Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:
Eye-opening statistics: One in three teenagers has experienced violence in a dating relationship; Seventy percent of teen girls who report being sexually assaulted were attacked by a friend, boyfriend, or casual acquaintance. One in five teens admit to being emotionally abused in the past year. One in nine teen girls will be forced to have sex.
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me!” Nathan exclaimed as he slammed on the brakes. Declan craned his neck to get a better look. Up ahead the train of vehicles had come to a complete stop, and beyond, a wide arc of flares announced what looked to be a serious accident. No fewer than three patrol cars flanked an ambulance, all four emergency vehicles flashing red bands of light into the swirling snow.
Declan sank down in his seat with a groan.
“Wait. It might not be as bad as it looks,” Nathan replied. “Cars could be getting through one at a time.”
They sat and waited…and waited, the minutes ticking by as the situation remained unchanged except for a growing trail of traffic behind them.
“To hell with this!” Declan exploded, throwing open the door.
“Dude. Hey! What’re you doing?”
“I’m getting the fuck out! I can’t sit here anymore. I’m losing it, I really am.” Outside, Declan shielded his face from the blowing snow as he trudged along the shoulder toward the patrol cars. One of the officers spied his approach and moved out to intercept him.
“Excuse me! Sir!” the officer called out. “You’re gonna have to sit tight and remain in your vehicle.”
Declan trudged on until he’d reached the officer. “What’s going on?”
“Road’s closed.” He crossed his arms to emphasize the point.
Declan looked pained. “For how long?”
The officer squinted, stroking his mustache absently. “No telling. Unfortunately, we’ve got a fatality. Can’t bring the chopper in. Another ambulance is on the way. Gonna take a while to clean everything up”—he turned and examined the mess behind him—“in these conditions.”
“There’s no way we can get off? I’m kind of in a hurry.”
The officer studied him carefully. “Not the best night to be in a hurry, son.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder as he said, “See where that mindset got those poor folks?”
Declan followed the gesture in time to see the tail end of a stretcher being loaded into the back of the ambulance. He couldn’t make out a body bag, but the scene gave him an odd déjà vu. This was the second ambulance he’d been around in the last forty-eight hours, and both were linked in some way to Vivien.
The officer had a point, however. He really didn’t want to end up in there. “Right.” A sigh of resignation escaped him. For a split second he had the uneasy feeling he was cursed, as if a network of powerful forces had gathered to conspire against him and were sending him a warning: turn around; go back; give up.
But he wasn’t the superstitious kind. That crap was nothing but a cop-out. A way of shifting the blame onto someone else. He was no quitter. No whiner. Didn’t bail when the heat turned up.
Glancing around once more at the chaos surrounding him, he began to nod determinedly.
Yeah, most definitely. The heat was up.
It was bleeding through—the rational self.
And this piece of him wanted no part in any cold-blooded killing. The girl’s physical presence sickened him—her labored breathing, the sweet smell of her blood following him no matter where he went.
He fled outside, in search of clean air. Along the side of the cabin, a long-handled axe rested in the base of a log. He lunged for it, cradling the metal to his chest, wandering in aimless circles. All at once he howled as he struck the log dead center.
He repeated the act, hacking away for an undetermined amount of time until, exhausted and soaked through with sweat, he collapsed to his knees.
Snowflakes fell softly, dusting his head and neck, and with time a cool and peaceful sensation settled over him.
The fog that had clouded his mind was dissipating, parting to show him the way.
He’d made it. To the now. And the now was everything. Everything he’d been fantasizing about was here, within his grasp. By his design, the fantasy had become reality.
He began to laugh, a low, guttural, half-crazed laugh that rocked him back and forth on his heels. His plan had succeeded with such minimal effort, he could draw no other conclusion than that the human race had fallen into a rut where the dull-witted were breeding at breakneck speed, filling the planet with gullible souls, his for the taking. Anticipation left him panting with excitement.
He rose, eyeing the cabin like a gift yet to be unwrapped.
No need for haste. The gift, he knew, would wait.
Co-ag-u-late: to form a soft, semisolid or solid mass. When blood coagulates it forms a scab.
Vivien’s body lay slack, but her mind had recently awakened from its slumber and was meandering in and out of semi-coherent thoughts. For one reason or another, it fixated on word definitions from her ACT vocab list.
Co-erce: to dominate or restrain by force. The stranger used a knife to coerce the girl into doing what he wanted.
