by Lisa Jackson
She could hear him now, breathing and running, his feet pounding the ground awkwardly. Fear turned her insides to jelly.
“Lock the door!” she ordered over her shoulder as she still desperately tried to locate the keys. What if they had fallen out on the path? What if they’d slid from her pocket as she’d scooped them up? Jesus, dear God, no! Her heart was thudding, her skin damp, her terror increasing. Again and again, she swept her hands over the uneven ground, feeling only rocks, weeds, and dust. “Oh come on, come on, come on,” she muttered as sweat ran down her face. Never had she felt so vulnerable in her life.
Ruthie whispered, “But—”
Damn it all to–
“Move over,” Katrina ordered Ruthie, then leaned out the open driver’s-side window. She was holding a flashlight and switched it on so that a frail beam of light appeared, a fragile yellow glow casting thin illumination on the dry stubble. “Lock the doors,” Shiloh repeated as Katrina swung the flashlight, casting a wide arc around the battered Dodge. “Roll up the windows and lock the damned doors!”
Katrina kept shining the light, leaning farther out the window.
“Did you hear me? Roll up the windows and lock yourselves—”
Then she saw it: a fragile wink against the flashlight’s thin beam. Could it be? She hardly dared believe it. Her heart soared. She stretched forward, her fingers curling around the keys.
Finally!
Now all she had to do was—
Too late!
Wheezing and huffing, the monster reached the truck. “You little bitch!” he roared, towering above her.
And then she noticed the knife in his meaty hand.
Jesus!
He lunged.
No!
Scuttling backward, she hit the side of the truck, then scrambled quickly beneath the bed.
He dropped to all fours.
Oh crap!
Heart thudding, pulse pounding, she scooted to the far side of the pickup. She could barely breathe, the air was so full of dust and oil. She scraped her butt against the ground but didn’t care. She still clutched the damned keys in a death grip. From inside the cab came frightened screams. Ruthie freaking out. If only Kat had brought her damned phone. If only Shiloh hadn’t dropped the keys. If only–
A long arm extended beneath the truck, swinging in a broad arc, the knife slicing low to the ground. Shiloh pressed against the tires and sucked in her gut. Then, seeing how near the tip of the blade came, she rolled through the open space between the wheels, her shoulder jarring against the undercarriage.
Another fast swipe of the knife, the blade hissing as it cut through the air.
Shiloh threw herself to her feet. Yanking on the passenger door, she wrenched her shoulder.
Locked.
“Open up!” she screamed and beat on the window with her fist. “Ruthie, dammit, open the damned door!”
Ruthie’s white face appeared.
Click!
The door flew open, and Shiloh jumped in, nearly flattening the smaller girl. “Lock it!” she ordered as she climbed over the others to fall into the driver’s seat. In the side-view mirror, she caught the ghastly shape of the assailant as he struggled to his feet. “No way, fucker!” She jammed the key into the ignition and pumped the gas as Ruthie, for once, did as she was told and locked the passenger door. “Hold on!”
Thud!
The entire truck shook. As if he had kicked the back panel or—
Threw himself into the bed?
No, no, nooooo!
The damned truck didn’t start.
“God damn it!” Katrina cried.
Shiloh twisted the key so hard she thought she might break it.
Again she pressed down the accelerator, remembering Larimer Tate’s warning “Now, don’t flood the damned thing. This here’s a classic. 1964.”
Shit, shit, shit!
“Don’t do this,” she said as the engine coughed and died.
“What’s wrong?” Ruthie wailed, then looked through the small window cut into the back wall of the cab. Her face drained of all color, and she started to hyperventilate. “Oh no! Oh no! He’s … He’s in the back!”
Shiloh gave it another go. “I know.” Come on, you miserable bucket of bolts—The engine sputtered to life just as a meaty fist bashed against the small window in the back of the cab, a window that was already cracked, and stupid-ass Larimer Tate had never bothered to fix it.
Ruthie squealed and jumped.
“Get us the hell out of here!” Katrina ordered.
Shiloh hit the gas.
