They got back to Fabler’s house without any further conversation, and immediately did five laps around the house in the full armor, Fabler stopping often to adjust his fit, as Presley had done in the Jeep.
For the sixth lap, they wore the masks.
Visibility wasn’t too bad, though the size and shape made it unwieldy and impractical.
For the seventh lap, they wore their welding goggles under their masks, the tinted bubble lenses sticking out through the oversized eye holes.
They each held a road flare, and Presley tripped twice. Fabler made her do it once more, following behind her.
The ninth time around, they added their fifty pound backpacks. Though Presley didn’t want to admit it, she was grateful for all the training. Doing all of this at once would have been overwhelming. But doing it a little at a time, over the past few weeks, made a difficult task much easier.
Then they did it backwards, with the hand mirrors attached to their helmets. Fabler went first, Presley leading with the flare.
Though, when Presley tried it, she surprised herself with how well she did.
“Want to try shooting next? Or a jog through the woods?”
Presley did not want to go shooting while in the body armor, because she had a strong hunch that Fabler would want her to shoot him to test it out.
“Jog. I want to see how flexible this suit is.”
Fabler made a weird face. “Can you pick locks?”
After a few weeks of living with this man, Presley thought she was pretty well prepared for disturbing situations. But that question, and the possibilities it hinted at, made her stomach do cartwheels.
“No. Why?”
“It’s a good skill to have. I have a few books on it.”
“Is this part of the training?”
“I don’t know.”
An odd response. Presley rephrased the question. “Are you teaching me to pick locks today?”
“No. We’re hiking. Follow me.”
Fabler led her to the porch. On the picnic table was…
Some sort of harness, made of beige leather and steel chains.
Next to it were four heavy duty padlocks.
Fabler took one of the leather strips—a gym belt for lifting weights—and buckled it onto his waist.
“Put the other one on.”
Presley hesitated. “What is it for?”
“Do I have to give you the speech about following orders again?”
Presley cinched on the belt, the leather wide and stiff. On the back of it was a large metal ring. Presley had seen something like it before; football players used them for strength training, attaching weighted sleds to pull behind them.
Fabler had other ideas.
The chain ends sported spring-loaded carabiners, the kind used for rock climbing. Fabler snapped one of them to the ring on his belt, and then told Presley to put the other on hers.
“I don’t understand the purpose to this.”
Fabler’s lips curled up in a small, private smile; a rare thing for him. “Sometimes I don’t understand the purpose, either. Sometimes I actually think my mind has cracked. Like an egg. Split in half, leaking everywhere.” His smile drooped, but not entirely, making it look like a scowl. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it.”
Presley tried to play it off as no big deal. “You pay me, I do it. That’s our agreement.”
Fabler nodded, robotically. “Right. That’s our agreement. I say it, you do it. That’s the only way this can work.”
“Are we wearing the helmets?”
“That’s what they’re here for.”
“And those padlocks?” Presley glanced at the four locks on the picnic table, refusing to show how freaked out she was by them.
“We should work up to backpacks and shooting before we get to those.”
Chained together; tolerable. Locked together; not going to happen. Ever. But Presley rolled with it like she always did.
“So we’re going to jog through the woods, connected to each other.”
“I’m going to pull on the chain every so often, try to knock you off balance. I want you to do the same to me.”
“It’s your money.”
Fabler appeared contemplative after her remark. “Tell you what… if you can knock me off my feet, I’ll double your salary this week.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Deal.”
Fabler put on his helmet and headed to the tree line on his property. Attached, Presley had no choice but to follow.
“Do you want to stretch first?”
Fabler himself made no effort to stretch.
“I’m good. Lead the way.”
She tightened the strap on her helmet, adjusting the face so she had the best view through the eye holes.
Then Fabler took off.
Presley rushed to keep pace, finding the body armor surprisingly flexible. Not too heavy, not too cumbersome, she guessed it would only add two seconds to her hundred meter dash.