She was stuck on the letter C. And, evidently, bleak thoughts.
Her eyes fluttered, then opened. I could be dead was her first fully conscious thought. She lay still, taking stock. She felt pain in her head, and an overwhelming sense of dread that clutched at her heart.
But her heart had not stopped. No, it was very much alive, thumping madly away against her ribcage in an I’m still here, I’m still here rhythm. And yet she had sense enough to understand that soon she might wish she were dead.
Holding her breath, she strained to hear any sounds of him. Since he’d ceased to be Christophe, she had no idea what to call him. Yet the only sound to be heard was the wind whistling through the tops of the great pines. Where had he gone? she wondered.
There was no question of her going far. He’d taken care of that with an ancient pair of leg irons. Had he brought along his precious favorites for her benefit? Thankfully, her hands remained free and she used them now to gently probe the back of her head, getting a feel for the extent of damage. It was tender and raw, a gaping wound beneath a mass of blood-encrusted hair. If she had suffered a concussion, her brain cells could be irrevocably destroyed. And those that weren’t were now drifting in a dangerously fragile state; this she knew thanks to her father’s partner, who specialized in brain injury law. His nauseatingly in-your-face commercials clogged the airwaves almost as frequently as Alan Allen’s and she couldn’t help but absorb the “cold hard facts.” But what did it matter about her brain now? She was as good as dead.
He would kill her.
And all she could think of was Declan. He would never know the most important thing. She would die without having the chance to tell him how much she loved him.
Swinging her legs off the bed, she rose to sitting. Her chest felt abnormally tight and she looked down to see he had removed her clothes. She now wore an old-fashioned white slip. Metal stays lined the bodice. Yellowed lace covered the flowing skirt. She shuddered, thinking of him touching her.
A nightstand stood beside her. She opened the top drawer, hunting for something. A bible and a red felt tip marker, these would suffice. She hoped this God wouldn’t mind if she used a small part of his story for her own. Closing her eyes, she said a short prayer of thanks, then set to work. Before it was too late, she would tell Declan everything.
“What do you mean, floor it?” Nathan said. “I’m supposed to be the impulsive one.”
Declan shook his head. “I’m not saying pull a Dukes of Hazzard or anything. I’m just saying, sneak along the shoulder. Once we’re past the hold-up we can gun it to the nearest exit. In a safe and responsible kind of way, of course,” he added.
“So…you want me to drive, unnoticed, past a line of cop cars and—”
“Yep.” <
br />
Nathan snickered. “Little did I know when I woke up this morning that I’d be in for such a treat.”
“That’s right. You should be thanking me.”
“Thanks, bro.” Nathan checked his rearview mirror and began to edge the car onto the shoulder. He cruised along slowly, attempting to remain as inconspicuous as possible—easier said than done, due to the Saab’s shocking red hue. But as they neared the police blockade, Nathan began to have second thoughts. “I’m not sure ‘the sneak’ is the best move at this point. I think we better just fly the hell out of here.”
Declan tried to judge the distance. “Can you make it?”
“Can I make it?” Nathan repeated. “Dude, do not insult me.”
“All right, just don’t get caught.”
Nathan’s eyes gleamed as he gunned the engine and yelled, “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!”
Declan dropped his head in his hands and groaned. What adventure would be complete without a quote from Die Hard, cable network’s most beloved late-night feature? He was sure Nathan was channeling Bruce Willis at this precise moment.
As if reading his mind, Nathan accelerated rapidly, throwing Declan against the seat as he skirted the accident scene by a narrow margin. Within seconds they were past and moving quickly ahead. The road was slick and the Saab fishtailed slightly as Nathan merged back onto the paved road. A passing sign notified them the next exit was in two miles.
Checking the mirrors, Nathan grinned. “Mission accomplished. No pigs in sight.” He looked smugly at Declan. Yet no sooner had he finished bragging than a set of headlights appeared from behind.
Declan spun around in a panic. The patrol car seemed to be in no hurry. For now. “It’s following us, isn’t it? Wait. Is it? I can’t tell.”
Nathan said nothing, his mouth set in a thin line. He stepped on the gas, eyes focused on the road ahead. “Good thing I just had snow tires put on. Steel wheels too. We should be solid at this speed.” He caressed the top of the dashboard with affection.
Declan had to smile. If there was one thing Nathan was meticulous about, it was his car.
