and out, until finally his stomach calmed down. His mom wanted him to pull on the rope and so he began jerking and working it again. His wrists werenât tied real tight, and that was good. He hadnât talked to the two men when he woke up. He was so scared that heâd just stared up atthem, hadnât said a single thing, just stared, tears swimming in his eyes, making his nose run. Theyâd given him some water, and heâd drunk that, but when the tall skinny guy offered him a hamburger, he knew he couldnât eat it.
Then one of the menâFatso, thatâs what Sam called him in his headâtied his hands in front of him, but not too tight. Fatso looked like he felt sorry for him.
Sam raised his wrists to his mouth and started chewing.
âDamned frigginâ rain!â
Sam froze. It was Fatsoâs voice, loud and angry. Sam was so scared he started shaking, and it wasnât just the damp chill air in this busted-down old room that caused it. He had to keep chewing, had to get his hands free. He had to keep moving and not freeze. He couldnât die, not like Mama had. His father would hate that almost as much as Sam would.
Sam chewed.
There werenât any more loud voices from the other room, but he could still hear the TV announcer, talking more about really bad weather coming, and then he heard the two men arguing about something. Was it about him?
Sam pulled his hands up, looked closely, and then began working the knotted rope, sliding his hands first this way, then that. The rope felt looser.
Oh boy, his hands did feel looser, he knew it. Sam chewed until his jaws ached. He felt a give in the rope, then more give, and then the knot just came loose. He couldnât believe it. He twisted his wrists and the rope fell off.
Unbelievable. He was free.
He sat up and rubbed his hands. They were pretty numb, and he felt pins and needles running through them, but at least they didnât hurt.
He stood up beside the mangy bed with its awful smells, wondering how long it had been since anyone had slept in that bed before him. It was then he saw a high, narrow, dirty window on the other side of the room.
He could fit through that window. He could.
How would he get up there?
If he tried to pull the bed to the window they were sure to hear him. And then theyâd come in and tie him even tighter.
Or theyâd kill him.
Sam knew heâd been taken right out of his own bed, right out of his own house, his father sleeping not thirty feet away. He knew, too, that anything those men had in mind to do to him wasnât any good.
The window . . . how could he get up to that window?
And then Sam saw an old, deep-drawered dresser in the corner. He pulled out the first drawer, nearly choking on fear when the drawer creaked and groaned.
He got it out. It
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