Survivor
The Soul Mates Series
By
Victoria Johns
Copyright © 2016 Victoria Johns
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places or events are entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13:
978-1534674622
ISBN-10:
1534674624
Other books by Victoria Johns
The Soul Sisters Series
Fostering Love
Forgiving Love
Fated Love
This book was one of those things that needed to be written, it wouldn’t leave me alone as I was trying to conjure up the magic for a different story. I’d love the feel and urgency of getting it out of my head.
A crazy friend fell in love with the character for this book... so Frayster, this one’s for you.
My hubby continues to turn a blind eye to my nutty author ways, this is hilarious, as the small guy in my life is slowly beginning to understand them.
Olly, your life is what you make it. Live it, dream big and do it laughing.
As always a special thanks to:-
Mina, Mrs. T and Nicky
All of those in the author and reading community, you take the time to read, review and encourage me.... heartfelt thanks x
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Twelve Months Later – Ross
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Epilogue
Chapter One
“1, 2, 3, 4, 5... duck and stoop,” I mumbled, following my own instruction, whilst keeping up my pace. The beginning of it always helped to focus my mind, it harmonized my body and breathing with the rhythm required to get it done.
Count. Count. Count.
“56, 57, 58, 59, turn left, sharp right and turn left again,” I continued and wiped the sweat threatening to run into my eyes. That was a bitch of a lesson I learned really quickly, sweat stings like hell.
Keep counting.
“150, 151, 152, 153, 154.” My body and mind followed the in-built script to the letter, confirming the stashed item was still safely in place. Taking a drink from the sports bottle I carried was next on the life saving schedule at step number 200. At step count 450, I slid a large boulder type rock from the front of another which was hiding a back pack I’d stored. I made myself mentally confirm, “Hidey hole checked. Replace rock.” Whilst taking another sip of water I repeated the items safely stored in the back pack in an inventory fashion, then resumed counting from the original step marker at 450, loudly confirming, “1750,” so I knew I was around about a mile into my regime.
I passed a familiar tree branch and ducked again, at footfall 2225 and committed its latest position to memory. If it got much lower or the number of leaves growing continued, it could cause me a problem. I’d need to add another instruction to work around it, so it didn’t flatten me on my route.
By jog step 3500, I began to feel safe enough to count the remaining steps in my head, it was a small victory to know that if I made it this far, I could make it all the way. Just as a reminder though, I continued to commit all the twists and turns of the hilly forest path to another section of my conscience.
I’d always been amazing at school, I was the most advanced form of a human sponge and there was nothing I couldn’t pass or excel at. In any case, any school I attended wouldn’t be brave enough or stupid enough to fail me. It wasn’t about monies donated, or buying a school library, it was all about repercussions and fear.
“Turn left, run until count of 4000 and turn right.” My pace picked up now that I was out of the forest terrain, I was on the narrowest part of the path and my goal was looming closer. As I did every day I verbalized the step numbers as I passed street lights on the single track that eventually lead to the roadside.
“5001, 5002, 5003,” I slowed to a walk and forced my breathing to regulate so I could take three more gulps of water. In the earlier days it wasn’t so much as force, but necessity. I could hardly stand up when I first started. By the time I reached my destination at approximately 5200 steps, or roughly about three miles I was feeling the start of relief pass through me. This feeling was only complete once I laid eyes on my trusted old car, it was parked up at the end of the junkyard in a chunk of land designed for casual parking, hikers and the like.
Knowing it was there was my comfort blanket, my escape pod and it gave me the courage to keep on living for another day.
As always, I waved at old Sam who owned the junkyard while he was taking a break under the shady trees, the dusty parking space was on the edge of his land and as usual, he waved back and I turned around to walk back up to my cabin. His routine was nearly as fixed as mine and he was the closest thing I had to a neighbor, now he was the closest thing I had to a friend.
The freedom run as I called it, only took me twenty five minutes in the morning, it was no Olympic pace but I knew it would take me twice that long to hike it back, especially as it was uphill. I fought hard to push back the mental panic that always threatened me when I contemplated those twenty five minutes. Twenty five minutes was too long, but the only thing that stopped the disappointment settling in was remembering how painfully slow it was when I first started.
That was nine months, two weeks and four days ago.
In dog years those nine months were about eleven years, in light speed it was the blink of an eye, but in my life it was a day closer to my death. Every day was like a ticking timer on a bomb and every day I added to it. Time served didn’t reduce my sentence or get me closer to parole, it worsened the crime and exacerbated the punishment that I would receive. There would be no hiding from that.