Initially the patrol car appeared to be keeping back. As Declan watched the distance between the two cars grow, his hopes began to rise. But then, just as swiftly, they crashed and burned as bit by bit the gap closed.
“We’re screwed,” he announced and prepared himself for the shrill sound of the siren.
But Nathan shook him off, eyeing the last stretch of road with determination. Faster and faster they went, neither one sharing any thoughts on their chances out loud.
Despite their efforts, the cruiser was gaining and looked to be neck and neck in a matter of minutes.
“I don’t get it,” Declan said. “Why don’t they use the lights to pull us over?”
“Dude, you haven’t heard? They don’t bother pulling people over anymore. They just sneak up, point an automatic in your face, and blow your fucking head off. You’d be surprised how much it saves in paperwork and court fees.”
Declan snorted. “Funny.” He could see the exit up ahead. But now that he thought about it, what was to stop the police from tailing them once they were off the highway? The exit wasn’t really their ticket out of here.
At precisely the same time that Nathan flicked on the blinker, the patrol car reached them. They were close. Close enough to confirm the popular saying about police officers and donuts. But Declan refused to look, expecting a megaphone to blast orders at them any second.
But the orders never came. The two cars moved in tandem, then separated as Nathan veered to the right and the police cruiser stayed its course. Seconds later the sound of the siren pierced the quiet and the boys watched, mouths gaping, the flashing blue and red lights fade into the distance.
The Saab rolled to a stop on a snow covered side road.
“Damn,” Nathan said after a long silence.
Declan ran his knuckles over his thighs, not hearing. Finally he cleared his throat. “OK. The plan survives.” He checked briefly for confirmation and Nathan nodded. “Two obstacles remain: Where the hell are we, and how do we get to Whispering Pines?”
Stepping through the front door, he paused to test the air. To his relief, the oppressive weight he’d felt earlier had evaporated, along with any sense of foreboding.
He moved down the hallway, stopping at the back bedroom. She lay as he’d left her, face turned to the wall. He took advantage of the moment to admire his handiwork. It’d been difficult to choose between the leg irons and a simple set of cuffs. For weeks he’d had a pair in mind, the Clejuso Adjustable Darby on a long chain (Germany, 1930s—in the field of human torture, the Germans deserved great respect). But in the end, as he was packing, he’d changed his mind, lovingly wrapping one of his favorites—the Romer Leg Iron (USA, late 1880s)—into a thick velvet cloth. And now, as he eyed the girl, he was pleased with this last-minute change in details.
The old slip had struck him rather suddenly as he’d paced the dark rooms of the cabin, and he’d decided a costume would go well with the themes he wished to explore. Once dressed, the likeness to her was unsettling. He’d kept the thing all these years; as much as he despised it, he could not bring himself to get rid of it. Those long nights, after the beatings, a small, slender girl dressed in white would crawl into bed beside him, wrapping her arms gently around his aching body. The cold, glossy fabric kept their secret, held the tears he dared not shed.
Yes, the two women were uncommonly alike: small-boned, porcelain skin, long dark hair. He’d studied her in earnest that night he’d watched through the gap in the shower curtain. Admittedly, he’d been piqued by the sight of her nakedness. But there was more to it than flesh. The true source of excitement had been his uninvited presence. The element of intrusion.
With a thrill equal to no other, he’d recognized the look on her face: fear.
Her body tensed when she heard the sound of footsteps. It took all of her focus to fight her natural instinct to drop from the bed and roll underneath.
A light creaking sounded from the floorboards near the door. She could distinguish the heavy, uneven sound of his breath from the whistle of the wind outside. A damp, wintry scent drifted across the room.
“Look at me,” he said.
Slowly she rolled toward him. He looked like someone she didn’t know. His face was flushed. He wore only a fitted gray t-shirt that accentuated the sinewy muscles of his arms and chest. In a single dark look, she attempted to convey all that she was feeling—anger, hatred, horror.
He acknowledged her effort with a faint smile.
“Don’t touch me,” she heard herself say, though she had intended to remain silent.
He studied her, motionless, a moment longer, then abruptly crossed the room to the dresser, where a pack of cigarettes lay on top. He tapped one out, and placing it loosely between his lips, he began to pace the room, stealing glances at the bed every so often.
His silence gnawed away at her. The longer it persisted, the more powerful it became, until at last she could stand it no longer. “What do you want?” she croaked.
