Let Me Go

by Chelsea Cain

  Gretchen squeezes his hand. “The killer had been terrorizing her for hours by then. It was probably something of a relief.”

  Archie isn’t sure which is worse—the idea that the drain cleaner had been forced down the victim’s throat, or the idea that she’d been driven to take it without threat or force, as a means to end her own suffering. “She should have screamed,” he says.

  They are quiet. The curtains on the window move a little. The spider on the ceiling dances. Otherwise, the room is still.

  “Is that why you thought of me today?” Gretchen asks. “Because she looked like me?”

  The truth is more shameful. “I thought of you because she was naked on a bed,” Archie says.

  “It turned you on,” Gretchen says softly.

  He looks away. Lidia had been a beautiful woman, even bloodied and cold, and she’d been sexually staged, splayed open and tied to a bed. He’s male. He has reactions. Lizard-brain reactions. He can’t be blamed for that.

  “It’s okay,” Gretchen tells him.

  Archie swings his feet onto the floor and sits up. “I have to go home.”

  Gretchen crawls behind him and puts her arms around his waist. “It’s an understandable biological response,” she says. She lifts a hand and runs it through his hair along the back of his scalp. “Look at me,” she says.

  She has perfect blue eyes.

  “It was nothing. Don’t let it get to you.” A smile plays on her lips. “Some people like to be tied up,” she says, eyes twinkling. She moves her face near his cheek and nuzzles at his ear. “If I asked you to tie me up, would you?”

  Archie pulls away and looks at her, unsure if he’s heard correctly.

  She raises an eyebrow at him and smiles.

  “I don’t want to tie you up,” he says.

  “You’ve done a lot of things recently you never thought you’d do,” she points out. She lowers her chin and gives him a flirty look. “It’s fun. I would make it fun. It’s fantasy. It’s completely normal. A lot of people play games in bed.”

  “I’m going now before you pull out a latex mask,” Archie says.

  “You’ll think about it, though, won’t you?” she asks. She lies back on the bed and wraps her hands around the bedposts. It is eerily similar to how the latest victim had been secured to her bed, but Gretchen couldn’t know that. She arches her back and moans, and Archie feels a twinge of heat in his groin.

  “Good-bye,” he says, looking for his socks.

  She lets go of the bedposts and wriggles toward him on the bed. “Stay longer,” she purrs.

  “I can’t,” Archie says. “I have to get home. They’re waiting for me.” He sighs and pulls on his pants, already feeling the knot of guilt and shame that tightens in his chest every time he leaves her house. “It’s my birthday.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  Archie awoke to the sound of birds. He opened his eyes, squinted in the light, and saw water. It lapped gently below him, shimmering with dawn. His whole body hurt. He lay there for a few minutes without moving, trying to piece together where he was and what had happened to him. Then he slowly took in his surroundings. He was splayed on his side on a muddy bank, surrounded by ferns. He could see across the lake, to the docks and houses hedged in by conifers. He was still on the island. He wrestled his wrist forward with a groan and looked at his watch. It was almost five-thirty in the morning. He felt cold to the bone and his hands felt numb and clumsy. He tried to sit up and felt a stabbing pain in his head. He took a few slow breaths and then gently eased himself to a sitting position. His shirt was grimy and stained with dirt. His jacket and tie were gone. His mask was gone. He had mud under his fingernails. His hands smelled strangely of lavender. He felt an irritation in his throat like he’d swallowed something and it had gotten caught halfway down. Archie coughed, trying to dislodge it, but couldn’t bring it up. He swallowed hard a few times, trying to get it down the other way, but it remained firmly in place, a small itch behind his Adam’s apple. He emptied his pockets. His phone still said no service. He still had the compass from Henry and Claire. He still had the magazine of bullets that he’d ejected from the gun. He still had the brass pillbox. He opened it. There were only two pills. He stared at them, perplexed. There had been ten when he’d started the evening, and he didn’t remember taking any. He touched his throat, wondering if that’s what he was feeling—a pill. He pinched the remaining two between his dirty fingers, tossed them on his tongue, and chewed them. The bitter taste pulled at the corners of his mouth as the pills broke apart between his teeth. He swallowed the last of the chalky residue and looked at the water. Then he tried to stand.