The pickup lurched forward, bouncing over the dry grass and rocks. The fist kept pounding.
Craaaack!
The window split, then began to splinter, glass falling out of the frame.
“Nooo!” Ruthie leaned hard into Katrina.
Shiloh gunned it. “Son of a bitch!” Driving like a maniac, she cranked hard on the steering wheel while stomping on the accelerator, driving in tight circles, only to slam on the brakes and jam the truck into REVERSE.
The pickup shuddered and shook, its rear end fishtailing, its wheels spinning wildly, kicking up great plumes of dust.
It didn’t matter.
No matter what she did, the creep held on to the opening with one hand and rammed the knife through with the other, swiping crazily in the air, the blade slashing through the interior.
Son of a bitch!
Ruthie was on the floor in front of the passenger side, Katrina huddled near the door. Shiloh tried to avoid being cut as she steered back and forth in wild arcs, hoping like hell to throw him out of the truck’s bed.
Still the bastard clung on.
Still the knife swung furiously through the cab, hissing with each cut.
“Open the glove box! For God’s sake, grab something! Hit him! There’s …”
Bam!
“Oh crap!” The front wheel hit the side of a boulder, bouncing off. The truck went airborne for a few seconds and even Katrina shrieked.
Landing hard, the Dodge shuddered, its tires spinning. With a jolt, the truck sprang forward.
The psycho screamed as if his arm were being torn off, but somehow he hung on and kept slashing.
Who was this maniac? No time to think about it. “Get the hammer! In the box!” she yelled over Ruthie’s terrified screams. “Get it!” She cranked on the wheel hard. The back end of the truck spun. Katrina’s head bounced off the passenger window. Crack!
Ruthie howled. “She’s hurt!”
“She’s fine!” Shiloh snapped. “Get something!”
Katrina opened the glove box.
The arm swung again, this time connecting, slicing into Shiloh’s shoulder. She yelled and swore as hot pain radiated and blood began to run down her back. “You son of a bitch.”
At that moment, Katrina pulled a screwdriver from the glove box, and when the hand appeared, she jabbed the head of the tool deep into the flesh of the back of his hand. As she did, Shiloh hit the gas again and aimed for a huge mound just in range of her headlights.
Yowling, the man yanked back his arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Katrina whispered as the hillock loomed into view and the truck sped forward.
“Getting rid of bad news.”
Katrina sucked in a breath and whispered, “You’re going to kill us all.”
Ruthie started screaming.
“Hang on!” Shiloh set her jaw, tromped hard on the accelerator. The truck hit the rise full throttle. Speeding up the incline, Shiloh sent up a prayer that she wasn’t about to kill her friends. The truck went airborne.
“Holy shit!” Kat yelled.
They soared over a shallow creek bed, the truck landing hard, tossing them about, jarring their spines and rattling their bones. Ruthie squealed. Katrina’s head hit the roof. Shiloh clung to the steering wheel with all her might.
The freak in the bed flew out, his body thudding against the ground.
Praying they ha
dn’t broken an axle, Shiloh floored it.
“He’s gone?” Ruthie stammered against the jarring ride as she crawled upward onto the seat and peered through the shattered back window to the night beyond.
“Finally,” Kat whispered, rubbing her head. “Jesus.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in …” Ruthie started, then shook her head as she stared into the darkness. “Where is he?” She shuddered, and rubbed her arms, then more panicked, repeated, “Where is he?”
Shiloh glanced into the side-view mirror. In the half-light she caught a look at the man, a crumpled heap on the ground. A dark, unmoving blot on the landscape.
At the moment, Ruthie saw him too, her eyes rounding. “Oh dear Lord.” She swallowed hard. “You—you killed him.”
Shiloh hit the gas again and tore through the dry hardpan toward the road. As they passed through the broken-down gate and onto the gravel road, she said through her teeth, “We can only hope.”
Part Two
Shiloh
Now …
Chapter 3
“God help me,” the woman whispered, pleading, heartsick, knowing that after all this time there was no escape, no rescue. She was trapped in this hellhole of a room with its rough-hewn walls and smells of dirt and must. The only light came in through a small window high overhead, a slit in the wood not more than six inches high and about double that in length. Tucked beneath the rafters, it provided no air but allowed her to tell the passing of time, day to night.
