Never Coming Home

by A.R. Wise

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lincoln scurried for the gun and then aimed up at the road where the stranger had been standing. All he saw was the front of the truck, looming above with the front end dangling over the edge. The motor was still on, growling like a beast of prey waiting to deliver a killing blow. Liquid was leaking from the radiator, plopping in the mud and creating a miniature stream that trickled through the gouges that Lincoln’s car’s tires had made in the earth.

  Bentley was beside him, groaning in pain.

  “It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. You’re going to be all right.”

  Lincoln knew it was a lie. Bentley had been badly wounded. There was blood everywhere.

  The accident had been jarring enough, but the battle with their attempted murderer had left Bentley pale and quickly losing blood. The bullet had entered his abdomen, and went straight through him, leaving an exit wound that was gushing. Lincoln searched for his phone, but then realize it was several hundred feet below them, in the wrecked Mercedes that was now lost in the forest below.

  Where was the killer?

  Lincoln kept the gun aimed up at the last place he’d seen the stranger, and he yelled out, “I’ve got your gun!” The last thing he wanted to do was use it, but he wouldn’t hesitate. “Why don’t you come try and get it, you coward?”

  Even the birds stayed silent, scared off by the accident and the previous gunshot. Grey clouds dominated the sky, shrouding the mountain in a wintery hue.

  He couldn’t sit there and wait forever. Despite the noise they’d made, this was a remote area, and it was unlikely that anyone was coming to help. Also, he couldn’t be certain that their attacker didn’t have another gun.

  Lincoln climbed up the steep hill, slipping in the slick mud and loose stones as he went. He kept the gun pointed in the direction of the truck, terrified that the killer would appear wielding another pistol or a shotgun. He reached the road on his hands and knees, and peered beneath the truck in search of feet on the other side. He saw that the truck had been pinned on a wooden post from the guard rail that’d been knocked over.

  There was no sign of the truck’s owner, so Lincoln got to his feet. If he’d suffered any injuries in the accident, he wasn’t aware of them yet. The adrenaline pumping through his veins masked any signs of trauma as he reached for the handle of the truck’s passenger side door. He flung the door open and pointed the gun inside, but there was no one there. The seat was stained with dry blood.

  Bentley groaned in pain below, and Lincoln looked down to see that his friend was trying to make his way up the hill. Lincoln looked around again, afraid that their attacker was simply waiting for an opportunity. Finally, he decided to go back down and help Bentley.

  He thought about carrying Bentley away from the scene of the accident, but the closest place was Angel’s house, which was too far to attempt to haul an injured man. He got down to him and hoisted him up as best he could. They fumbled their way back up to the road, and the severity of Bentley’s injuries became apparent as blood seeped down his pants and mixed with the fluid leaking out of the truck’s radiator.

  They made it to the road and Lincoln tried to give Bentley the gun. “Here, you keep this. I’m going to go get help.”

  “No,” said Bentley as he grabbed at Lincoln’s cuff instead of taking the gun.

  “I’ve got to go, Bentley. I’ve got to go try to get help.” Lincoln assumed the young man didn’t want to be left alone. “You keep the gun in case that bastard comes back.”

  “Listen to me,” said Bentley through clenched teeth. “Darcy…”

  “What?”

  “You have to save Darcy. She’s up there. Whoever that was… He’s got her.”

  The terror that the accident inspired made Lincoln forget about Bentley’s discovery just before the crash. Darcy was somewhere on the mountain, or at least her phone was.

  “You stay here. I’ll get help,” said Lincoln in a panic. “I’ll send someone.”

  “Go find Darcy,” said Bentley as he leaned against the truck, his arm wrapped around his midsection.

  Lincoln knew that he should help Bentley wrap up his wound, but he was too scared for his daughter’s safety to waste any more time. He ran, leaving his friend behind to fend for himself.

