by Olive Balla
Cleg turned toward his son. “You’d best do as she says.” He plopped onto the steps, taking in deep, sucking breaths of oxygen through his nasal cannula. “You know how she can get.”
Mort shook his head. “You should have left her years ago, when you had the chance. What are you still doing here?”
“I don’t—”
Mort held up his hand. “You don’t have to explain. I decided a long time ago you must enjoy getting beaten up.”
Cleg flinched as if he’d been struck. “Is that what you think? You think I like getting hit, kicked, and bitten? Nobody likes that, at least, no sane person.” Cleg coughed then got a thoughtful look on his face. “Fear, I guess. I’ve just been afraid to leave.”
“So, you’re a wuss.” Mort shook his head. “Wow, what a role model.”
“Mort.” Maggot’s voice could have pulverized boulders. “Get in here.”
“Coming,” Mort shouted. He looked at Cleg, his upper lip curling.
People said he was like his old man, but he wasn’t. He’d never let anyone treat him the way Maggot treated his dad. He couldn’t wait to put as much distance as possible between himself and the witch who’d birthed him. And nothing or nobody was going to get in his way.
He returned to his truck and hefted the sledgehammer from the passenger side floor, then headed back toward the house.
Maggot stood just inside the doorway tapping her foot. “You took your time.”
“I’m here now.”
Moving her arm in a sweeping arc, Maggot said, “We’ve got a whole house to work our way through, and I don’t care if we tear the place to the ground, we’re going to find that map.”
“You figured out where it’s hidden?”
“I just put my mind to it, that’s all.” Maggot looked into Mort’s eyes. “Same as anyone else could do, if he had half a brain.”
As if time suddenly leapt backward, Mort was a kid of twelve again. In crystal clear detail, he felt the churning in his gut as Chlorine yelled at Toby and him, calling them names, threatening to hurt them, threatening to make them wear diapers because they were such babies. He relived the fear he’d felt as the rage-filled, red-faced, screaming monster bore down on them, a wooden slat gripped threateningly in her hands.
He remembered the hammer laying on the ground, and Toby, with a blank look on his face, casually picking it up. And he remembered the sudden silence that followed.
Maybe he was more like his old man than he wanted to admit. Maybe Maggot was right when she said he was a gutless, spineless wonder. Why else would he have just bowed his head and accepted all the hateful words the screeching woman threw at him over the years?
Like a light at the end of a long dark tunnel, the promise of escape drew his thoughts. He took a deep breath.
Escape and payback—two for one. What better way to get revenge than to let the Hated Ones do the work of finding the map, then taking it for himself.
Mort gripped the sledgehammer and followed his mother into the house.
Chapter Forty-Four
By the time Dix pulled into the Elliotts’ driveway, the sun was just coming up. Her earlier caffeine jolt had long since worn off. Her eyes burned, and acid reflux ate at the lining of her esophagus.
She turned off the engine and studied the house. Although lights shone through the windows on the bottom floor, the early hour meant she’d most likely not receive a warm welcome and offer of coffee and scones. At the thought of what might become a heated exchange, she sucked a deep breath in through her nose then blew it out through puckered lips.
What excuse could she offer for being there? Since the Elliotts had elected to keep quiet about Jillie’s running away, they most likely wouldn’t look kindly on her interference. And the fact that the child had shown true terror when speaking of the dark, soulless woman named Margo meant Dix would have to tread softly.
With few exceptions, she’d never been much use in a confrontation. Had, in fact, always tried to steer clear of it. But like a hologram, images of Jillie’s blistered heels and torn fingernails shimmered onto Dix’s memory-screen.
She interrupted the loop of internal monologue that mocked her pseudo-bravado, exited the car and approached the house. Shoving aside unwelcome images of her body plummeting through the porch’s screeching, groaning planks, she stepped to the front door.
Remnants of the shattered, brown plastic doorbell switch too small for Dix’s finger to press, she knocked. As she did so, hinges squealed, and the door swung open a couple of inches.