The outburst caused a barely observable break in his stride. She whimpered softly and closed her eyes. When she reopened them, she found him standing in the center of the room. Their eyes met once more and she tried to look beyond the concentric circles of black and gray. Perhaps there was still a small island of sanity adrift in his sea of madness. She had only to dip in her big toe, test the waters, and swim for her life.
“It’s not too late, you know,” she told him. “You can stop this. I won’t tell anybody; I promise.”
He exhaled coolly. The absurdity of her words seemed to amuse him. “I disagree,” he replied. “It is unquestionably too late.”
She attempted to sit up, wincing as she supported her head and neck against the wall. The leg irons dug into her anklebones. “It was an accident,” she tried again. “You didn’t mean it.”
<
br /> “Even someone as naive as you could not be so sympathetic,” he replied. He’d stopped moving, briefly, but now resumed the incessant pacing, blowing streams of smoke that enveloped him like a cloud.
“But I could,” she insisted. “It’s me, Rose. You know I can keep a secret.” She paused, checking his expression carefully to see if he was listening. But his eyes remained an enigma. “I never told anyone about us. Not even Declan. Even though it was killing me—killing us. Please. I just want to go home now.” Tears were gathering, the first layer of the dam beginning to crumble. “Listen to me, Christophe—whoever you are—I know what you told me was the truth. I saw your scar. And who could make up such a horrible story? A hurtful thing happened to you and now you’re…you’re angry. That’s OK. You have a right to be. I felt that way too, about things that happened to me. I was angry at the world; everything seemed so incredibly unfair. But if you believe that lie for too long, you end up missing life altogether. People see that your heart is black, all shriveled up and dead, and they shy away from you. And then you end up alone. Which only makes you more unhappy. It’s a vicious circle.
“You have to realize I’m not the one who hurt you, right?” She nodded enthusiastically in an effort to convince him this was the truth. “I would never. All I wanted was to be your friend. I wanted to be close to you because…because you were different, and thoughtful and…well, honestly, I had a serious crush on you.” She waited a moment to see if there was any reaction whatsoever to this confession.
He gave her nothing.
She kept going. “You don’t have to feel bad about yourself. Underneath, you’re just a regular guy. Maybe a little...confused, that’s all.”
At the word confused, he came to a standstill. She watched, chewing her lip, wondering if she’d just made a crucial error.
Wordlessly he strode from the room. From the opposite end of the cabin came a commotion: drawers opening, cupboards slamming shut. In an instant he returned, a roll of duct tape in one hand. He unrolled a fat strip and lunged at her, his face a purple mask of fury. She cowered, scrambling awkwardly out of his reach. But he was too quick for her, yanking her back by a fistful of hair. He slapped the tape across her mouth, pressing the ends roughly. Then shoved her backward onto the bed. Panting, glaring, he stood above her.
“There will be no…more…talking.”
“OK. Slow down. I think the speed limit’s like ten here. I almost got a ticket last time I passed through.” Declan squinted and pointed out the window. “There’s Hardee’s. Make a left at the light.”
The parking lot was a vacant stretch of white. Without waiting, Nathan bolted from the car. “Gotta take a leak,” he called back, disappearing quickly into the restaurant.
Declan followed him inside, bringing with him a blast of wind that sent crumpled napkins and several straw wrappers dancing in the air. There were no customers. No employees either, for all he could see. He meandered toward the back, stopping dead center before the vacant counter, and began perusing the menu above. In his peripheral vision he detected a figure approaching. It sauntered up to the cash register, snapping gum, the smell of peppermint masking something nasty beneath: cigarettes.
“Can I help you?” the girl said in a disinterested tone. She was busy examining a chip in her black nail polish. But when she finally looked up, she nearly lost her balance.
Declan took in the black eye liner, the platinum hair with dark roots, the pale frosted lips. She had a mole just above the upper lip, like some famous supermodel whose name he couldn’t remember. It was a shame she’d painted herself up hooker-style, he thought. She was actually kind of pretty. “Um, yeah. I’ll take the bacon cheeseburger, extra-large fries, and a large Coke.” He hesitated. “Actually, double that. My buddy’s coming out in a sec.”
On cue Nathan strolled out of the men’s room wearing a gigantic grin. “Dude! Runnin’ from the pigs definitely agrees with me. I unleashed a quadruple flusher!”
Declan tipped his head toward the girl in an effort to stop any further details.