  Thatcher road was far steeper on foot than it’d seemed when driving, but Lincoln refused to slow down. He went as fast as his body would allow, but now the aches and pains of the accident were revealing themselves. His right knee was throbbing, and when he looked down at it he saw there was a sizeable gash in his pants. He was bleeding, but not bad enough to worry about. He ignored the pain and continued to run. The thin, chilly mountain air stung his lungs, causing him to cough as he went, but he refused to slow down. Every time he noticed that his legs were starting to move slower, he forced himself back to top speed, cursing his old body and weak muscles.

  Lincoln made it to Angel’s driveway, and was tempted to stop and catch his breath, but he forced himself to continue running. His dress shoes lost their traction on the gravel, and he fell hard. The gun skittered away, and his palms slammed down into the stones, causing him to yelp in pain. He regained his composure and got the gun. As he was walking to the house, he saw that the detached garage at the end of the driveway was open. There was no vehicle inside. All that was in the garage were cardboard boxes in the back, stacked to the ceiling, and a few over-sized Igloo coolers. Angel’s truck was missing.

  He hoped that Angel hadn’t left, but then remembered that there was nowhere for her to go. She would’ve had to of driven down the mountain if she’d left, which would’ve sent her past the accident.

  Did she have something to do with this?

  There was a light on inside, which helped alleviate his concern that Angel had left. He went up the porch and opened the screen door. He tried to open the door, but it was locked, so he pounded on it with the butt of the gun.

  “Angel, open up.”

  He saw her shadow move across the drapes in the window to his left, and then heard the door unlock. He didn’t wait for her to open it.

  He pointed the gun at her and asked, “Did you do this?”

  “Do what?” she asked, frightened. She’d been crying. Her face was bone white, colored only by the faint freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her blue/grey eyes were bloodshot. Her cheeks were streaked by tears, and there were used tissues on the couch beside a cup of tea.

  “Who was it?”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, her fright turning to terror. “Stop pointing that at me.”

  “Someone tried to kill us,” said Lincoln as he barged in. “I need your phone.”

  “Lincoln…” She was surprised and flummoxed. “I…”

  “Where’s your phone? We need to call an ambulance. Bentley’s hurt. Someone shot him.” He pointed the gun at her with conviction, and she gasped in fear. She was confused, and he didn’t have time to explain. Her surprised reaction seemed genuine, and he started to wonder if his suspicion about her involvement in the attempted murder was wrong. “Where’s your phone? Just tell me and I’ll get it. Is it in the bedroom?”

  “Is he still out there?” asked Angel, frightened. “Did you kill him?”

  “No, he’s out there somewhere. He rammed the back of our car and tried to push us off the mountain, but we got out. Then he tried to shoot us.”

  “Where is he?” she sounded desperate as she went to the door.

  Lincoln stopped her, and went to the door first. He peered outside and then locked it. “He’s still out there somewhere. Now get me your phone. We don’t have time to waste.”

  “Okay,” said Angel meekly as she went to her bedroom.

  Lincoln stayed near the door, and pulled aside the window’s drapes so that he could look outside. He glanced down the driveway, and then back up in search of the killer. Daylight had faded, but night was still being held off by the hazy glow of early dusk. The shadows of evening were swallowing
the forest, allowing only vague outlines of trees that could easily be men hiding in the dark. Then his gaze paused at the open garage, the cement stained with oil that’d dripped from Angel’s missing truck.

  Next he looked at the bottle of gin on the counter, and everything fell into place.

  He stopped breathing, suddenly aware of the trap that’d been set for him.

  Angel reappeared from her bedroom with a shotgun pointed at him. He ducked away just as she took a shot at him.

  The blast deafened them both, and shattered the window that Lincoln had been looking through. He knew that he’d been hit, but he was still alive and didn’t have time to worry about anything other than defending himself. He was on the floor, sitting against the back of the loveseat, although he wasn’t certain how he’d gotten there. His ears were ringing, and suddenly his right eye was forced closed as liquid rushed into it. He aimed as best he could, looking out over the breakfast counter that separated him from Angel. She was walking around, ready to take another shot, but he fired before she had a chance. He kept pulling the trigger to make sure he hit her.

