by TAYLOR ADAMS
“I’m sorry,” she said, touching his wrist. “I’m so sorry to drag you into this. But I was dragged into it, too. And I can’t save her alone.”
“I know. I’ll help.”
“If we don’t do something right now, Lars could snap and attack us first. Every second we wait here is a second we give him, to decide how to deal with us. If it makes it easier for you, stop thinking about this hypothetical little girl’s life, who you’ve never actually met. Think about yours—”
“I said I’ll do it,” he said, and the ice-tray lights flickered behind him.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“I mean it, Ashley. Thank you—”
“I’ll help,” he said with a nervous grin, “if you give me your phone number.”
Darby grinned, too, all teeth: “If you help bludgeon the shit out of a complete stranger with a rock for me, I might just marry you.”
* * *
Lars watched as they returned.
He was back at his sentry post, a few paces to the right of the front door in the lobby’s natural little blind spot. He was trying vainly to refold a map of Mount Hood, but he tilted his head to follow Darby and Ashley as they crossed the room. Darby kept her head down. Her gray Converse squeaked, her socks still squelching with melted snow.
No eye contact.
Exiting the restroom at the same time had been a huge mistake, Darby realized. Even though both gendered doors were around a corner, only one door had been heard opening, and the timing was suspicious. Both Ed and Sandi had probably noticed, and they’d draw their own conclusions. Behind her, Ashley noisily bumped a chair. Smooth.
Her own heart was booming so loud she was shocked the others couldn’t hear it. Her cheeks burned tomato red. She knew she was visibly rattled, but conveniently, it might just fit the bizarre scene. If she’d just met a stranger for a quickie in a public restroom, she’d feel pretty damn anxious about this ten-pace walk of shame.
She carried her Swiss Army knife concealed against her wrist. The metal ice-cold against her skin. She had to be ready—if Ashley’s first swing didn’t take Rodent Face down, she’d stab him in the throat. The face. Those dim little eyes.
I’ll cut his throat if I have to.
She thought about Jay in the Chevrolet Astro outside, crouching inside a dog kennel damp with her own urine, her hand bloodied and bandaged, with five gallons of gasoline and a jug of Clorox bleach sitting nearby. She wondered what would happen to this poor little kid if they failed.
She was still angry at herself for exiting the restroom at the same time as Ashley. That had been stupid.
Ed definitely noticed. He glanced up at them, slurped his coffee, and nodded at the radio. “You missed it.”
Ashley prickled. “Missed what?”
“The emergency loop updated again. It’s bad. Eastbound is blocked by a jackknifed semi at the bottom of the slope. Multiple fatalities.”
“How far from us?”
“Mile marker ninety-nine. So, seven, eight miles?”
Too far to walk.
Darby sighed, glancing back at the big Colorado map on the wall. That would place the wreck somewhere by Icicle Creek, halfway between the blue dots signifying the Wanasho and Wanashono rest areas. It was a little surreal how perfectly trapped they were—a blizzard sweeping in from the west, and a crashed eighteen-wheeler eight miles downhill to the east, cutting off the exit behind them. Like an ambush, every bit as staged as the one they were about to attempt. She wondered if dawn was still the ETA for the road crews’ arrival, or if their timeline had slid back into tomorrow afternoon. If so, it would be a hell of a long time to hold a criminal at gunpoint.
Ashley reached through the security grate and adjusted the Sony’s antenna. He squinted into the coffee stand, into the dark spaces under the counters. “And . . . do you think they have a real radio back there?”
“What?”
“A two-way radio? Or a landline phone? They’d have to.”
Easy there, Ashley.
“Yeah?” Ed grunted. “If they do, it’s state property, locked up—”
Ashley pointed. “Held by a dollar-store padlock. One good whack with something heavy, and those shutters come right up.”
“I’m not in a felony mood just yet.”
“Maybe you’ll reconsider,” Ashley said, “in the next few minutes.”