Eyeing the girl, Nathan grinned apologetically. “Well. Good evening.” He sauntered to the counter and leaned forward to read her nametag. “Crystal.”
Crystal answered with a sumptuous smirk of her own. “Your friend just ordered for you.” She returned her gaze to Declan. “That gonna be all?”
Declan nodded.
Her face settled into a look of instant boredom as she went about gathering their order. “Twelve fifty-two,” she said, clipping the drinks into a cardboard holder. She blew a good-sized bubble, which she then flattened with the underside of her tongue.
Declan handed her the money.
“What a weird night,” she volunteered, gesturing out toward the main road. “The weather’s crazy so I get, like, zero customers except a bunch of really hot dudes I’ve never seen before.” She presented his change with an engaging twinkle in her eye.
Declan acknowledged the compliment, then on second thought replied, “A bunch?”
She leaned forward on her elbows, offering a generous view of her cleavage. “Uh huh. There was a totally smokin’ guy in here earlier. He had his high school sweetheart with him though, so…” She shrugged.
Declan stared, a strange feeling overtaking him as what the girl said finally registered. “An older guy? Midtwenties? And a girl? Was she shorter?” He held his hand at shoulder height. “Did she have a bandage above one eye?”
Crystal looked at him funny. “I guess.” She seemed disappointed her string of hot customers was all connected to some other girl. She pushed herself back from the counter, flicking a burnt French fry tip off the front of her uniform. When she removed her hand, the next button down had miraculously come open, revealing the top of her black lace bra. “I was teasing ’em a little, just for fun,” she admitted. “It’s been such a frickin’ boring night. The girl, she looked kinda…I dunno. But he kept grabbin’ her arm like…like he was the kind of guy who kept her on a tight leash.” She paused a second, then went on. “He tried to make out like they were married or something, but there wasn’t no rock on her finger.”
Time stood still as Declan stared at her in disbelief. All along, in the back of his mind, he’d been certain they were on nothing more than a wild-goose chase. They’d been grasping at straws, caught up in some kind of testosterone-fueled adrenaline rush that would fizzle out soon enough. Now this girl was actually telling them all their guesswork had been correct. Vivien was here. Somewhere.
“No way!” This exclamation snapped him out of his reverie and he felt Nathan’s hand clamp down on his shoulder.
“You didn’t happen to see which direction they went, did you?” Declan asked.
“As a matter of fact I did. I watched ’em pull out. They went down Forest Road.” She rolled her eyes. “Figures. Rich out-of-towners have cabins along there. Down by the lake.”
“What made you think they were rich?” Declan said.
“The guy, he just had the look. Definitely not from around here. But they drove off in a regular old pickup, so maybe I was off.”
“A blue pickup?” Declan said, the floor dropping away beneath him.
She gave another shrug of indifference. “Maybe.”
“Hot damn!” Nathan said at full volume, then laughed in an attempt to mask his eagerness. “They’re here, man! They’re actually here!” He tugged Declan’s arm as he snatched the bag off the counter. “Let’s roll.”
He kept grabbing her…the kind of guy who kept her on a tight leash. This was real. He could feel his body begin to shake as Nathan dragged him out the door.
“Wait!” Crystal called after them. “You forgot your drinks!”
There was a problem with the girl: he didn’t know what exactly he wanted to do to her. Naturally he’d played out numerous scenarios in his fantasies. But now that the moment had arrived, he found himself in a conundrum of sorts.
To begin with, she wouldn’t shut up
. He’d dealt with that matter handily, but not before she’d good and blabbed about feelings and how it wasn’t too late to call the whole thing quits. The bitch was no dummy; she knew what lay ahead for her. She was spewing bullshit by the truckload and now he couldn’t shovel it away fast enough.
This problem intertwined with the next in that the girl—and this was quite unfortunate—had turned out to be not just an inanimate object, but the proud owner of a personality, thus causing him to second-guess everything he’d worked so masterfully to achieve. Now he found himself wondering if it had been a mistake to cultivate a victim. Would it have been far easier to simply wait for an opportune stranger to cross his path? Albeit this latter option would have increased the event of capture, but what about the kill itself? Was it now tainted by her humanity? The taste soured by her incessant ramblings and juvenile philosophical observations?
More disturbing was her belief that she knew him. Pieces of him, at least. His carefully crafted personality had drawn her in with obvious success, and yet, in the course of his labor, hints of his true self had seeped out. The girl had seized upon these errant droplets, likening their souls to two kindred spirits, no less.