  The second shot sounded like nothing more than a distant firework to his deafened ears. The bullet went through Angel’s upper arm and into her chest, causing her to fall back. He fired again, and again, and again until the pistol clicked uselessly. There was blood splattered on the white walls, covering the pictures behind where Angel had been standing. Her shotgun laid on the floor between them, and he dropped the pistol as he reached out for it.

  Now, finally, the pain of his injury came. The right side of his face burned as if someone had forced his head down onto a stove, and he felt the warm rush of blood pouring down over his chest. He ignored it, for now, as he aimed the shotgun at Angel like she was a horror movie monster feigning defeat, ready to leap at him the second he let down his guard.

  She was still alive, her eyes as wide as they’d ever been, staring at him as she breathed shallow gasps. Blood soaked her formerly white sundress, and the crimson blooms grew wider as he watched. One of her hands was draped over her lap, and the other was on the floor, palm up, fingers twitching.

  She tried to speak, but no words escaped. She tried again, “I’m sorry.”

  Lincoln used the shotgun like a crutch as he forced himself to stand. He was frazzled, but tried to piece together what’d happened. “Who is he?” he asked, now certain that Angel and his attempted murderer were working together. “Is it Frank? Is he hiding up here in the mountains with you? Did you plan on getting me drunk and then pushing me off the cliff to make it look like an accident?”

  Angel shook her head, and then let out a startlingly sharp cry of pain. Her face contorted in agony as she tried to sit up straighter, and she gripped her abdomen to cover one of her wounds. She was dying. They both knew it.

  “Frank’s got Darcy. Do you hear me? He’s got my daughter.”

  Her look of surprise was honest. “What?”

  “My daughter!” Lincoln screamed at her, devoid of pity as she lay dying. “We tracked her here, to this mountain. She’s up here somewhere. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” said Angel. “I begged him not to hurt her.”

  “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Frank?”

  “Frank?” she asked, puzzled. “Frank’s dead. He’s been dead for years.”

  “Then who has my daughter?”

  “I didn’t mean for this. I never meant for…”

  Lincoln pointed the shotgun down at her and yelled, “Who has her?”

  Angel flinched at the sight of the gun, but her momentary fear abated. Death was a certainty, which muted his threat.

  “You’d die for her, wouldn’t you? You’d die for Darcy?”

  “Yes, of course. She means everything to me. Don’t let him kill her. Help me save her. Tell me where she is.”

  “There’s nothing a parent wouldn’t do for their baby.” Her voice was fading, and her eyelids drooped.

  Lincoln suddenly understood, and he lowered his gun as the realization stunned him. “It’s Devin.”

  Angel looked up at him, the truth revealed in her glassy, regretful gaze.

  “Devin killed Betty. You helped cover it up.”

  She nodded.

  “And he lives up here on the mountain now, with you. You’ve been hiding him all these years.”

  “I protected my baby.”

  “And now he’s going to kill mine.”

  “I never wanted that.”

  “Then tell me where he is! Help me save her. Help me protect my only child, my baby. Help me, Angel!”

  Angel looked away and pursed her lips.

  Lincoln screamed, “You’ve ruined enough lives. Do one goddamned good thing before you die. Tell me where she is.”

  “Cabin 12,” she said, pained by the admission. “He lives in cabin 12, up the hill that way.” She pointed north, in the direction of the garage.

  Lincoln turned to leave.

  “Don’t kill him,” said Angel. “Please don’t kill my baby.”

  Lincoln coldly responded, “No promises.”

  He left the cabin, and went out into the cold dusk. Grey clouds hid the stars, and fragile flakes of snow drifted slowly down around him, dying immediately upon touching down, their life snuffed out in an instant, leaving no trace except for an insignificant wetness on the grass.

  Lincoln spared no time to consider his own injuries until he heard the plop of his blood hitting the ground at his feet. The shotgun blast had ripped into the side of his face, and now his brow was swollen and gushing blood. He knew the wound was bad, but he couldn’t afford to care.

  Darcy was here, and he had to save her.

