Her breath was suddenly coming fast and furious, and she was on the verge of hyperventilating. Her vision was getting messy, as if peering through a foggy mirror. Any semblance of subtlety was gone now, chased away by fear and confusion, and she tried to grab the glove box handle.
The swamp…
She missed.
The terrain outside slowly changed before her eyes, and before she knew it they were driving through the wetlands. Thin spires of branchless trees dotted the left-hand side of the road, while she faintly perceived a boggy body of water on the right.
“The children are with Mother,” someone said, but Kendra didn’t know if she had said the words or if they had come from Martin’s mouth. “Mater est, matrem omnium.”
Again she tried to reach for the glovebox, but in addition to blurred vision, she was feeling nauseated as well.
The pile of bodies… Steph Black’s pale hand speckled with blood… Detective Tennison’s lined face… Jenna McGuire, pulling against her restraints, her teeth gnashing… Christine, drowning in holy water, unable to breathe… Rob, the man from the bar, fucking her, driving her ass cheeks into the faucet… a woman in the swamp, flames engulfing her own body… screaming, oh God, the most horrible screams… and a girl, tiny girl, burning, her hair catching fire, her face melting like microwaved butter…
“Martin,” she said, her words coming out slow and deep. “Stop the caarrrrrr, I’m gonna be—”
And then the vehicle hit something in the road, a bump maybe or some sort of ramp. For a split second, they were airborne, and Kendra felt completely weightless.
And then gravity took over, and her body suddenly lurched forward, the seatbelt tearing into her collarbone as the vehicle smashed into a tree.
The last thing Kendra saw before her world was reduced to darkness was Martin’s face hovering over her.
“I found your father, Ken-ken, because I was looking for you.”
CHAPTER 44
The door closed behind Father John Simone just as the director’s shouts filled the Rickshaw Police Station.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Brett waited on the landing, halfway between the first floor and the ground floor.
“Hurry!” he shouted to the priest, whose face was a beet red, his breathing coming in tight bursts. And this was only from a half jog maybe thirty meters down the hallway. He looked like he was going to have a heart attack, making it dangerous to push him now, Brett knew, but he had no choice.
They had to find Kendra before she did something really stupid… or something happened to her.
While Brett lacked the keen intuition of his partner, he knew that something about Martin Reigns wasn’t completely right. As he waited for the priest to come to him, his thin hands gripping the handrail so tightly that his knuckles nearly matched the pale blue color of the metal itself, he started to piece together the sequence of events that had led them here.
First, there was the horrific scene at the Black house, of which he had initially shared Kendra’s opinion that it was an isolated murder/suicide. But then the milk had led them to three other missing girls from neighboring cities.
Why was the milk left behind? Was it a calling card of sorts?
And then there were the words scrawled in blood on the fridge. It was clear that the Blacks had been expecting someone, someone to come for Stephanie, someone or something so horrible that death was their only escape—but was it Martin? Could they have been that frightened of just a man like him? And, maybe even more importantly, how did they know? How did they know that someone was coming for their daughter, the way that someone had come for Lacy and Meghan and Taylor?
The one thing that didn’t seem to fit in this narrative, was Jenna McGuire… why had Martin delivered her milk? Why would he risk being caught? He must have known that she would be a suspect, given her psychosis.
Brett’s blood suddenly ran cold and he froze.
“What’s wrong?” the priest gasped, finally making it to the landing. From somewhere above them the director’s shouts intensified. If they didn’t get out of the station now, they would be caught and thrown in jail. And Kendra would be alone with Martin.
Kendra.
“Let’s move!” the priest urged.
Brett’s hand fell to his back pocket and he yanked out the letter that had been written more than two decades ago by Kendra’s father’s hand.
The director’s voice was just outside the door to the stairwell now, and Brett finally animated, his legs pumping as he took the final set of stairs on the fly. A second later, the door was open and a bright wedge of sunlight filled the dusty stairwell. As he waited for Father John to join him, he clicked the alarm button on the keys that the priest had given him, aiming the fob around the parking lot.
The top door flew open, but Brett and his accomplice fled into the sun before he saw the director’s face.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Brett shouted as he scanned the single row of cars.
And then, on his far left, the lights and horn of a dark blue Buick LeSabre started going off.
Bingo.
“Hurry, Father!” he yelled over his shoulder as he sprinted toward the car.
Sweat immediately broke out on his forehead, but he wasn’t sure if this was from the sun and exertion or from the realization that Martin had been at Wikstrands because he had wanted to be caught. It was the only thing that made sense.
They reached the car before the director made it into the parking lot.
“Get in,” Brett shouted. “Hurry!”
Brett started the car and shifted it into reverse.
“Fucking hurry!” he shouted as the door to the stairwell flew open and he caught a glimpse of the director’s hard eyes in the rear-view.
More specifically, Martin had wanted to be caught by Kendra.
The moment Father John collapsed in a heap on the seat, Brett hammered the gas and the car whipped out of the parking spot. The director remained in the doorway, his hands hanging at his sides as Brett shifted the car into drive and it lurched out of the parking lot.