Darby knew he would. She stood by the window, trying to appear calm, and looked outside into the dark trees. The snowflakes kept coming, some rising, some falling, catching flecks of sodium lamplight like cinders from a campfire. A few paces behind her, she heard Ashley exhale through chattering teeth. He had the rock-in-a-sock stuffed up his right sleeve, ready to drop into his palm and swing.
They’d agreed on a covert signal. When Ashley was ready, he’d cough once. This would be Darby’s cue to walk to the front door, pass Lars on her way outside, and set the ambush in motion. Like triggering a bear trap.
Only problem? Ashley wasn’t ready.
He hovered there, teeth gritted, sucking in shallow gulps of air. She hoped his shortness of breath wouldn’t be a liability. Typical for her luck—I enlist the aid of the youngest, tallest, strongest-looking guy in the immediate area, and he turns out to have asthma. Just great. And she couldn’t even imagine what was going on in poor Ashley’s mind. An hour ago, he’d been demonstrating a Mexican turnover to this guy, and now he’d been asked to slink up behind him and bash his skull in.
It should be me, she realized.
I’m a coward for being Person B.
Maybe. But Ashley was, without a doubt, physically stronger than her. So her being the bait and Ashley being the trap made plenty of logical sense. It just didn’t feel right.
“Hey.” Lars cleared his throat. “Ah . . . excuse me?”
Darby turned to face him, centipedes coiling in her stomach, her Swiss Army knife tucked up her sleeve.
So did Ashley.
“Does . . .” The child abductor was still by the door, squinting into another tourism brochure: “Does anyone know what this word means?”
Sandi lowered her paperback. “Pronounce it.”
“Res-plend-ent.”
“Resplendent. It means beautiful.”
“Beautiful.” Lars nodded once, mechanically. “Okay. Thank you, Sandi.” His gaze returned to his brochure—but on the way down, it met Darby’s from across the room, and for a half second, she was trapped in the beady stupidity of his eyes.
He mouthed: Beautiful.
She looked away.
It’d been more than sixty seconds. Ashley was still standing beside her, his feet rooted to the floor, and now she was beginning to worry. She couldn’t just tug him back into the restroom for another pep talk—the first one had already drawn too much of the room’s attention. She was stuck waiting on his signal.
Come on, Ashley.
She wished he’d just inhale some dust and accidentally cough, so she’d have an excuse to approach the door and kick off the attack. Under her sleeve she pricked her thumb on the Swiss Army blade. It was satisfyingly sharp.
Please cough.
She watched him waver there, like a kid on a high diving board. He’d been so cool, so smooth and confident before, and now he looked like he’d just witnessed a murder. Darby felt a nervous tightness climb her throat. She’d chosen the wrong ally, and now the situation was unraveling.
Cough. Or you’re going to give us away—
Ed noticed. “Ashley, you’re quiet all of a sudden.”
“I’m . . . I’m fine.”
“Hey, look, man, I’m sorry about circle time.”
“It’s all right.”
“I was just giving you shit—”
“I’m fine. Really.” Ashley adjusted his sleeve as he spoke, keeping the rock-in-a-sock from dropping into view.
Ed smiled, tapping the table’s edge with two fingers. A quiet little heartbeat, and for a moment the room was silent, and Darby could
feel that sound in her bones. “Your big fear is . . . you said it was door hinges. Right?”
Ashley nodded.
Sandi set her paperback down. “Mine’s snakes.”
“Snakes, huh?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Ed sipped his coffee, still tapping. “Mine is . . . well, I didn’t really know how to put it into words. But I think I can now.”
Another growl of wind, and the lights flickered overhead. The room threatened to fall into darkness.
Lars watched like a shadow.
Ashley licked his lips. “Let’s . . . uh, let’s hear it, then.”