In contrast, the heavy, unwieldy chain measured about four meters and posed several problems. It quickly became apparent that balancing while tethered to someone wasn’t easy, and Presley focused on her footing, trying to keep pace while not toppling over. After the first few dozen steps, Presley adjusted her belt so the ring was above her right hip rather than over her butt, and that resulted in the chain slapping her thigh, and once almost tripping her.
As soon as she was getting accustomed to it, Fabler zigzagged, pulling her one way, then quickly cutting to the other side, almost causing Presley to faceplant.
When he tried to switch directions again, Presley cut around a large tree, immediately stopping and putting her back against it. The chain went taut, and she took her half of the force, slamming into the bark. Fabler jerked to a stop barely keeping his footing, his palms hitting the ground.
He quickly righted himself. “Not off my feet.”
“Do you want to stretch?”
Fabler grimaced—or maybe it was a smile—then took off running in the direction they’d come from. Presley got yanked, and it took a few steps before she caught up to him. They began a tug of war as they ran, darting in different directions, trying to make the other fall, and came to a creek. Fabler ran alongside the bank, Presley two steps behind, the ground becoming soft, then muddy, then mucky as Fabler drew her closer to the water.
As the sopping earth sucked at her boots, Presley knew she wouldn’t be able to keep up. Fabler had more mass, strength, and speed. He always beat her at races.
But being smaller did have an advantage; she could stop quicker and change directions faster.
Presley stayed behind until they’d reached a wider, and hopefully deeper, part of the creek. Then she put on a burst of speed, catching up to Fabler, lengthening her stride until they were in step.
She waited for his move, knowing it would be a body check to push her into the stream. W
hen he went for it, Presley immediately dropped down to a squat, digging her heels into six inches of muck and leaning back as she tugged, both hands, on the chain. Fabler took two sideways steps into the water to avoid hitting her, and then Presley’s mass, coupled with the suction of the mud, meant his momentum had nowhere to take him but an arc, like a pendulum.
He fell, face first, into the stream, splashing and flopping around, as Presley watched, triumphant, from the bank.
When he came up for air, making strangled, choking sounds, Presley thought he was drowning.
Then, with a shock, she recognized the noise.
Laughter.
As he spat out water, Fabler was laughing as hard as anyone she had ever seen. Loud, deep, uncontrollable laughter interspersed with high-pitched giggles and moments where he had to gasp to catch his breath.
Presley smiled, then grinned wider. When Fabler tried to stand up in the thigh-deep water, and fell backwards, she joined the laughter, and for almost a minute they both guffawed until her side ached.
After an awkward, sloppy half-crawl/half-doggy paddle, Fabler made it out of the creek, sitting next to her on the bank, reeking like algae and muck, still chuckling.
“Nice work. Double salary.”
Then his eyes went wide with alarm and he frantically slapped at his chest until a tiny fish wiggled out the neck of his body armor, flopped onto his leg, and squirmed back into the water.
Presley laughed even harder, and Fabler laughed too, and then his giggling turned into full blown sobs, his head in his hands, cradling his scary face mask.
“My fault. My fault my fault my fault.”
Presley considered clapping him on the shoulder, try to comfort him. Fabler hadn’t shown this level of vulnerability before.
“Are you talking about your wife, Fabler? Are you talking about Lori?”
His mask nodded. “Lori Lori Lori… I’m so sorry babe. I wasn’t strong enough. You never should have married me. It was a death sentence.”
“What happened to Lori, Fabler?”
He moaned.
“Did you do it?”
“I don’t… I don’t even know what’s real.”
“Fabler, did you kill Lori?”
He removed his mask, and Fabler’s face pinched, snot running down his nose as he nodded, over and over.
Trying not to draw attention to herself, Presley reached for the carabiner on her belt, unclipping it.
Fabler noticed.
“You think you can get away?” He sniffled. “Before you’re next?”
She crab-walked up the shore, trying to distance herself from the psychopath.
Then Fabler’s eyes bugged out and he lunged, grabbing her leg.
FABLER ○ 12:25pm
The boot smacked against Fabler’s head, snapping hard and fast, like he taught her.
