A flash of lightning illuminated her surroundings.
Crack!
A blast of thunder reverberated through the forest, rattling the Ford’s windows. Shivering from the cold, she used the steering wheel to pull herself upright into the driver’s seat, her muddy clothes soaking wet and heavy. She turned on the ignition, and the engine roared to life. She twisted a black dial to maximum red, allowing the heater to kick in. As the hot air blew out of the car’s AC vents, she rubbed her frozen hands together. Rapidly the interior became hot and humid, fogging up the windows. The steaming wet clothes clung to her body as if she had entered a Turkish Hammam.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the forest with more detail than broad daylight.
Crack!
The thunder that followed made the Ford shudder, and Abbie crouched into the fetal position. That last strike felt like a direct hit and too close for comfort. There was no choice but to get away from the storm that was brewing into a hurricane. She sat upright and switched on the headlights. The enormous amounts of rain and mud were rapidly forming a gushing river. She tapped the gas pedal, ensuring that the tires didn’t spin out. Her eyes scanned the path for the highest rut as the car rolled forward. She shifted the gear down to third, attempting to maintain a consistent speed. As the water gushed around the car, she screamed out in fear, the situation turning into a nightmarish river-rafting expedition. And the Ford was no rubber dingy.
Keep your foot on the gas. The car plowed its way through the branches, mud, and gushing water. She avoided the brakes, afraid to go into a skid and veer off the path. The slightest contact with the trunk of a pine tree would be enough to leave her stranded. As the car navigated through the raging storm like a boat through the wild seas, she realized that if Molina hadn’t given her the keys and she traveled on foot, the storm would have washed her away into oblivion.
Abbie flicked on the high-beam headlights and inspected the route. Visibility was low, but she could vaguely discern the road up ahead. She fought the urge to hit the gas pedal and cover the short distance as fast as possible. Getting the tires onto the asphalt would spell relative safety. Driving in these conditions on a wet road was hard enough, but treading through muddy terrain was insanity. Her foot remained poised on the gas pedal at a thirty-degree angle, her hands gripping the steering wheel. The car inched along at an even speed. Another blinding flash illuminated the unrecognizable forest that had morphed into a wild sloshy mud bath, a single shade of swirling walnut brown. She covered her eyes from the searing light that electrified her brain.
Crack!
The thunder was deafening. Unlike the previous times, this boom physically rippled through her body. She bit her lower lip and held her breath, bracing for the worst. Without warning, the rain intensified dramatically. A cloudburst. She was caught between two options, to either slow down or gun it for the road ahead with zero visibility. She chose the latter, flooring the gas pedal. The car lurched forward like a restrained beast pulling at its chains. It was as if she was in a toy car, lost in a muddy washing machine, reliant on forces beyond her control. The car veered to the left, and she lifted her foot from the gas pedal with the snappiness of a torn elastic. Through the dark sea and mud, she envisaged the impact with a tree. “No,” she screamed and twisted the steering wheel to the right, both her feet planted on the floor and away from the pedals. Any braking or accelerating was impossible.
The car twisted to the right and turned horizontally, rushing forward at speed. She straightened her arms as stiff as she could and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. No matter what, she would not let go. The surrounding branches slapped against the car’s exterior like angry protestors. She gritted her teeth and braced for impact. The car skidded and screeched, spinning fiercely as if in an out-of-control roundabout.
Darkness. White flash. Darkness.
Her head smashed against the side window as the car came to a sudden stop. There was no bang, no thud, no impact. She rubbed the pulsating pain on the side of her head and stared out the windshield, the headlights illuminating the unrelenting shower. It was as if a black waterfall consumed her with nothing in sight. She rolled her neck and composed her thoughts, listening to the rain batter the car, which felt different, more stable. Besides swaying from side to side like a baby rocker, the car was firmly planted. She tapped the gas pedal, just enough to get the car rolling, and immediately braked.
Traction.