“Okay.” Ed took an uncomfortable breath. “So . . . here’s some hard-earned wisdom for you kids. You want to know the secret to ruining your life? It’s never one big black-and-white decision. It’s dozens of little ones, that you make every single day. It’s excuses, mostly, in my case. Excuses are poison. When I was a veterinarian, I had all sorts of good ones, like: This is me time. I earned this. Or: No one can judge me for this drink; I just operated on a golden retriever who ran into a barbed wire fence, with her eyeball hanging out on a little string. See? Horrific. That’s how you trick yourself. And then one day I was at Jan’s—I mean, my ex-wife’s sister’s place—a few years back for my goddaughter’s big wedding reception. Wine, homebrews. I brought champagne. But I also brought a bottle of Rich and Rare for myself, and I stashed it in their bathroom, inside their toilet tank.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want anyone to see how much I was drinking.”
Silence.
Darby realized his drumbeat on the table had stopped.
Ashley nodded sympathetically. “My mom struggled with that, too.”
“But . . .” Ed prodded Sandi’s shoulder. “Well, thank God for my cousin Sandi, here, because she called me up at two o’clock yesterday and told me she was going to drive my ass up to Denver for family Christmas. No excuses.”
Sandi sniffled. “We missed you, Eddie.”
“So, yeah.” He straightened. “To answer the circle-time question, my biggest fear is this Christmas in Aurora. I’m afraid my ex-wife and sons will be there at Jack’s tomorrow night. And I’m even more afraid they won’t.”
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Ashley swallowed. Some color was back in his cheeks. “Uh, thanks, Ed.”
“No problem.”
“That couldn’t have been easy to say.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Been sober awhile?”
“No,” Ed said. “I drank this morning.”
Silence.
“That, uh . . .” Ashley hesitated. “That sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
Another volatile silence, and the lights flickered again, as five people, with three concealed weapons, shared oxygen in this little room.
“Excuses are poison,” Ed repeated. “Doing the right thing is hard. Talking yourself out of it is easy. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” Ashley said. “More than you know.” Then he glanced purposefully over at Darby, and raised a fist to his mouth.
He coughed once.
The trap engaged. She walked, feeling the tiny hairs prickle on her skin. She looked Lars in the eye as she moved toward that front door—he glanced up from his pamphlet and watched her pass, twisting his scrawny neck to follow her—and then Darby tugged the door open. A rush of subzero air. Slashing wind. Gritty snowflakes peppering her eyes.
She stepped outside, her shoulders tense, the knife tight in her knuckles.
Follow me, Rodent Face.
Let’s end this.
11:55 P.M.
Lars didn’t follow her.
The door closed. She took a few shaky steps outside, her Converse sinking into the fresh snow, her heart banging against her ribs. She’d been certain Lars would follow her. He should have been right behind her, shadowing her, his slouching frame filling the doorway, his back to the room so Ashley could strike—
He wasn’t.
Darby shivered and watched the door. No need for concealment now; she held the Swiss Army knife like an icepick as she stood in the orange light, waiting for the door to creak open. But it didn’t.
What had gone wrong?
The eye contact. The eye contact with Lars had been too much, she realized. She’d overplayed her hand. And now the armed criminal was still inside the building, with Ashley and the others, and the trap had failed.
Okay.
Okay, fine.
She had a choice now.
Go back inside? Or keep walking to his van?
Another howl of wind whipped her face with snow. For a moment she couldn’t see. She blinked furiously, mashing her eyes with her thumbs. When her vision returned, the world had darkened. She realized the sodium-vapor lamp that hung over the visitor center’s front door had fizzled out. Another grim omen to add to the list.
Seconds count, she reminded herself.
Make a choice.
So she did—she decided to keep walking to Lars’s van. She’d open the door, check on Jay again, and flick the dome light on. Maybe even the high beams. This would give Lars another reason to come outside. And Ashley would have his chance to attack—if he was still ready. If the ambush could still be salvaged.
Something else occurred to her as she walked—what if there was a gun in the van? Her first search had been brief and frantic. Lars was certainly carrying one, of course, but what if there was another?
Yes, a gun would be a game changer. Her stomach growled.