Disgust washed over him as he watched himself flounder. Here was the big moment. The culmination of all his work. And what had she called him? Confused? The mere implication sent blood vessels streaking across the whites of his eyes like an electrical storm.
Thundering his way to the fridge, he grabbed more than a few beers. Duly armed, he might succeed in driving her out of his head. But what he needed most was the onslaught of sound. The amplified distortion of prolonged guitar solos, dense bass/drum interplays, and hellfire screams. This would take him where he wanted to go. Only the best for tonight: Judas Priest, Jethro Tull, Metallica. The sensory equivalent of war.
Sprawled out on the sofa, he gulped greedily, music going full throttle. He’d chosen to kick off the set with a more modern selection, Death’s debut album Scream Bloody Gore (1987)—the first true death metal record. His favorite track was coming up: number three, “Denial of Life,” an ironically fitting title for the events lying ahead.
But rather than savor the lyrics, he continued to stew over his current predicament. Was his indecisiveness indicative of deeper problems? Perhaps he was grappling with his identity as a killer. What would they say about him on the evening news? What would be his M.O.? Quick and to the point? Or, long and drawn out? Was he driven by a thirst for blood? Or, no mess at all, preferring to leave the body intact? Would he coin a name for himself? The Boston Strangler had a nice ring, conjuring images of dark alleys, sinister shadows, death by violence. And lately he’d been having visions. Visions of doing (specific) things to the corpse. Was this something he truly desired or merely a craving he’d adopted, unknowingly, from the legends before him?
In the end, a deal was struck: five more songs or five more beers, whichever came first. Then… he would pay the girl a visit.
The music sounded like a subversive method of torture. She’d once seen this technique used by the CIA on an episode of Sixty Minutes. Now she wondered if the lunatic in the other room was trying to drive her insane as well. Break her spirit. This was hardly necessary; her line of defense had suffered serious casualties as it was.
Yet wasn’t it true that good was stronger than evil? That the meek could outwit the strong, their secret weapons smartly concealed until the last possible moment?
What was her secret weapon? The pepper spray was gone, the one thing she’d had at her disposal to surprise him with. How ironic was it that Nathan, of all people, had been the one to give it to her? Ugh! She didn’t want to think about Nathan. His insightfulness only served to highlight her own stupidity.
Obviously she was no match for Christophe physically. What about mentally? Her power of persuasion had previously been tested with less than favorable results. The only thing she’d managed to do was to incense him and seal her doom.
Not to mention the fact that he was something else altogether: a scheming, twisted psychopath. A wily trap had been laid for her—how long ago? And she’d refused to see the signs. She saw them now all right: Caution! Do Not Enter. Limited Sight Distance. Proceed at Your Own Risk. Dangerous Undertow. No Lifeguard On Duty. A succession of dire warnings. She’d been played effortlessly. He must have rolled on the floor in hysterics every time she left his house.
Shakily she rose to her feet, scanning the room for a weapon she could use against him. The dark paneled walls were bare, the only furnishings a double bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. But hidden in the drawers there could be things, useful things, like tools, razor blades, a mirror she could break into shards. Could she risk poking around? She swallowed hard. Could she risk not to?
Slowly, and not without pain, she inched around the bed. The duct tape was moist and sticky against her lips, the edges pulling against her skin. She fought the urge to rip it off, fearing his certain wrath at finding her without it. The dresser was only a few feet away but it might as well have been miles. With each step she stole glances behind her, and each time the sinking feeling that he would be there, watching her, gnawed away at her already frayed nerves.
She tackled the top drawer first, her hand trembling. Its contents proved nondescript: several pairs of thick wool socks; undershirts; plaid boxers; a tube of Icy Hot. Hidden beneath these items, a stack of letters bound together by string. They were addressed to a mister Caleb Melcher from Nicole Melcher Goodwin of Brewton, Alabama. All were unopened. Curiosity tugged at her fingers, goading her to open just one. Could this be his mother, the Nicole of his stories? There’d been so many lies, how was she to know what was real? But there was no time for snooping, no matter how compelling the clues. Quickly, she tucked the letters back into place.
Moving swiftly, she pried open the remaining drawers, careful to avoid any squeaks or bumps—not that he’d be able to hear her over the hoarse screams and electric guitar jams emanating from the main room. Her desperation grew as each drawer failed to turn up anything useful. Long underwear, scratchy wool shirts, a bright orange hunting vest and matching cap. It was in the final bottom drawer that she found what she was looking for. Amongst the leather gloves, ski masks, and various-sized thermoses was a miniature Swiss Army knife.