  The sudden change in elevation drove a blade of pain through his head again. He reached up and touched his skull and his fingers found dried blood. He searched his memory for any clues to what had happened and came up with nothing. He remembered Star. He remembered finding Leo in the bedroom. And then … nothing.

  He stumbled to the edge of the water and looked at his reflection. His face was smeared with mud. Blood clotted his hair. He coughed again, trying to clear his throat.

  What had happened to him?

  Archie saw splinters of images. Star coming down the stairs. A gargoyle on top of a lamppost. Leo washing blood off his hands. Then he had a flash of body memory—Leo’s arm around his neck, the pressure of Leo’s palm pressed against the back of his skull. Leo had choked him.

  Archie worked backward. Trying to puzzle it out. He saw Leo’s face, talking to him; the urgency in his eyes. He was trying to tell him something important.

  Susan.

  Susan was on the island.

  Archie turned and started clawing his way up the mud embankment.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Susan yawned and turned the page of the Town & Country magazine that she was reading for the fourth time. She didn’t feel so elegant anymore. Her makeup had dried to a cakey mask that felt like it cracked when she smiled. The fabric of the gold dress stuck to the stubble on her legs, and her armpits were sore where the bodice had chafed her raw. She snuck a glance at Jack Reynolds. He was sitting behind his desk with his tie unknotted and a cup of coffee next to him, reading that day’s New York Times and looking like the cover of Cigar Aficionado magazine. A housekeeper had brought the paper a half hour ago, along with a copy of The Wall Street Journal and a cup of coffee. No Herald, Susan couldn’t help but notice. He probably read it online.

  He hadn’t said a word to her for the last hour. He hadn’t even offered her a section of the paper.

  The coffee smelled good.

  Cooper was sitting in one of the chairs that faced Jack’s desk, not really doing anything. He hadn’t been doing anything for hours, which made Susan bored even to watch, but seemed to suit Cooper just fine. Susan, meanwhile, had read The Economist, two issues of Palm Beach Illustrated, and something called the Robb Report. The Town & Country wasn’t actually that bad. Who knew that Christie Brinkley’s Hamptons remodel had been such a trial? Susan felt bad for her.

  The phone on Jack Reynolds’s desk rang. Susan noticed that he let it ring exactly twice, even though he was sitting right there. He picked it up, listened, and then said, “Let him in.”

  Susan put the magazine down. She had been in that room waiting for Leo to take her home for over four hours. It was about fucking time. The truth was she didn’t feel bad for Christie Brinkley at all. She felt bad for Leo, whose boyfriend stock was currently tanking, and to whom she planned to give the talking-to of a lifetime. She searched the floor for her shoes and put them on, and picked up the paper shopping bag that held her street clothes and purse.

  When the door to the office opened, she was ready to go.

  But it wasn’t Leo who walked in.

  It was Archie.

  He was coated in filth. Disheveled. Begrimed. Grubby. Dirty didn’t even begin to describe it. His clothes were creased and crumpled. His hair was a catastrophe. He had soil smeared on hi
s face. Bits of vegetation clung to every part of him. He gave her a nod. “It’s time to go home,” he said.

  Susan looked at Jack and Cooper. They didn’t look back. They were staring at Archie.

  “Now,” he said.

  Susan gulped and nodded. She didn’t know what he knew or didn’t know or what had happened or how long he’d been there, but she knew now was not the time to ask any of those questions. She hopped up off the chair and hurried to him, clutching the paper shopping bag to her chest.

  Jack had laid the newspaper down on his desk and was looking up at them calmly. “You’re tracking dirt on my Persian rug,” he said to Archie.

  “Where’s Leo?” Archie asked.

  Up close, Susan could see blood in his hair. It had collected and congealed, leaving the top of his head matted with dark red. A trail of red traveled along his hairline and disappeared behind his ear. Susan took his hand. It was freezing.