Not that it mattered.
She’d been held prisoner for years, too many to count, at least half her life, and though she had never lost the desire to escape, she now felt that no one would take her back now—this scrawny, tired shell of a woman. Gone was the girl who had taken a stupid risk in trusting him. Like a moth to the flame, she had been drawn in and singed.
At first, when she’d been young, she’d thought she would escape or that she would be rescued. Her parents. The police. There would be a massive manhunt, and she would be rescued under the whoosh of helicopter blades, the chopper’s bright lights almost blinding. Police with dogs that would snarl, officers outfitted in black, assault weapons poised, would break down the dead-bolted door to save her and take her to the loving arms of her distraught family.
Were they even still alive? Had the loss of their daughter ultimately destroyed them as well? She felt the burn of tears, but no drops wetted her eyes nor drizzled down her cheeks. All her tears had been shed years ago at the hands of the monster who had abducted her.
The four walls closed in on her. Aside from a cot and small table, there was no furniture in the room, no electricity, no lamplight. He’d left her hand-me-down clothes and books that she’d read over and over again. Once in a while, he’d replenish the meager stack, but never allowed her magazines or newspapers. She really wasn’t sure what year it was. Every day, he’d let her out, but he’d never allow her to get more than five feet from the rickety porch where he stood, knife in hand, gun visible in a holster. She’d tried to run several times, and each time, he’d caught her and placed her back in her room. That was her punishment—a month or so of confinement to the shack without fresh air and sunlight. A dreary absence of life in a life of absence.
She’d learned to be obedient because she lived for those few short moments outside—usually at twilight, when she’d spy a hawk soaring overhead or glimpse a squirrel or rabbit darting out of sight or a timid deer nearly hidden in the surrounding umbra of the forest. Based on those precious moments, she knew her shack was surrounded by mountains, canopied by firs and pines. In the winter, she nearly froze to death because all he gave her were layers of clothing and a down sleeping bag, her only insulation from the bitter winter’s cold.
How many times had she tried to escape?
A hundred?
A thousand?
More?
And still she was here, held captive and used as a whore. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, her mind returning to that fall evening when fate had turned on her and she’d allowed herself to be vulnerable to this horror.
If only she hadn’t been walking alone. If only she hadn’t been bold and sassy, thinking she could handle herself. If only she’d never gotten into that car with the friendly man who flashed her that sexy grin from behind the wheel.
“Need a lift?” he said, pulling over.
She’d known him. Trusted him. Well, kind of. There had been an edge to him that she’d found fascinating, and when he’d reached across the console and passenger seat to unlock the door of his pickup, she’d ignored all the warning signals in her mind and cast aside her parents’ admonitions about taking rides or being alone with strangers. She’d rationalized that he wasn’t a stranger. Her parents knew him, did business with him, so with only the slightest trepidation, she’d climbed inside.
Big mistake.
He hadn’t been kind or sexy or decent.
He’d kidnapped her then and there, locking her inside, threatening her with his knife and binding her wrists and ankles, then blindfolding and gagging her before driving for what seemed like hours to this remote spot in the middle of no-damned-where.
And she’d been trapped with him forever.
She knew it would never end.
Not until one of them died.
She also realized it wouldn’t be the bastard. She’d plotted his demise a thousand times in murderous fantasies that included a deep, hellish pain and an ugly, drawn-out death, but none had come to fruition. So she couldn’t inflict her revenge against him for all the pain and horror he’d put her through.
At first she’d fought him, but he’d prevailed in his twisted sexual fantasies. Then, when she realized that her physical battles, the screaming and flailing and biting, excited him even more, she’d tried the psychology of just letting him use her. Not saying a word, not begging, not even whimpering, just lying there like a limp doll while he did what he pleased. At first he’d been frustrated and angry. Punishing. But nothing had changed.
Nothing, she realized, would ever change.