  As he climbed the hill behind the garage, his mind raced with fearful predictions about what he’d find. Darcy could already be dead. He might make it to the cabin to discover her body, cold and lifeless – finally stolen from him like he’d feared for so long. Snuffed out by a murderer instead of cancer the way everyone had expected.

  “No,” he whimpered aloud as the thought of holding her dead body quaked his nerves. “No, no, no.”

  He remembered her frail, cold, thin body in a hospital bed, tubes coming out of her arms and nose, and her big, tear-filled eyes. She’d flirted with death so many times, wasting away as her body fought a battle it had no hope of winning. Her tiny, six-year-old body… The way she would only cry when she was alone and thought her parents couldn’t hear, because she never wanted them to suffer. How she would smile and try to sound upbeat when she saw them.

  The hill got steeper, and Lincoln lost his footing. He fell hard, and his left elbow struck a rock, sending a shot of sudden, intense pain through him. He slid down several feet, and the fragile grass ripped away from its shallow hold, leaving a deep skid in the dirt. As he forced himself back up, he saw a similar mark in the dirt beside him. Then he saw a footprint.

  His heart leapt.

  The killer had come this way. It was the only explanation. Lincoln scurried to move faster, and partially crawled as he made his way up the hill.

  The cabin was in sight. There was a light on in the front room. This building was larger than Angel’s, but in the same style, with a wraparound porch and designed to look like a log cabin. There were two rocking chairs beside the front door, and a ‘Welcome’ mat at the top of the steps. Muddy footprints led up to the door.

  “I’m coming, Darcy.”

  Arthur

  He locked the door behind him and then rushed to the basement. Arthur knew he should flee the area, but he couldn’t leave before dealing with one last thing.

  The door to the 10’ x 10’ room that was in the center of his otherwise unfinished basement was closed. He went to his computer desk that sat just outside of it. He wiggled the mouse to bring the machine out of sleep, and the monitors came to life. He looked at the camera feed of Darcy Pierce tied down to the bed, her wrists bloody from her multiple attempts to break free.

  He smiled, pleased to see that sh
e’d finally woken from her drugged state. He’d been waiting all day for her system to recover from the intense dose of the psychedelic drugs he’d injected her with. He’d delayed her death because he wanted… he needed her to feel it. He needed her to know that death was at hand, and to fear it.

  Now it was time for her to die.

  He thought about putting on the surgeon’s mask and gloves, but decided there was no need for anonymity here. He wanted her to recognize him. He wanted her to know that she was dying at the hands of the same person who killed Betty Kline.

  Arthur opened the door to her cell, and Darcy jolted at his approach. She stiffened, scowled, and tried to scream despite her gag. The bleached sheets were stained with her blood. He’d given her plenty of time to become frightened. The defiant zeal she’d displayed the night before had certainly faded by now.

  “Ready to die?”

  The gag barely stifled her pained scream as he straddled her on the bed. Her arms were tied above her head, and her feet were secured to the posts behind him. He slid his hands up her side, tickling his way over her breasts and to her neck.

  “I’m going to let you feel it, just like Betty did.”

  She jerked her head away from him, but he gripped her thin throat in his strong hands. He felt the carotid arteries on the side of her neck, and resolved not to press them. That wasn’t how Betty died, and it wouldn’t be how Darcy died either. When Arthur killed Betty, he was just a child. He didn’t know how to do it properly. That was back when his name was Devin, before he took on a new identity.

  “Just like Betty,” he said again as he leaned in closer to Darcy and kissed her cheek, just above the leather strap that held the gag in her mouth.

  He’d been dating Betty at the time of his first murder, and convinced her to let him try out something that he’d seen his father do. His parents never knew how often their son watched them make love, and how he saw his mother get choked. They’d caught him once, and always locked the bedroom door after that, but by then he knew what those gasping sounds coming from their room was.

  He wanted to choke Betty, just like his father, but she was hesitant to let him. They went to the shed behind Arthur’s house and kissed, like they’d done several times before. He put down a blanket for them to lay on. They continued to make out, and then he began to choke her without her permission. It’d been a struggle, and Betty broke free several times. At first, he hadn’t meant it to be a violent act, but her attempts to fight back enraged him. He continued to choke her, squeezing her windpipe with all his strength, but she wouldn’t succumb.