  Jack picked up his cup of coffee and lifted it to his lips and took a sip. Then he set it down. “Leo’s gone,” he said.

  “Wait,” Susan said. “What?” If Leo was gone, why had she been sitting here for four hours waiting for him? She leaned close to Archie. “I saw him last night,” she said, “down by the pool. They said he’d meet me here and take me home in the morning.” Archie smelled like mud. Underneath all the dirt, she could see that he was wearing a tuxedo. He’d been at the party. Had he come looking for her, or for Leo? A small brown leaf unstuck itself from his shoulder and fluttered to the floor. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Did you come because of me?”

  Archie didn’t answer. His eyes were still fixed on Jack. “Give me my fucking gun,” Archie said.

  Gun? Susan’s stomach did a somersault. She could feel the tension in Archie’s hand, every muscle tightening.

  Jack got a key out of a box on his desk and he unlocked one of his desk drawers and slid it open and reached in and pulled out a gun. Susan scrutinized Archie’s face, searching for some clue as to what the hell was going on.

  Cooper walked the gun over, and Archie let go of her hand and took the gun from him, and then Cooper stepped away, and leaned up against the wall next to a framed photograph of a sailboat named Isabel.

  Susan wanted to get out of here. She hovered at Archie’s elbow, tightening her grip on the paper bag as if she might turn and dash away at any time. But Archie’s attention was on the gun in his hand. He lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply, smelling it. Then he reached into the pocket of his pants and produced a magazine of bullets and loaded the weapon. He did it like he did it all the time, though Susan realized that she’d never seen Archie fire his weapon the entire time she’d known him.

  “I heard you had too many pills and passed out, my friend,” Jack said from the desk. “I thought you’d left.”

  Susan glanced anxiously at Archie. It was no secret that Archie had struggled with a pill addiction, and Jack was probably full of shit, but she still wanted Archie to deny it. Archie met Susan’s gaze silently, and she looked away, embarrassed.

  “Where’s Star?” Archie asked Jack.

  Star? Susan practically coughed. That’s why Archie had come? To find the stripper? She adjusted her grip on the bag. “Please,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Archie just stood there, his gun in his hand at his side.

  Jack’s grin widened slowly. “You want another crack at her?” he asked.

  “Where is she?” Archie repeated.

  “She’s working,” Jack said, and he made a humping motion with his hips to illustrate.

  Susan waited for Archie to respond. Jack’s comment hadn’t registered on Archie’s face at all, but she knew that it had bothered him. Archie didn’t like men who talked disrespectfully about women. He didn’t even like men who talked disrespectfully about Gretchen Lowell, and she murdered people for sport.

  “I’ll be right back,” Archie said to Jack, and then he turned and put his hand on Susan’s back and shepherded her toward the door.

  “Wait,” Susan said, pulling away from him. She wanted to go, but she did not want to be herded, and she certainly was not going to leave without Archie. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Archie glared at her. His brown eyes looked bleary. He had that look, that look that said, Don’t ask me questions—just follow my lead. “You’re going home,” he said.

  Cooper was still leaning up against the wall. He cleared his throat. Susan looked over at him. He said one word: “Go.” She didn’t even see his lips move. It was hard to know for sure he’d even spoken.

  Susan’s skin itched.

  She had the feeling then that everyone in the room knew something that she didn’t. She adjusted the bodice of the dress, feeling the tender heat of the rising welts under her armpits. She was tired. She wanted to go home. She looked at Archie and nodded reluctantly.

  He took her by the elbow again, keeping the gun drawn. He kept his hand on her elbow the whole time as he escorted her out of the office and down the hall, the paper bag crinkling in her arms. They followed the muddy footprints he’d left on the way in. Susan was aware of people behind them, eyes on her back, footsteps in tandem with theirs. But she never turned to look, so she didn’t know how many it was, or who. Archie held the door open for her and they stepped outside into the light. The white vinyl tents shimmered with dew, the gas heaters had been collected together and the gold chairs stacked. The sky was tinged with the apricot glow of dawn. Archie led Susan down the wide path through the manicured front lawn. The torches on either side had all been extinguished. Here and there, napkins littered the ground. A lone wineglass sat empty, abandoned on the grass. They followed the path to the curved driveway and then walked along the private road over the bridge to the gate. They stood there for a moment, waiting. There was a security camera mounted on a gatepost and Susan and Archie looked at it looking at them. After a moment, there was a metallic hissing sound and then the gates yawned open.