She opened the door farther and poked her head through. “Helloooo, anyone home?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
Lights on, door ajar, no one home. The tiny hairs on Dix’s forearms moved as if she’d fallen into a bed of fire ants. Regretting for the umpteenth time her decision not to use the all-night gas station’s phone to call either Lil or Davie, she started back to her car.
She scanned the decrepit place Jillie had so aptly described. Her eyes slid past a small gardening shed then were pulled back. Without making the conscious decision to do so, she walked to the outbuilding and tugged at the lock.
Something shuffled just inside the door.
Dix heard herself croak, “Is someone there?”
She jiggled the doorknob and nearly jumped out of her skin when a tiny voice said, “Is that you, Miss Dixie?”
“Jillie?”
“Please, can you get me out?” The plea was followed by a deluge of words tumbling over each other in a chaotic stream, consistent only in their terror and something about a dead man in a trailer and bones in a toolbox.
Rage flamed from the soles of Dix’s feet and blazed its way like an erupting volcano up her body. “Did those horrible people lock you in here?”
“Please hurry, I don’t know when they’ll be back.”
Dix cast her eyes on the ground around the shed in search of something to use as a tool. “I don’t see anything—”
“Here,” Jillie said. “Try this.”
A long, wooden bar reminiscent of a broom handle shot through a crack in the boarded-up window and landed at Dix’s feet. She picked it up, stepped to the door, and searched for an opening large enough to gain purchase.
“Get ready to squeeze through,” Dix said. “I’m not sure how long I can hold it.”
She jammed the end of the pole into a warped spot between the door and its frame. After several tries, she managed to work it deep enough to bring pressure to bear. With her full weight behind it, she pushed. Her confidence rising with the squeal of tortured wood, she redoubled her efforts. Suddenly, the termite-ridden door jamb pulled away from the surrounding wall, the door still held firmly in place by the U-lock.
Jillie ran out the opening and into Dix’s waiting arms. “We have to call the police.”
“You bet your boots we do,” Dix said. “But first, you and I are going to the hospital to see your sister.”
Jillie’s head jerked up, and she studied Dix’s face. “What?”
“Those people lied to you. Beth’s awake and getting stronger every day.”
“Beth’s alive? She didn’t get burned up?” As if an unimaginable weight had dropped from her shoulders, Jillie swayed; she leaned against the shed for support. “I knew Margo was lying.” She wiped tears from her cheeks as a smile lit up her face. “Can we go see Beth?”
Dix nodded. “Absolutely.”
Jillie took a step toward Dix then stopped, as if something had occurred to her. “Just a minute.” She hurried back into the shed. When she returned, she was wearing her backpack. “You have your phone? We have to call the police, we have to tell them—”
“Tell them what?” Spoken from only a few inches behind Dix, the sudden sound of a young male voice sent her heart rate into the stratosphere.
Dix whipped her head around toward the speaker as the child whimpered and pressed against her.
Between her excitement at finding Jillie and the n
oise she’d made while forcing the shed door open, she’d obviously not noticed the sound of a returning vehicle. Not her brightest moment.
“Who are you?” The young man cocked his head toward Dix.
“I’m a friend of Jillie’s, and I’m taking her to see her sister.”
“So, you’re the old lady the police are looking for.”
“The police?” Had Lil been so angry she’d called Davie, and then had Davie reported her?
“It was your nephew,” Jillie said. “He came here looking for you.”
The tension in Dix’s neck relaxed a bit. “We’ll call him from the hospital.” She put an arm around Jillie’s shoulders and started toward her car.
“Oh, I think not.” The young man stepped in front of Dix.
“Get out of my way. This child has been through enough.”
“Well, this child and I have some unfinished business to attend to.”
Dix gave Jillie’s shoulder a nudge. “Run,” she whispered as she moved to stand between the two.
A pistol suddenly appeared in the young man’s hand, and he pointed it at Dix’s midsection. “Go ahead, Kid, run. But then whatever happens to your granny friend will be on you.”