Doing my freedom run in the day was becoming easier, but doing it at night by moonlight was still terrifying. It was harder to push back the fear that the noises of nature caused and I had to remind myself that things looked differently because of shadows and cloud cover, but essentially, it was still the same route. I had to overcome the scary thought of small animals and creepy crawlies living in my rocky hiding place, so that I could make sure my survival essentials were still there. It was a long shot that I’d need to run in the day, but if I couldn’t hold my own at night, then I was as good as dead, because that would be when my past took full control. The shakes and tremors governed my body, the nightmares feasted on my headspace, using my weakness as they pleaded with me to end my life. I worked
hard to overcome it, deal with it and never forgetting what I’d survived and how I found myself here.
I prayed seclusion and hiding were my best chance at disguise and limiting my friends to those that could only aid my survival or provide me with the safety net I needed, was what was going to keep me alive.
I knew a past I’d never intentionally asked for would catch up to me one day but I prayed that I would be strong enough to win that fight and triumph over evil when it eventually found me.
And it would find me.
Chapter Two
I convinced myself that my life looked normal, but I’m sure I wasn’t fooling anyone, especially if they decided to look closer. I’d go about mundane stuff whilst regurgitating basic details over and over in my head. My cover was only as strong as my acting, a single chink in my performance or information delivered incorrectly would be my downfall.
Arriving back at my cabin after my freedom run made me smile, it was mine and I couldn’t believe it. It was a clean, simply renovated hunting cabin with a perfect view over the town of Rockton. I’d furnished it with handouts or cheap and cheerful items that I’d found in off the beaten track yard sales. Like any first time homeowner I wanted to make it mine and I’d wrestled with the desire to plant pots and bright, pretty flowers. Sense kicked in quickly as I didn’t want to attract any attention, it was safer if people thought the cabin was derelict.
The closest neighbour I had was Old Sam at the junkyard, he helped me get this place and I’d trusted him because I had no other options at the time. He was like a guardian angel, appearing right when I needed someone the most.
To the outside world I am Cara Daniels.
Repeat, Cara Daniels. Again, Cara Daniels.
I say it over and over, a million times a day.
I never, ever, say my real name out loud. It’s like I’m frightened that it will be picked up by a bird or a cloud and whispered back to the ears of people that could end this, end me and get me killed. Every day that passes without me saying my name or hearing it being said by anyone else is one that I praise God for. I fall asleep feeling more than thankful that I’m managing to pull this off.
Managing to stay alive.
When I finally recognized that my time was up at home and I needed to run, I hopped in my car and used the only reference manual I had.
Julia Roberts in ‘Sleeping with the Enemy’.
It’s preposterous that you base your survival on something Hollywood spits out on a budget, but I couldn’t think of anything else as I moved between buses and bus stations. Using the various wigs and hair wraps I’d stashed in my getaway back pack, I kept going until I was firmly in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and had run out of non traceable money. From there I made the last leg of my journey, hitching with a trucker who was going to deliver some parts to a junkyard in Rockton. When the truck pulled away that night and left me with the bag of stolen money and a back pack of clothes, I was lucky enough to be offered a glass of lemonade by Sam. To this day he has never questioned me, he’s accepted me at my word and become my best friend, my one and only friend.
I dragged my heels and took as much time as possible finishing that lemonade because I had no idea what I was going to do. The intuitive old guy sensed I was lost and convinced me that sleeping rough wasn’t the best way to stay ahead of whatever I was afraid of, in an act of kindness he offered me the old trailer at the end of his lot and let me crash there for a couple of nights.
Those couple of nights turned into a few weeks and before long I was doing bits of his office admin and the junkyard book keeping as a way to say thank you. I vowed I’d never do a familiar job again and as much as I was trying to become someone different, it seemed that the fastest way to blend in was to do something I was good at. The more natural you appear, the less strangers took in convincing them that your intentions meant no malice. I’ve always been good with numbers, money and finances, screw that, good doesn’t quite describe it. I am exceptional with numbers, money and finances.
It’s why they want me dead.
I push that thought aside and carry on getting ready for work. The little bit I do for Sam is what I class as work, it’s a job I got with no help from anyone else. What I did before couldn’t be called work because it didn’t turn out to be a job, it was more like a duty, an enforced internment.