Her feeble attempts at escape had proved useless.
Her hopes for rescue had long ago faded.
She looked down at the barbed wire binding her wrists. Though she knew that she’d lost weight since her capture, the sharp barbs still cut deep when she moved. The skin around her hands was scraped and raw from her efforts, with angry, wormlike scars visible.
Soon, she thought, there would be more.
She walked to her cot, where, tucked into the sheathing that surrounded the metal frame, she’d found a tiny hiding place in the space between the rail and the stretched cotton. It was here that she’d tucked away a piece of the barbed wire that had broken off her manacles.
She’d thought she might wound him with the small shard, but she never got the chance. And unless she slammed it into his eye socket, it would do little damage.
To him.
But with the right amount of effort and courage, she could break the nearly translucent skin over the underside of her wrists and puncture a vein and slowly bleed out. There would be pain, of course, but nothing as savage as what she’d borne at his calloused hands. No.
Judging by the daylight seeping in through the window, she figured she still had several hours until dusk, maybe more. He wouldn’t be back until evening, so there was plenty of time. She found the barb in its hiding place and fingered it.
She eyed the piece of wire.
Her death.
Her salvation.
Just do it! Now!
Holding the precious piece of metal between her lips, she twisted her hands, ignoring the pain in the bite of the barbs. She’d practiced the move over and over again, perfecting it after trying for weeks to rid herself of the sharp manacles. Removing the barbed wire had proved impossible, but this twisting of her hands, slightly stretching the wire and allowing the cruel handcuffs to bite into flesh, worked. Sweating with the effort, she clenched her teeth, and w
ith the heels of her palms pressed together, she slowly inched her way around until the fingers of one hand could touch the inside of the opposite wrist.
Then she lowered her head and opened her mouth, releasing the barb to her thumb and forefinger. She nearly dropped it as her fingertips were oily, but she managed to hang on. Clutching the thin wire with renewed determination, she found that vulnerable spot. Slowly, she drew the barb along the fragile skin and watched the first scrape, and then another, and still another. Finally, she pierced the skin and a small drop of blood formed.
Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Please forgive me.” And then, using all her strength, pressed deeper and harder until the blood began to flow slowly but steadily. She felt a strange, sad sense of peace and relief. She knew, given enough time, she would finally be free.
*
Shiloh had sworn she’d never return.
Promised herself she wouldn’t ever set foot in this part of Wyoming again.
And she’d kept that vow. For fifteen damned years, but now it was over, Shiloh thought, glancing at the WELCOME TO PRAIRIE CREEK sign as she passed it on the way into town. Flanked by pine trees, the wooden greeting had been brightened with a fresh coat of paint, but Shiloh wasn’t fooled by the spit and polish. As she maneuvered her ten-year-old Ford Explorer through the town’s streets, she saw past the western store fronts and façades to the heart of Prairie Creek. And it was dark as the devil.
But you’re here, aren’t you? You can denigrate this little Wyoming hamlet all you want, but you, Shiloh Silva, came back.
She bristled a little. That stupid little nag of a voice in her head was usually what kept her in line, ensured that she walked the straight and narrow, but now, mocking her, it was a pain in the butt.
“Hypocrite,” she muttered, slowing for a stop sign and catching her expression in the rearview mirror. The same green eyes that had hitchhiked their way out of this town glared back at her, her eyebrows drawn together, her jaw set as rigidly as it had been when she’d left fifteen years earlier.
To avoid the silent accusations as much as the harsh rays of a late June sun, she slid a pair of sunglasses over the bridge of her nose and couldn’t help wondering about Katrina and Ruthie. What had happened to them? Had they stayed in this hellhole or escaped, as she had? It was strange that they’d never seen each other since that fateful night, never once spoken. Well, she couldn’t speak for Ruthie and Katrina; for all she knew, they could be best buddies now. Maybe they were young mothers who planned PTA events, went to soccer games, or saw each other once a month at bunco parties or something. All Shiloh knew was that she’d never seen or heard from either of them since, and the few times when she’d talked to her mother on the phone, she’d avoided asking about the other two.