“Phew!” She clasped her face, shedding tears of joy. Somehow the storm had spat her out smack dab in the middle of the road. She switched on the hazard lights to warn any potential oncoming traffic. In these impossible driving conditions, it would be unlikely that anybody would venture out. She glanced at the tacky blood smeared over her clothing and figured that the storm was a blessing in disguise. No traffic meant no police. She leaned back in her seat and tried to relax; now it was a waiting game. As soon as the storm let up, she would be on her way. She checked her cell—lots of missed calls from Robert, but no text message from Molina. That’s strange. Molina had everything planned to a T.
Abbie checked Google maps—Deer Island to Forest Park was twenty-nine miles and about thirty-eight minutes’ drive. Not in this weather!
She texted Robert:
Hi, darling, I was at the gym. Going to grab dinner. I’ll be home soon, X.
She prayed that the rain would ease soon. Another unexplained disappearance, and it would be hard to regain his trust. Time wasn’t the only problem. She was drenched in blood from head to toe, and there was no way she could enter her home unnoticed. Molina’s words swirled in her mind . . . Remember they’ll be watching your home, so be smart. There were two more key obstacles. If the police were watching her home, she couldn’t arrive in Molina’s car, and even if she got rid of the car and walked home, she was blood-soaked. She massaged her temples. Why the hell didn’t Molina just text the address? That would have solved the problem, but this was no time to bemoan. She racked her brain for a solution, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, her eyes scanning the seats and the dashboard. She flipped open the glove compartment and found the car registration document. The address was the first detail to bounce out at her.
Gabriella Molina
908 SW 12th Ave.
Portland, OR, 97205
“Got you,” Abbie said out loud, pleased with herself. She lowered the car seat and leaned back, reclining her head onto the headrest, waiting patiently for the downpour to subside. She closed her eyes and focused on the positive. Her life was in the worst possible turmoil, but at least the psycho was gone. She was frightened of her murderous instincts, but in her case, she reasoned, it was justifiable. If Molina was okay with it, why should she be so hard on herself? One less monster roaming the earth was better for everybody. No more potential victims. Justice was served, albeit in medieval fashion. She watched the rain shower pummel the windshield, each wave washing away her guilt. The puzzle was finally falling into place, and she relished the new Abigail. A fighter, survivor, mother, wife, and vigilante that put an end to her torturous past on her terms. Abigail, the architect, could never go this far. Evil had uncovered another side of her. The darkness wasn’t just a visual state; it lived inside her. There was no choice but to embrace it, that’s what kept her alive and reunited with her family.
The windshield wipers battled wave after wave of blasting rain like a platoon under artillery fire, powerless to the unrelenting barrage until finally, the rain eased ever so slightly. Abbie sat up and rested her chin on top of the steering wheel, searching for glimpses of the road illuminated by the faded headlights. The centerline was visible, but not much else on either side. Under the conditions, it would have to suffice. She revved up the engine and rolled into the left lane, using the centerline as her point of reference. With every passing mile, she steadily increased the speed, desperate to make up for lost time, driven by a deep sense of urg
ency. Somehow, she feared, the worst was yet to come.
CHAPTER 32
The car rolled through the puddles along the empty roads of downtown Portland. The rain still came down hard, but nowhere near the intensity of earlier. It was enough to keep most people behind closed doors for the evening, bringing the bustling downtown area to a standstill.
“You’ve reached your destination.” A female voice sounded on her Google Maps. She pulled the car into a packed parking lot opposite Molina’s apartment building and shut off the engine. She monitored the entrance to the eight-story colonial revival-style building. Every other minute a car would splash its way along the adjacent road, but there were no pedestrians in sight. Abbie studied her appearance in the rearview mirror. Her hair seemed matted and disheveled and caked in dry blood, as if someone had thrown a bucket of red paint onto her head and left it to dry. It wasn’t worth the risk of being seen in this state. If anybody alerted the cops, and they arrested her, they wouldn’t need a confession. She smirked at her reflection as there was no more fitting description for the phrase being caught red-handed.