Fabler released Presley’s leg as stars, then blood, blurred his vision. He splashed water on his face, squinting as Presley scrambled up the river bank and took off running, into the woods.
“PRESLEY!”
He struggled to his feet and took off after her.
PRESLEY ○ 12:26pm
She had a ten step head start—
—and then her toe caught a river rock and she tipped forward. Rather than belly slide, Presley ducked a shoulder and rolled, letting momentum take her back to her feet, risking half a second to glimpse behind her and see Fabler coming up fast.
Instinct told her to run, and when Presley was on her feet she realized her gut had made the right call; Fabler wore full body armor, and her .45 wouldn’t put him down.
Fabler was bigger, stronger, faster, in better shape, and he knew the area. But Presley had one advantage.
She was running for her life.
FABLER ○ 12:26pm
Ten steps behind her, unable to close the gap, Fabler cursed himself for not considering the water resistance of the aramid fiber he chose for their combat suits. After his dunk in the creek, he weighed at least twenty kilos more, and whenever Presley banked quickly it took Fabler considerable effort to counter the momentum and change directions.
Presley stopped abruptly, and Fabler almost plowed into her, managing to throw his arms up to protect his head as she let go of the tree limb she’d pulled back. It thwapped Fabler on the wrists, his hands smacking into his face, the kinetic energy of the bough knocking him onto his ass.
As he rolled onto his stomach to get up, the pain hit, but everything worked okay. There would be bruises, but the armor did its job, protecting the bones in his forearms and face from fractures. He searched for Presley, heard movement to the east, and scrambled to his feet, sprinting in that direction—
—and then coming to a dead stop when he saw what was right in front of him.
PRESLEY ○ 12:26pm
Presley cut through the woods like a deer, springing around trees, leaping underbrush, zig-zagging to throw off her pursuer, all the while hoping she remembered the route to the cabin.
After a few minutes of running, she chanced a look behind her.
A small part of Presley—the maternal, nurturing part—wondered if she’d hurt him badly, and maybe she should call 911.
A larger, more reasonable part of her, also considered 911 a good idea.
She checked the sun through the tree canopy, trying to get her bearings, but a straight overhead noonday shadow didn’t help Presley with her location.
The woods thinned out a bit to her right, and she ran that way and tried to go in a straight line until she hit something recognizable. Luck reared its head, and she came to the dirt road that led up to Fabler’s house. She jogged back to the property, casting wide glances for Fabler. When Presley reached the porch she paused, holding her breath, listening for him.
Hurrying inside, Presley went to her room to gather her things, grabbing her charging cell phone, powering it on to call an Uber and seeing Grim’s text.
YOU’RE FIRED.
She still needed to get paid, but Presley figured she could settle up with Grim after safely and anonymously checking into a hotel. She quickly packed her things, de
ciding to wait down the road for her ride to arrive. She also took the DoubleTap, Glock, and Charter Arms Pitbull Fabler had loaned her, Kadir’s 9mm that she’d been hiding under the bed, and the backpack that she’d been forced to memorize the contents of.
Presley crept out the back, the Glock in her hand, expecting her psychotic former boss to suddenly pop out, like the killer in a bad horror movie.
Presley crept along the dirt trail, one eye on the tree line, one eye on her phone as she texted Grim.
I quit. Leaving Fabler now. When can I get my $$$?
After thirty seconds she got a text back.
Glad u left. Was worried. :(
$$$?
Where u staying?
Presley had no idea where. She had a few thousand dollars on her.
She pressed her fingers into her closed eyes, rubbing hard, willing a decision to come.
Presley opened her eyes and glanced at her phone again.
Where u staying?
While still irritated with Grim, the guy owed her. Owed her cash. And owed her for the skeevy voyeurism.
Presley knew she could exert more control over Grim than she could over Fabler. If she laid down some ground rules, she’d be able to handle the ex-cop, no problem.
My cousin still looking 4 me. Stay w/ u?
Giving him the chance to man-up and play the protector. Presley expected an instant, affirmative response.
But no response came.
What Happened to Lori Page 20