He half expected to see cherries in his rear-view, but after several minutes tearing down the road, it appeared that this wasn’t going to be the case. Only after they merged onto the freeway, the dark blue Buick blending in with hundreds of other reflective ants, and it looked like they were actually going to get away with it did he chance a glance over at the priest.
Father John was hunched over, his hand gripping the door handle as if for support, even though he was seated. His entire body was covered in sweat, his thin gray hair pasted to his forehead in dark strips. There was a grimace etched on his lined face, and Brett immediately knew that the man was in serious trouble.
“Father?” he whispered.
“Pills,” Father John croaked, not looking up. “I need my pills.”
“Where are they?”
The man was trying to get into the pocket of his jeans, but he couldn’t manage all hunched over as he was.
“Lean back,” Brett instructed.
With considerable effort, the man obliged, his eyes closing, his hands rising to his chest and clutching at the black cloth.
He’s having a heart attack, Brett thought with unusual clarity. He’s going to fucking die in the passenger seat of the director’s rental car.
Trying to keep one eye on the road, Brett reached over and fumbled with the man’s pocket, his hand following the hard outline of a pill container.
A second later, he had removed the container, and a moment after that, he had it open.
Inside the orange container was about a half dozen small white pills. He took two out and held them to the priest.
“Father? Father!”
The man was breathing in short gulps, his face so pale that it bordered on translucent. His eyes were still closed, but they were relaxed now, no longer tense.
“Fuck!” Brett swore. He swerved to avoid a braking car in front of him, while at the same time reachi
ng over with his hand, trying to shove two pills into the priest’s mouth.
The man’s lips were like newly molted caterpillars, all cold and clammy. Eventually he managed to force the pills inside, but it wasn’t clear that the priest was conscious enough to notice.
Brett had to force Father John’s lips closed to ensure that they didn’t fall out again.
“Swallow, goddammit! Fucking swallow!”
He reached forward, and then smacked the man in the chest.
“FUCKING SWALLOW!”
The man’s eyes fluttered, and then his head slumped to his side.
He was either sleeping or dead, and for a while, Brett had no idea which.
CHAPTER 45
The last thing Kendra had expected to see when she regained consciousness was the face of a pretty young girl with blonde pigtails hovering over her.
I’m dead. I must be dead.
Kendra blinked twice, trying to orient herself. When her eyelids stuck together, she instinctively raised her right hand to her forehead—or tried to. Sparks of pain instantly engulfed her right side, and she quickly abandoned the effort. With a groan, she tried raising her other hand, and was relieved that the pain didn’t extend all the way across her body.
“Where am I?” she croaked as she probed her tender forehead. There was a cut on her brow, and blood slowly leaked from the wound, but it didn’t seem all that deep.
To Kendra’s surprise, the girl was still there when she opened her eyes—calm, unmoving, just staring.
She’s not really here.
“Where am I?” Kendra repeated, looking around. A quick glance to the right revealed what she had suspected: her right shoulder had been dislocated, and she felt a dull soreness that radiated across her clavicle and to her ribs. Her collarbone was also probably broken from the seatbelt. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and leaned back for a second, trying to regain her senses.
Images immediately flooded her mind, memories of being at a police station, of fleeing in the car—
Her eyes snapped open.
Martin.
She looked to the driver’s side and her heart leaped into her throat when she saw that it was empty save the airbag hanging limply from the steering wheel. The door hung open at a strange angle, and an annoying pinging sound was going off from somewhere above her. Her eyes moved back toward where she was sitting, first passing the dashboard that looked like a psychedelic nightmare what with all of the flashing icons, and then the shattered windshield. Thick, caustic smoke rose in winding fingers from the hood, which was heavily indented by the trunk of a large tree.
Fuck.
Kendra went to turn her attention back to the girl who had appeared in her window, but she had vanished; Kendra wasn’t overly surprised.
I imagined the girl.
Her throat was so dry that swallowing was nearly impossible, and her head was pounding. Reaching down with her left hand, she unclicked her seatbelt and let out a sigh of relief as the sharp pain across her chest became a dull throb.
“Hello?” she asked, careful not to shout.
No answer.
Bits and pieces of the day started coming back to her, and with each image came a distinct emotion: guilt, sadness, fear, pain, pleasure. And then it abruptly ended with her desperate, woozy attempts to get at the glove box.
With a grunt, Kendra leaned forward, only to gasp and fall back again. Something had happened to her seat when the car had struck the tree, and it was no longer sitting true in its frame. With her pounding headache, just leaning forward upset her equilibrium. She squeezed her eyes closed again and then opened them, trying to right herself.
It helped, and she grabbed the glove box on her second try. It was undamaged and flopped open like a curled tongue.
Empty—either Brett didn’t put his gun in there or…
A giggle cut through the swamp air, drawing Kendra’s eyes.
“Hello?”