A bus stopped near the building, and a young couple dashed for cover through the blustering rain. They loitered in the lobby for a little while before deciding to brace the weather with an umbrella.
Abbie watched the lovebirds huddle together, battling to maintain coverage under the umbrella twisting in the wind. She waited for them to turn a corner at the next block and then popped the driver’s door open. The fierce resistance of icy wind and rain required the aid of her legs to push the door open. Taking one last glance around the street, she raced for the lobby as if on a track-and-field one-hundred-meter sprint, paying no attention to whether she cut through puddles or road. Through her peripheral vision, she could see a car heading in her direction. She shoved open the glass lobby door and burst inside, wiping away the rain from her eyes.
The gray tiled floor was wet and dangerously slippery, so she supported herself against the wall for the first few steps. The aging lobby was well past its heyday and in urgent need of a revamp. Musty air reeked like an abandoned antique store. She studied the apartment keys that were on the same ring as the car keys. Neither were numbered nor marked. Her eyes darted between the elevators and the entrance, fearful of being spotted. Located in between, she noticed the mailroom. Three rows of steel mailboxes lined each side of the opposite wall. She scanned the mailbox labels, moving from right to left, one column at a time. The car registration document had oddly omitted the apartment number, but she hoped Molina had her name and apartment number labeled on the mailbox.
A sudden pinging sound, followed by the swishing of the elevator doors, alerted her. She moved to the opposite wall, pressing herself against the cold steel mailboxes, away from the line of vision of any passerby. The sound of rapid footsteps heading toward the exit echoed through the lobby. Abbie held her breath, her mind spinning through the options of how this would play out if the passerby entered the mailroom instead of heading out. The answer was simple: run. And if anybody would try to stop her: attack. She had nothing but her bare hands, and the sheer determination to escape at all costs. She glanced around the room in search of a potential weapon, but spotted the label:
Molina 54
It was less than three strides to her left. The footsteps got louder, but she remained rooted to the spot, geared for action. She clenched her jaw as the footsteps shuffled past the mailroom entrance. The main door clicked open, and a gust of icy wind permeated the lobby. Abbie shivered, the cool air and rising tension infiltrating her bones. She was so close to freedom. Quickly, the main door shut again, blocking out the stormy weather and confirming that she was alone. She doubled-checked the label, ensuring that she wasn’t hallucinating in her panic, and headed for the elevator. She pressed the upward button and watched the square digital display:
7,6,5, . . .
She tapped her foot on the tiled surface like a tap dancer warming up for her routine, anxiety growing by the second. “Come on,” she said out loud.
4,3,2, . . .
With her luck today, someone would enter or exit at any moment. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, the main door clicked open, and another icy gust chilled the lobby.
1 . . . 0.
She lowered her head to avoid attention and hurried into the elevator without daring to glance toward the main entrance. The elevator had a dusty carpeted surface, round yellow recessed lights, and mirrored walls above the waistline. The lower part of the walls composed of frosted glass. She pressed the button for the fifth floor.
“Hold the elevator, please,” a man yelled from the lobby.
She pressed the “close door” button and retraced toward the back of the elevator, leaning against the steel railing, her pulse racing. She watched the doors inch closed as if her life depended on it. Come on. Never had she paid attention to the speed at which an elevator closes its doors, but this one seemed slow. She slammed the “close door” button, willing it to shut close in time.
An arm pushed through the gap as the doors were only a handbreadth from closing. The doors jammed for a second and then reopened, revealing a suited middle-aged man. His jacket and textured black hair glistening from the rain.
“And I thought I looked worse for wear. Did Halloween rock up early this year?” He chuckled, scrutinizing her appearance.
She remained silent and wide-eyed, unsure of whether to run. He seemed easygoing.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or something,” he said and tapped the button for the third floor.
“It’s okay. I had a long day at art class, as you can see. I’m looking forward to a hot shower,” she said, surprised by her own ingenuity.