Jillie cried, “Stop it, Toby, leave her be.”
“I have an idea.” Toby waved the pistol at Dix, motioning for her to walk in front of him. “Let’s take a little road trip. Granny will drive. The more the merrier; many hands make light work, as they say.”
“We’re not going anywhere with you.” Dix lifted her chin. If she could just get a bit closer… It’d been three decades since she’d taken a self-defense course, but surely, she could still…
“Oooo-ho, she’s getting ready to make a move. I’m quaking in my boots.” Toby smiled, a rictus that sent chills up Dix’s spine. “Who do you think you are, Granny Bonecrusher?”
Jillie cleared her throat. “There’s a problem with your plan.”
Toby cocked his head. “Really? And what do you know about my plan?”
Jillie took a step toward Toby. “It’s just some things you don’t know, things I heard the Elliotts talking about.”
“Oh?” Toby’s eyes were riveted on Jillie, but the gun never wavered from Dix’s midsection. “Then why don’t you clue me in.”
As the two talked, Dix began inching toward Toby. With her eyes riveted on him, she failed to sidestep a small twig. The subsequent crack, though tiny, was loud enough to attract the young man’s attention.
Growling, he whipped his head around toward her. “Stop, I’m dead serious.” Toby shifted the pistol until it was aimed at Jillie’s head. “How much are you willing to risk?”
Dix held both hands up. “Okay, okay. Just don’t hurt her.”
Toby smirked. “I don’t want to, I really don’t. But I will if you make me.” He jerked the pistol, motioning Dix and Jillie toward the pickup. “Let’s go. Old Yeller’s gassed up and ready to go.”
Sleep-deprivation, hours of adrenaline-suffused hyper-vigilance, and just plain rage flowed through Dix. With a battle cry that pulsed upward from the soles of her feet, she lunged at Toby and chopped down with the side of her hand, aiming at his wrist.
But the same conditions that had made her fearless, had made her slow. Toby pivoted then brought the pistol down in an arc that ended against Dix’s temple.
Her vision went gray. She took a stumbling step forward and fell to her knees.
Jillie screamed her name, then everything went black.
Chapter Forty-Five
When Dix regained consciousness, it was to a raging headache. Disoriented at first, she struggled to sit up while her eyes slowly focused.
“Miss Dixie?” Jillie’s voice sounded muffled, as if she’d been crying.
“I’m here.” Dix tried to smile as she reached for the child’s hand.
“Well now,” Toby drawled. “A mere flesh wound, as they say. Let that be a lesson.”
“You know this isn’t going to end well for you, right?” Dix looked up at the young man holding a pistol in her face.
“I know nothing of the kind,” Toby said. “I do know, however, that by the time you have a chance to go whining to the police, I’ll be long gone.”
Dix bit back a retort. She grimaced and raised her hand to the side of her head, her sweat-salty fingertips lighting fire as they came into contact with broken skin atop a growing lump. She studied her fingers, grateful that there was very little blood.
Okay, then, just a minor concussion. Ringing in her ears, but no severe nausea and no serious mental confusion. Hopefully, no lasting damage.
“Did-ums granny fall down go boom, get a booboo?” Toby taunted.
“Stop being mean,” Jillie said. “She’s hurt.”
He whirled toward Jillie. “Oh, she’ll be a lot more than just hurt if you don’t cough up your old man’s stash.”
Jillie started to say something, but clamped her mouth shut at the warning look Dix shot her.
Toby bent at the waist to bring his eyes close to Dix’s. “I’m doing you a favor, you know.”
Taken aback, Dix squinted up at him.
“You’re on a fixed income, right? Think about it, while I’m poolside in someplace known only to God and Marco Polo, you’ll be negotiating with a major publisher for your story. My Twenty-Four Hours in Hell has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” He held up his hand, palm out. “No need to thank me, just a mention in your acknowledgements will do. That’s Dinkins, with an i. Of course, within a week that’ll no longer be my name, so knock yourself out.”