  “Get on the main road and then keep walking,” Archie said.

  Susan looked at him, incredulous. “By myself? What about you?”

  “Someone will pick you up,” Archie said. “Don’t talk to anyone about Leo except for Henry and someone named Sanchez.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going back to check on some things,” Archie said.

  Susan saw through his evasiveness. “You’re going back to check on Leo and that stripper,” she said. She knew the stripper’s name; she just didn’t use it. “I’ll go with you,” Susan added. “Leo’s my boyfriend.” Archie flinched when she said it. He always did. It’s why she’d used the word—boyfriend.

  Archie pressed his lips together. “Leo needs to know you’re safe.”

  The road beyond the gates was quiet. No traffic. The morning air was crisp and cold. Susan hugged her arms. Boyfriend. Now she felt bad. Her eyes went to the blood along Archie’s hairline. “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “I need to know you’re safe, Susan,” Archie said. “I have to go back. Please go now.”

  Susan nodded numbly. She didn’t know what to say. See you soon? Call me later? Don’t get yourself killed? So she didn’t say anything. She cradled her paper bag of clothes and walked through the gate. She heard the mechanical gears of the gate closing the moment she’d cleared the property line, and she looked back, but Archie had already turned and was walking back over the bridge to the island. Sanchez. Sanchez. She was suddenly very cold and she dropped the bag and dug out her red sweatshirt and put it on over the gold dress and zipped it up and put up the hood. She got her phone out of her purse and checked for reception. One bar. She picked up the bag again and started down the road, her eyes fixed on the phone screen in her hand. Two bars, and she’d call Henry. The road didn’t have sidewalks, so she shuffled along the edge, her ballet flats scuffing against the pavement. There was no one around. Newspapers, safely ensconced in plastic bags, poked out of the mailboxes that lined the road. The dried l
eaves that had fallen during the night blanketed the grass, waiting for the leaf blower. Crows squawked in the fir trees. Two bars.

  She didn’t hear the car until it was right upon her. She stepped onto the grass as it rolled past her on the right. A black, industrial-looking van. No markings. It pulled over to the side of the road just ahead of her and waited. Susan froze. Archie had said that someone would pick her up, but he didn’t say it was going to be Ted Bundy. She would call for a cab if she had to, thank you very much. She was scanning her phone contacts for Henry’s number when she heard the van backing up. It was rolling in reverse right toward her. She didn’t have time to react. She was too startled. Too sleep-deprived. Too flummoxed. When the van got so close she could have kicked it, it stopped, and the back door opened. A man in jeans and a sweatshirt and a day’s worth of beard held out his hand to her.

  “FBI,” he said. “Get in.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  Archie sat on the stone steps of the Tudor mansion, feeling pleasantly high. He remembered this now. The shudder of warmth under his skin; the way his bones seemed to soften; that feeling of wet cotton lining his skull. All the small discomforts to which he’d grown accustomed—the stiffness in his ribs, the prickly sensations of his scars, the burn of acid in his throat, the stab of pain when he inhaled deeply—all melted away to something peripheral. He didn’t even mind the itch in his throat anymore. It was amazing what two little pills could do. A few years ago, it would have taken a handful to reach the same effect. His tolerance had changed.

  He reached up and touched his head, winced, and then looked at the gritty dry blood on his dirty fingertips. Too late for stitches. He’d have another scar.

  Now he just had to find out how he’d gotten it.

  The front door opened and Jack Reynolds came out and sat down next to Archie on the step. Jack had a round red ceramic mug of coffee in each hand, and he held one out to Archie. Archie took it. The hot mug reminded him how cold he was. He took a sip and let the steam coming off the coffee warm his face. The Vicodin made his tongue feel thick.