Her eyes grew wide with the discovery and she fingered the smooth red tool in her hands with awe. Three and half inches of hope. In haste she tested out the various functions—bottle opener, scissors, screwdriver, can opener, toothpick—until she came to the true source of her excitement. The large blade. Large was pushing it. It measured, at most, two inches? Hardly the appropriate knife for inflicting significant injury. But it was better than nothing. And if she played her cards right, it just might win her a chance to escape.
Smiling to herself, she closed the blade. She lifted her left arm and was in the process of tucking it into the snug-fitting bodice when the sound of a voice slithered across the room, weaving its way in and out of the music, coiling around her neck and stopping her breath.
“What do you think you’re doing?” it said.
“Could it be any more dark?” Declan griped as Nathan cruised the road blindly, despite the light from his brights. The pine forest stretched endlessly on either side of the twisting road, a dense green mass dipped in white frosting. Every minute or so they passed what he assumed were driveways, although these turn-offs were entirely unmarked. No mailboxes or house numbers visible. Do the residents not get mail here? he wondered in annoyance. As if in reply, they passed a bank of twelve to fifteen mailboxes and he crossed his arms with an hmmpphh.
His frustration was mounting. They had the map they’d found at Frenchie’s place. But three different properties had been highlighted. How were they to know which was his? At least they had the general area in hand. Unfortunately, it was going to take some time.
Sensing the tension in the air, Nathan tried to offer suggestions. “I think we might have to turn down some of these. Or
, like, all of them.”
Declan smacked his fist against the roof in a quick jab. “We’re wasting time! We can’t be driving up and down dead ends when he’s…” The statement was left hanging, the conclusion too unsettling to say out loud. An uneasy look passed between the two.
Unable to help himself, Declan was suffering from a never-ending assault of images. Images of terrible things. All that weird crap he and Nathan had seen back at the teacher’s place—cuffs, irons, and whatnot. Equipment for a sick medieval playground. What was it all for? Nothing normal, that was for sure. Torture. And he had her there. Trapped. His emotions soared into a frenzy of rage, plunging the next instant into the pit of despair.
“We gotta start somewhere,” Nathan was saying, scanning the snow-covered drives as they passed. But the choices seemed infinite and they rolled on in a jittery silence. Suddenly he made an abrupt stop and threw the Saab into reverse. “Look,” he said, pointing to one on the left. “Someone’s gone down that way recently. You can see the tracks.”
Declan leaned across for a better look. It was true. Despite the steadily falling snow, the faint indentations of tire tracks could be seen leading down the gradual slope of the driveway.
“What do you say we have a look?” Nathan said. “If we come up empty, we’ll move on to the next tracks we see.” He glanced at Declan and nodded vigorously, trying for a look of confidence. “Don’t worry, dude. We’re gonna find the perv. I can feel it.”
Declan lacked his conviction but agreed that this seemed the best course of action. The only one, really.
The Saab began its descent, tree branches scraping the sides of the car as they eked through the narrow spots, following the twists and turns of the long private road. Nathan cringed and cursed under his breath at the sound of his baby being mauled.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, turning to Declan with an impish glimmer to his eye, “you know what the best part is?” Without waiting for an answer he laughed and said, “The best part is the fucker has no idea we’re coming.”
When the five songs had run their course, he’d gone through the regular routine of dips and push-ups to get his blood pumping, tacking on an additional twenty-five each for good measure.
And it had worked nicely; he’d been wired, jacked, ready for battle. He could go about his business with no further delays. With the girl’s big mouth neutralized, he wouldn’t have to listen to her bullshit psychobabble anymore. He had other plans for her anyway.
The time spent listening to his music had proved fruitful. He saw how it was going to play out and even had a certain role in mind for her. She would do what he asked. Because he was the master.
And she was nothing.
He’d walked slowly down the hallway and paused at the door, his eyes automatically going to the bed where his prize awaited. But it’d been empty, sending a jolt of panic through him. In half a second he spied her, standing at the dresser, fiddling with something in her hand. And he watched, curiosity getting the best of him. When finally he spoke, she jumped a mile into the air. “What do you think you’re doing?” he said.