I’ve changed so much I don’t really look like the girl they’re looking for. I imagine they’ll be looking for me in high end hotels, or Caribbean islands but going to those places would leave a trail and a trail will get me killed. When I finally got rid of the last hair wrap on arrival in Rockton, I also hacked off my flowing curls. Before, the old me, I was a Mediterranean beauty with live skin that I moisturised and pampered. I was manicured and had endless curves, I was loaded with the hourglass figure that other women would kill for and men would kill to get a piece of. My eyes were dark, like rich coffee, the kind of coffee you can see your reflection in. I looked after myself because my image was part of my protection. Looking anything less than perfect drew attention and drawing attention meant you had to work harder to hide the unhappiness. I found as I got older my unhappiness went deep, like the layers of an onion, the more you peeled you more it made you cry, but it was still an onion. Still there.
Now I’m an athlete.
My freedom run has turned my curves into muscle and everything else is just simpler and cleaner because I live a simple, clean life. Sports bras have replaced La Perla underwear sets, trail sneakers have replaced Laboutin shoes and a survival back pack is the only accessory I am interested in, not the handmade leather purses from Italy of my past. Any clothes I wear have a dual purpose, if I can’t run in them and sit in them to do the junkyard admin, then they don’t have a place in my wardrobe. My hair has grown back, but the first cut I had was severe. I went for long swooping bangs that I could hide my eyes behind, I looked like a pixie. Now it’s more wavy and growing out, I look different but I can tell it’s still me because the big mocha eyes and strong cheekbones dished out by genetics look back at me every time I look in a mirror.
Above everything else, being prepared is going to keep me alive for the next day. And the next. Until... it doesn’t.
After three months of living in old Sam’s trailer and doing his books for cash in hand, one of the local store owners popped by for some car bulbs or something. In general I see parts get ordered, appear and then disappear again. The friendly guy clocked what I was doing and mentioned that he could do with someone helping him with his accounts, I felt obliged to agree, refusing would have drawn attention to me. From there it grew, Sam encouraged me to help a few more of his friends and I started to earn a little bit of small cash. By using some of my getaway cash, I was able to purchase the rundown cabin in the hills that I now live in.
It doesn’t have an address as such, not that it matters because I don’t get post. No one knows I’m here. I am off the grid. The nearest parking lot to my cabin is a mile away and I can see it from the window by the sink. I check it frequently because this cabin and the one to my left are the only reason someone would have to park down there. Sam has assured me that the other cabin is not fit for habitation and is in no danger of being used, I have no idea how he knows this but I check it just the same. If I don’t it means I’m not on my game, I’ve let my guard down and that could mean my life is over.
My freedom run avoids the parking lot, I've routed an escape in the opposite direction and by the time anyone has climbed up the hillside to my cabin I will be 2750 steps away from it.
I’ve tried to find a perfect balance in Rockton. I’m pleasant enough when I’m in town to collect supplies or shop for food and provisions but remain aloof enough to stay under the radar. I think I’ve developed a sixth sense that kicks in when I need to extract myself from a conversation that is getting too personal or has the possibility of going further. I need to balance those scales so that people aren’t intrigued enough to get friendly, they can’t afford fo
r me to touch their lives anymore than I already do. All of my accounting customers are handled by Sam, he charges out my time and services and they pay him or the junkyard in some fictitious plan I created, because I’m good at coming up with accounting plans. To all intents and purposes, Cara Daniels is an employee of the Junkyard and I never earn enough to appear on any tax registers.
I live a basic life, but the life I live is crime free and the monies I earn are not tinged with blood and the stench of death and suffering. It is enough for me to remain in the simplicities necessary to keep me alive.
My only technology concession is a tablet, connected to a pay as you go mobile data service. It serves another ritual I perform every evening so I can sleep safely. My night routine is as fixed as my daily one. After my scary as shit night time freedom run, I eat dinner, shower and then run a set of character searches on the internet to see if I’m in danger. I search my real name and I also search for Cara Daniels, I check local and national newspapers to see if I’ve been discovered or they are trying to lure me out of hiding and I check federal agency watch lists, to see if I’ve finally been added to them.
Not seeing my name confirms that my family are still trying to keep the search for me an internal matter, it doesn’t quite quell the panic, but I’ve been disciplined to recognize the signs that the search for me is escalating. My final step is to slip my hand under my pillow and feel the cold steel of my gun. I close my eyes knowing that tomorrow it all starts again and that my repeat routine will keep me from harm, as long as nothing is out of place and no details have changed.
Chapter Three
“Morning Cara,” Sam greeted me, as he often did, from under the hood of some old clanker he was stripping down. “Dusty from the bake shop dropped off her books last night after you’d left.”
“OK, I’ll get onto it, anything you need me to do for you first?”
“Not exactly, but put on a pot of joe and I’ll be through for a mug shortly.”
Survivor (The Soul Mates Series Book 1) Page 1