“What now?” Dix said.
“As I said, we’re going on an outing.” Toby jerked the barrel of the pistol upward, motioning for Dix to stand. “I hate to add insult to injury, but you’ll have to drive.” He pointed the gun at Jillie.
“I won’t do anything unless you move that gun away from her. Point it at me, if that makes you feel better.”
“You’re telling me what to do, you interfering old witch?”
“That’d not be real smart, since you’re the one with the pistol. No, I’m just passing along some information, that’s all. If you keep holding that gun on her with your finger on the trigger, you risk a sympathetic jerk, and that would put an end to your plans.”
“A what?”
“A sympathetic jerk as a result of muscle memory. I’m assuming you’ve actually spent time practicing with that thing?” Dix struggled to keep her voice calm.
“What if I have?”
“Then your muscles will eventually do what they’ve done every time you’ve practiced, but they’ll do it on their own. Muscle memory.”
Toby frowned but shifted the pistol barrel toward Dix. “Better?”
Right then, Dix would have been thrilled to see Lil. But her sister had been so angry when she left to find Jillie, she’d probably packed all Dix’s stuff and thrown it into the street.
Dix took a deep breath and, with Jillie’s help, got to her feet. For several seconds, she remained motionless to regain her balance. With what she hoped to be a calming smile at the child, she shuffled toward the pickup.
Whistling a happy tune from a children’s animated movie, Toby fell into line behind them.
Chapter Forty-Six
As Lil turned into the dirt, circular drive that lead to the Elliott house, the beams from her headlights moved across the yard, highlighting dead trees, weeds, and peeling paint. She followed the light’s path as it reflected off the house’s front windows then came to rest on the windshield of Dix’s red sportster.
Fighting to keep from hyperventilating, she pulled up behind her sister’s car, jammed the gearshift into park and jumped from the still-shuddering vehicle. She strode to Dix’s car and laid the palm of her right hand on the hood.
How long would it take an engine to cool completely? An hour? Two?
The image of her twin’s body either slumped against the steering wheel or crumpled onto the seat peeled away a layer of Lil’s anger as sh
e hurried around to the driver’s side. She tightened her lips and opened the door.
The bright overhead light came on as the car’s key-in-the-ignition warning bell chimed. Dix’s purse and empty cell phone lanyard lay on the passenger seat. A huge, empty Styrofoam coffee cup sat in the built-in drink holder.
Feeling as if a maniac had begun knitting her insides, Lil sucked in a deep breath through her nose then blew it out through her mouth. Dix’s car had been broken into a couple of years earlier, and she’d never again left her purse, or anything else, inside a car—especially an unlocked car.
She squinted at the house. An unpleasant tingle crept up her spine at the sight of the slightly ajar front door and the lighted entryway.
Gripping the handle of her Taser in one hand, she lightly caressed the pepper spray’s trigger mechanism with her other and headed toward the house.
The rickety porch squealed like a pinched nerve, making the hair on her neck dance. Fighting down her gag reflex at the miasma of odor oozing through the door, she stepped over the threshold and into the house.
A phrase she’d once read sprang to mind: Abandon hope all who enter here.
“Hello?” she said into the stillness.
Fearful of what she might find, Lil cautiously moved from room to room. The smell. The urn. The lock on the pantry door. She hated to admit it, but everything was turning out just as the kid had said.
Once satisfied that no one was around, she hurried back outside and strode to her car. Along the way, she shot one last look around the yard at the shadowy shapes now highlighted by early dawn sunlight.
The tin, corrugated roof of a dilapidated shed, unnoticed in early morning darkness, caught her attention. She strode to the out building, noting the shattered door jamb.
Small footprints near the front of the door mingled with two sets of larger prints. The small prints looked like they could have been made by a child’s tennis shoes. Of the larger prints, some were in the pattern of Dix’s favorite cork-soled footwear, and some appeared to have been made by a man’s boots.