Eyes wide as saucers, she froze. He could taste her fear on his tongue, like a shot of 151. His breath quickened and he felt a stirring within.
He crossed the room in a few quick strides. She tried to run, tripping clumsily on the chain at her feet. He caught her as she fell, seizing her roughly around the arm and yanking her upright.
“Show me your hands,” he demanded. If the little bitch wouldn’t cooperate, he’d search her himself. But his efforts came up empty. “What have you done with it?” he snarled, hurling her wisp of a body back onto the bed. With lightning speed he pounced, straddling her as he secured her arms overhead. She writhed beneath, bucking like an untamed horse.
“Easy now,” he laughed. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
She screamed, but the tape muzzled the racket to a sound no louder than a whimper.
“Shut up and listen,” he ordered, clamping down on her chin to check her thrashing. “Stop fighting me. We’re going to have some fun now—like Simon Says,” he told her. “You do what I say and you can go free.”
Her eyes narrowed in disbelief.
“Yeah, you’re right. You’re not going anywhere, but you’ll be a lot more comfortable,” he told her.
He’d decided he didn’t want a lot of blood. What he wanted was to move her around like a doll, experimenting with different positions/scenes. Complete submission was the goal. Then, once he grew tired of playing, he would simple choke the life out of her with his bare hands. He thought that might be nice—to watch it drain slowly away. Not many men had experienced that sense of power. Most were soft.
Later he would see what he wanted to do. To the body.
The knife was completely inaccessible.
She had to get out from under him. He was crushing her and his hot breath on her face was like a noxious poison. The way he stared, bloodshot eyes intense yet remote, scared the living daylights out of her.
If it was a game he wanted, then she would play. Or at least pretend to. Until she could get that knife and sink it into something tender.
She did what he said and stopped struggling.
“That’s better,” he said.
He stared down at her for a long time without speaking and she wished she knew what he was thinking. What sick and twisted thing was he planning next? At last he climbed off and she sat up slowly, trying to inch away without him noticing. Ever so carefully she felt for the knife. It was still there.
He began to talk. “You seemed to like the story of Tristan and Isolde. I think we should continue your studies. As you know, the storyline follows two of my favorite themes, passion and misery.” He’d been wandering around the bed as he spoke and she observed a slight unsteadiness. More drinking had been done while he was away. Quite a bit more.
He stopped dead in his tracks. “Which would you like to try first?”
She shook her head in confusion.
With a cold smile, he refined the question. “The passion? Or the misery?”
“Shit.”
“We’re stuck, aren’t we?” Declan said. He didn’t know why he’d bothered to say this out loud. The sickening whir of spinning tires was proof enough. The sound was a knife in his heart.
“Shit,” Nathan said again. He tried shifting into reverse. The car lurched backward but went no farther. “What the hell! Nobody uses a fucking plow around here?”
Declan shook his head. “It’s been snowing for the last five hours. They’re probably waiting for the storm to clear out.” He peered out his window at the night, as if he could tell when this might occur. “Everyone here has four-wheel drive anyway,” he added gloomily.
Nathan spread his arms wide in indignation. “What do you wanna do?”
Declan shrugged. He was riding the rollercoaster again, his mood at the midway point of a rapid descent. His balled fists were weights, nothing but excess baggage, dragging him down. “Get out, I guess,” he replied. “We might as well walk to the end. Maybe we can borrow a shovel. Or a tow truck.”
Nathan snorted.
He could see he was taking Nathan down with him and he tried to rally. “Come on,” he said with forced cheer. “If we’re not moving, we’re wasting time.”
They trudged along through the snow, their feet going from frosty sponges to solid blocks of ice. Declan’s shin hurt and he couldn’t figure out why until he remembered crashing into something in Frenchie’s backyard. Automatically his jaw clenched. Just thinking about the guy made ice run through his veins. He’d never felt this way before, consumed by hatred.
The narrow drive curved and appeared to stretch on forever. Neither spoke. After what seemed like hours, Declan, sensing a change, looked up at the sky to see that the clouds had finally cleared. High above them the moon shone crisp and white, surrounded by millions of stars. He stopped walking, instantly mesmerized. “Look at that,” he said, pointing up to the sky.
<
br /> “No, dude,” Nathan replied. “Look at that.”
Dropping his gaze, Declan followed Nathan’s outstretched arm to see that the end of the drive had magically appeared. And there, parked in front of a small log cabin, was a blue Ford pickup.
Twenty-Six