  Finally, he used the extension cord to the electric mower in the shed to wrap around Betty’s neck. That’s how she finally died, clawing at her throat as he stood behind her, pulling at the cord until she finally stopped moving.

  Now it was Darcy’s turn, but this time he wouldn’t need the cord.

  Arthur squeezed with all his strength, easily cutting off Darcy’s oxygen without compressing the carotids. He wanted her to stay conscious through the entire act, all throughout the agonizingly long time it would take to finally die.

  “This is what you get! This is what you get for coming after me.” He throttled her, banging her head up and down on the thin mattress as he choked her.

  Her eyes bulged, and her skin began to turn a purplish grey. She tried to fight back, but there was nothing she could do. This was how Darcy Pierce would die, choked to death in a dank basement by the killer she’d tried to unmask.

  Arthur’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

  Darcy was so close to death. He didn’t want to stop, but there was only one person who could be calling, and he knew it was urgent. He thought about finishing with Darcy before answering, but the call was a distraction that robbed him of the pleasure of the kill.

  He cursed, and then let go of Darcy’s throat. She coughed and gasped, and then wretched as if about to vomit. Arthur reluctantly got off her, and then left the room.

  “What is it?”

  “He’s… alive.”

  “Who? Lincoln? Did he go to your house?”

  “Do you…” his mother sounded odd, weak and labored. “Do you have his daughter?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Please say no,” she said, as if the alternative might break her heart.

  “Where is he? Where’s Lincoln?”

  “Do you have his daughter?”

  Darcy screamed as loud as her gag would allow, and Arthur knew his mother had heard it.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Arthur.

  He heard her pleading with him before he hung up the phone. He set it down on his desk beside Darcy’s broken cell phone and a two dollar bill.

  That’s when he heard someone kick in his door upstairs, and he knew he had to think fast. He looked over at Darcy’s room and came up with a plan. He moved quickly, and pushed the door to Darcy’s cell wide open.

  Arthur heard footsteps above him, and heard Lincoln Pierce yell, “Come on out you son of a bitch!”

  Arthur picked up the sledgehammer that was leaned against the wall, near where he’d used it to pulverize the prostitute’s hands and feet. Arthur walked slowly around to the back of the makeshift prison cell and leaned against the wall. He peered around the corner at the stairs, and saw light suddenly beam in as the door was opened. He heard the creak of the wooden stairs as Lincoln began his descent.

  “Devin?” asked Lincoln.

  Darcy heard her father, and began to try and scream out to him, just like Arthur had hoped she would.

  “Darcy, is that you?” asked Lincoln, his wariness eased by the revelation that his daughter was still alive. He ran to her, and Arthur hurried to the door of the cell. He slammed it shut, and then flipped the latch to lock them in.

  A shotgun blast tore through the door, sending wood and soundproofing foam flying out. Arthur hadn’t expected that, and the shot barely missed him. There was a hole in the door now, but the lock was still intact.

  Arthur crouched down to the right of the door. He could see his monitor’s feed of the camera within the room. Lincoln, beaten and bloody, was poised beside his daughter with the shotgun pointed at the door. The hole in the door afforded Lincoln a view of the stairs, and Arthur knew he couldn’t escape without the risk of being shot in the back.

  This had to end here and now.

  “Come on out, Devin,” said Lincoln. “It’s over. Don’t make me kill you.”

  Arthur watched the monitor, and saw that Lincoln was still pointing the shotgun at the door, but he was only holding the weapon with one hand as he used the other to dig in his pocket. He pulled out a pocket knife, and then knelt beside his daughter to cut one of her wrists free. After that, he gave her the blade so that she could free herself as he focused on the door and the stairs beyond.

  “Don’t make me kill you, Devin.”

  Arthur bided his time. He knew they would have to try and bust down the door eventually. Until they did, he would sit tight and wait.