Shambling through knee-deep snow, her right shoe coming untied, she crossed the fifty feet to Lars’s van. Snow had regathered on the windshield, hardened to sheets of ice where it melted. She’d made sure to leave the Astro’s rear door unlocked, and she was glad she had.
She circled to the back of the van now. She passed the faded decal of the cartoon fox—the blistered letters of we finish what we start—and wondered if Lars had bought the vehicle from a business that went chapter 11. Or maybe he’d murdered someone for it. Or maybe Rodent Face was himself a freelance handyman. Maybe that was how he got inside your house and scoped out your kids’ bedrooms, opening drawers and sniffing pillows.
Darby glanced over her shoulder, back at the Wanashono visitor center. The front door was still shut. The lamp was still dead. No silhouettes standing near the window, which was surprising. She’d expected to see Lars watching her, or at least Ashley. She couldn’t even see Ed and Sandi; they were seated too far back. Save for the dim amber glow behind the half-buried glass, you’d never guess the tiny structure was populated at all.
What’s happening in there?
Hopefully nothing. Yet.
She considered jumping into her Honda and punching the horn—that would sure draw some attention. Lars would certainly come outside to investigate that. But so might Ed and Sandi. The situation could unravel. The element of surprise could be lost. Shots could be fired. Bullets could ricochet.
She tugged the Astro’s rear door. Still unlocked. It scraped open, dropping a shelf of snow, revealing soupy darkness inside as her pupils adjusted.
She whispered: “Hey.”
Silence.
“Jay. It’s okay. It’s me.”
Another tense moment, long enough for Darby to worry—and then finally the girl stirred, her fingers gripping the kennel bars for balance. The frame made a twanging noise, like taut cables. Darby reached into her jeans pocket for her phone, to turn on the LED flashlight, but it wasn’t there. She patted her other pocket. Also empty. She’d left her phone in her purse. On the edge of that porcelain sink, inside the men’s restroom.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Inside the van, she smelled the same odors—dog blankets, urine, stale sweat—and identified a foul new one.
“I threw up,” the girl whispered. A tremor in her voice.
“It’s . . . it’s all right.”
“Sorry. My stomach hurts.”
Mine too, Darby thought. She leaned back and peered around the Astro’s icy taillight—yes, the building’s door was still shut. “I’m sorry, Jay. We’re both having a crappy night. But we’ll get through it. Okay?”
“I didn’t mean to throw up.”
“It’s fine.”
“I never throw up. Ever.”
“Believe me, Jay, that’ll change in college.”
“College makes you throw up?”
“Something like that.”
“I hate throwing up. If that’s what college is like, I’m not going—”
“All right, Jay, listen.” Darby touched the kennel, and the little girl’s trembling fingers squeezed hers through the bars. “I’m going to help you. And to help you, I need you to first help me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I need you to try and remember. The farting man . . . can you describe the gun he’s carrying?”
“It’s little. Black. He keeps it in his pocket.”
“Of course.” She leaned out and checked the building’s front door again—still closed—and asked: “Did you see him keep any knives in here? Bats? Machetes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any other guns?”
“One other.”
Darby’s heart double-tapped. “Where?”
“No, it’s not a regular gun—”
Her mind raced with possibilities—and she barely choked out: “Why? Is it bigger?”
“It shoots nails.”
“Like a . . .” Darby hesitated. “Like a nail gun?”
Jay nodded.
“And you’re . . . you’re sure?”
She nodded harder.
A nail gun.
Just like the cartoon fox on the van. Darby remembered the bandage on Jay’s hand, the bloody little smudge on her palm, and it all fit together. Punishment for an escape attempt, maybe? Or maybe this, this thing he called a yellow card, was just an appetizer for whatever horrific main course Lars had in mind for her once he drove her to his remote cabin in the Rockies.
Her hands were shaking again. Not with terror—rage.
A freaking nail gun.
That’s the kind of psycho we’re up against.
“And the nail gun is here?” she asked. “It’s in the van with us?”