The sun was fading now, but without her phone, she didn’t know exactly how long she had been out. With the canopy of leaves high above keeping the humid air below a dull gray, the best she could manage was a guess.
An hour, maybe two.
Another giggle, and Kendra reached across her body to open the door. The handle moved, but when she pushed against it, the door itself appeared stuck.
She ground her teeth and pushed again, but still nothing. She just couldn’t gain any leverage with her right arm out of the socket.
The shoulder of her white blouse was damp, clinging to her body, and dotted with blood either from the cut on her forehead or from behind her ear where Jenna McGuire had bitten her. It hung forward at an awkward angle, and although her hand was palm down on the seat, she couldn’t feel the fabric between her fingers.
Subluxation.
This had happened to Kendra once before, many years back when she had shoulder checked a much larger man as he tried to run at her then partner Agent Reggie Mills. That time it had sucked back in on its own after the perp—a man who was spouting his mouth off about dirty bombs on an Internet bulletin board—had landed hard on the pavement. A few minutes of awkward tingling, like a limb that was asleep, and she was as good as new.
This was worse, of course, as Kendra was certain that her arm wouldn’t go back in without any coaxing. Still, it had to be done.
The girl, real or imagined, would have to wait.
Kendra closed her eyes again, enjoying the momentary peace from the assault on her senses. For the briefest of moments, the musty undertones of the swamp, of slowly rotting vegetation, the sound of water dripping, of a fish or gator slapping against the surface, and the slivers of light that squeezed through the stalks of barren trees were all gone.
She relished this moment of peace, but only for a second.
There was work to do still.
Kendra drew in a huge breath through her nose, and as she started to exhale through her mouth, she leaned her right side forward as best as her bruised body would allow. Trying to keep her exhale going strong and smooth, Kendra hesitated when she felt she could lean no further.
She prepped herself for the pain that was to come.
One… two… three!
On three, Kendra flung her body backward.
Whatever air was still inside her was forced out and Kendra let out a breathless cry.
Her arm, driven by the momentum, sucked back into her shoulder socket with an audible slurp. Her cry became a groan as blood that had been pinched off suddenly flooded the limb.
Kendra turned her head to one side and waited for the horrible pins and needles sensation to pass. And it did; after what felt like an eternity, but couldn’t possibly have been more than a minute, two at most, she closed her right hand.
Her fingers were stiff, but they obeyed.
Swallowing hard against the pain that still radiated from her shoulder and ran across her chest, Kendra turned her attention back to the door.
Part of her wanted to just curl up in her broken seat and sleep, just ignore everything about everything and sleep.
But Kendra couldn’t do that. Not with that monster Martin free again, and the girls still missing.
Her fingers were still tingling when she grabbed the door handle, but this time when she pushed, it opened a half inch with a metallic groan.
The agony was intense now, riding up and down her right biceps in electric tracks. But Kendra fought through the agony and pushed the door again.
On the fifth such shove, it was wide enough that she thought would be able to slip through. Again steadying herself, she leaned backward and then hauled herself out of the car.
Given the dull throb that had enveloped nearly her entire right side, the pain that ensued wasn’t so bad.
At long last, Kendra found herself standing on the soggy ground adjacent the swamp, her posture crooked like an old man. The smell of rotting vegetation was greater now, but it had a strange, ammonia-like effect on her. Her brain felt clear, and she
was finally able to remember all of what had happened over the past two days. And as she remembered, a knot formed in her gut.
A sharp pain in her leg served as a welcome distraction. Looking down, she saw a small dark spot on her thigh, a dot of blood on her gray slacks.
This seemed different from the blood on her shoulder and the front of her blouse; it looked isolated, unique. Kendra reached down and probed the wound and felt something hard.
The syringe!
But as she pulled it, any sense of comfort or relief was short-lived.
Give it up, Kendra—it’s empty.
I knew your father, Ken-Ken. I found your father because I was looking for you.
A shudder racked her, which was quickly chased by a surge of pain.
“Why the fuck were you looking for me?” Kendra whispered to the smashed car and pond beyond.
As she waited for a response that never came, she took a moment to survey the scene before her. She was standing on a packed dirt road that extended some distance in both directions, appearing to become gradually darker and wetter out in front of the car.
The car itself was a mess: the bumper was curled around the tree in a nasty snarl, and the bottom of her door was jammed into thick mud, which explained why it had been so difficult to open. The left tire was buried to the rim, and the panel in front of her door had been crumpled from the impact.
I could have been fucking killed.
Kendra shook her head and went back to looking for something, a landmark of any kind that she might be able to use to orient herself.
It was no use; everything looked the same. Just a few feet beyond the driver side of the vehicle was a large swamp that extended for as far as the eye could see. On her right was a thinly wooded area composed entirely of the branchless trunks that seemed to extend both up and out to oblivion.
A landmark probably wouldn’t have helped her anyway. Barring seeing the Stature of Liberty jutting from the swamp, she wouldn’t know where the fuck she was.
Batesburg… we were going to Batesburg.
Her only hope was to track Martin.
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