18
“Quédese donde está!”
Vern was pretty sure that meant don’t move, mainly because the man had pointed at the ground and waved his gun in Vern’s face.
Like they had a choice. They’d been pushed down to sit with their backs against the two posts holding up the outside corners of the thatched porch on the main house. Each post was a stout length of tree trunk, debarked and polished smooth, but still stout.
Then they’d been gagged with foul-tasting bandanas, and their hands had been bound behind them around the post. The posts looked as if they were resting on a piece of stone. But if Vern could manage to free himself from this one, he’d still have no time to free Denise before the man with the gun would be on them.
Denise was on the side away from him; he was facing her bound wrists. A