“Wow, seems you had fun. What’s the project?”
“We. . . um. . . had to recreate a red human version of the Love and Pain painting by Munch,” she said, just as the elevator flashed three. The doors inched open after a soft pinging sound. She averted his gaze, staring at the carpeted floor, her mind grappling with a quick exit strategy.
“You know, that painting is also known as the vampire,” he said as he spilled into the corridor.
“A fitting name, don’t you think?” she said, spreading her arms with the palms facing outwards in a look at me gesture.
“Indeed.” He laughed and waved her goodbye as he headed down the corridor.
The elevator doors closed, and she held on to the steel railing to support her weight, almost fainting from the adrenaline peak. You’re okay. It’s over. He didn’t show any signs of suspicion.
Before she could entirely compose herself, the digital display flashed five, and the elevator doors pinged opened. She blocked the elevator doors from closing with her elbow and peeked out at the scarred corridor. Peeling golden-beige wallpaper and yellowing white apartment doors lined the walls on either side of the hallway. A coffee stained neutral diamond-patterned carpet adorned the floor. She glanced left and right to make sure the coast was clear and rushed out of the elevator. Apartment number fifty-four was four doors down to her left.
She pressed her ear against the door, listening for any sounds. Satisfied that the apartment was empty, she slipped the key into the lock and cautiously twisted the handle. The door inched open, revealing an apartment in utter darkness. She ran her hand along the interior wall and flicked on the lights. The living room comprised a small black leather couch and a rectangular glass coffee table piled with case file clippings and notes, and there was no dining room table or other seating area. It was as if Molina had stripped the apartment down to the bare necessities, nothing homey about it.
The sudden sound of shuffling alerted her. She stopped in her tracks and listened for the source. The hair on her neck and arms bristling. More movement, coming from a room at the end of the corridor. She dashed to the kitchen and threw open the drawers, searching for the largest knife. As the shuffling
turned to quick pacing, she grabbed a random knife and turned toward the corridor to face the intruder.
Rrrrrrr. Ruff-Ruff
A miniature pinscher with a chocolate and tan coat growled, baring its teeth.
She lowered the knife onto the kitchen counter with a thin laugh. The small animal was anything but threatening. Still, she needed to shut him up, and fast. The dog’s yappy barks would surely alarm the neighbors. On the floor, in the kitchen’s corner, she noticed the empty stainless-steel bowls. Molina didn’t plan to be gone this long, so she assumed the dog was hungry. She refilled the dog’s food and water bowls, placing them in the center of the living room. The animal didn’t need a second invitation and instinctively hurried to lap it up.
Abbie watched him for a moment, grasping the fact that survival instincts were stronger than anything, including loyalty. She resolved to refill his bowls when done here. In desperate need of a hot shower and some fresh clothes, she made her way toward the master bedroom. The rooms on either side of the corridor were dark, besides a subtle flickering of light coming from the partially open door of the second room to the right. Out of pure intrigue, she tapped the white wooden door ajar with her palm and entered the room. A single bed was pressed up against the corner wall. A pile of books and magazines lay on the pinkish bedside table. Near the foot of the bed, there was a small worktable and rolling chair, strewn with an assortment of school textbooks. It was instantly apparent whose room this was. The wall opposite the table was like a shrine. A pile of flowers and folded handwritten letters rested on the floor. There must have been over fifty flameless candles positioned on shelves forming a heart. In the middle was a photograph of an adolescent girl, no doubt Molina’s daughter. Abbie stared at the youthful girl’s jovial eyes, which seemed familiar, like an old acquaintance. She chalked it down to the girl’s uncanny resemblance to her mother. It was a heart wrenching sight, a testament to Molina’s unrelenting anguish. Abbie averted her eyes from the photograph, wiping away the looming tears. This monster had taken so much away from Abbie, but Molina had paid the ultimate price.
Eye For Her: A gripping must-read thriller Page 19