Reckless Touch

by Veronica Larsen

  "I saw you."

  "No you didn't!" he snaps, so loud and fast that spit flies from his mouth.

  I startle, inching backward as a gasp escapes my lips. His chest rises on a slow intake of breath, then he shuts his eyes and rubs the space over his left eyebrow, seeming to regret his outburst. I watch as he actively reels in his anger. He pulls it inward, smoothing out his face until he is but a harmless shell of a man.

  "You looked at me, sometimes," he says, his tone returning to normal. "But you didn't see me."

  The way he can bring himself back to control is more terrifying than his anger.

  "Those gifts, on the desk…they were from you?"

  He doesn't respond.

  "Thank you," I say, trying to sound sincere instead of disgusted.

  His eyebrows twitch inward, but quickly smooth out.

  "Too fucking late for thanks, Amelia. I thought maybe I had been wrong about you, but you showed me who you really are. What you'd do to destroy someone's life. Well, it's your turn."

  "What did I do to you?"

  "You don't remember? The story you published where you dragged my mother into my father's mess. It wasn't her fault he went on that rampage. She hadn't known, she hadn't been involved."

  I can't make sense of his words. His eyes, those large, glassy blue orbs are staring at me hard now and I can't look away. They are like doll eyes, strange in the way they convey intelligence to an otherwise inanimate face. My mind races and somehow, in the chaos, an image pulls into the forefront of my mind. Those same wide blue eyes.

  "The Ranger who went AWOL," I whisper.

  "My father. He killed seven people, then hid up in a cabin in Big Bear like a coward."

  It's the story I wrote while still in college, the story I became obsessed over. I didn't win the internship at The New York Times, because I landed in the hospital and missed the deadline. But the Union Tribune published it as a feature.

  "The story wasn't about your mother," I say. It wasn't even focused on his father. "It was about the survivor. It didn't even mention—"

  "I read it," he snaps. "Don't tell me it wasn't about my mother. It was. Every. Single. Line."

  It's not true. He's wrong. He's…

  Wait.

  There was a line, a single throwaway line. Not even my own words, but a quote from the woman who'd been held captive by Dale's father.

  You couldn't stand beside evil like him without knowing it in your gut, with every fiber of your being.

  The line, I now remember, was followed by mentions of the Ranger being a married father of two. They were just facts. I didn't…

  "I didn't mean to bring your mother into it."

  "The media turned their attention to my mother. Did you know that? They staked out in front of my house. We couldn't go to school. We couldn't even go out to buy food. We—"

  "You think my article is at fault for that?"

  He talks over me like he can't hear me.

  "—were prisoners in our own home. My mother read your article over and over again. I tried to take it from her, but she locked herself in her room and forbid us from coming inside. It wasn't until—"

  I shut my eyes, because I remember now what happened. I read about it myself.

  "—she killed herself that we were finally able to leave the house. Right into the arms of social services. Do you know what they do with kids with no parents? No families to take them in? We were thrown into the system and forgotten."

  "I do know, Dale. I do. I was a foster kid, too. I was tossed aside and forgotten, too." My voice rises in a plea, even as his eyes grow colder. "I didn't mean for any of that to happen."

  "Oh, you didn't?" he taunts in a sickeningly sweet drone before suddenly snapping into the darkest tone I've heard from him yet. "But you did."

  Every cell in my body urges me to take control of the situation. "My wrists hurt, Dale. Please, untie me so we can speak properly."

  "Untie you? So you can try to hit me again?" He raises a hand to the side of his head, rubbing it, then stretches his neck on that side. "Hit me really good."

  "I'm sorry about that," I lie.

  "Shut up!" He lunges with the knife in my direction, stopping just short of my face.

  My breath catches in my throat and I shut my eyes tight.

  "You think you can pretend to be nice to me now? You're only nice to me when you need something, Amelia." He twists his voice into a high-pitched squeal. "Oh, hi, Dale, I lost my purse. Oh, hi, Dale, have you seen so and so."

  I can't figure out what to say or how to act with him. Being nice seems to trigger his anger. I thought I could soften him up enough to untie me. But he's not stupid, that much is for sure, and all I'm doing is underestimating him again. Being aggressive is out of the question. I'm at a disadvantage with my hands and feet bound. I need to keep him talking, distract him until Sebastian comes back. He's bound to come back...

  "How'd you get that photograph into Sebastian's car?"

  He bites out a laugh, a huge grin on his lips. "I never thought you'd see that photo. Was it the one I left last night? In his glove box? I didn't expect him to find it for a few days, but you must've gone snooping around. God, I couldn't have planned it better if I tried. I was going to leave this one…" He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded-up square, shaking it open to reveal a photo printed on a sheet of paper. The photograph I lost. "But I'm fond of this one. It's my favorite."

  "Where'd you get that?"

  He taps the side of his head, smiling. "You don't see things, Amelia."

  The answer comes to me in a flash. The night I left work in a panic after the printer room incident, I hurried to the front doors of the building with my phone clutched to my ear, calling a cab to pick me up. I tripped over my own two feet, dropping my purse in my haste, and Dale had come out of nowhere to scoop it up for me. He asked me what was wrong, but my head was spinning too fast to answer him.

  He re-folds the paper and sticks it back into his pocket. "But to answer your question, getting into cars is easy. I've been doing it since I was seventeen. I'll admit, it's so much easier in this uniform. It's strange how some things are so loud, draw so much attention, that people purposely ignore them. This uniform renders me invisible. No one questions me. It's power in its stealthiest form."

  "You were supposed to be working the night of my attack."

  "Supposed to be? I was. That night…Kathleen walked by the desk without realizing I wasn't behind it. No one ever questions where I go when I'm not at my desk. Good thing I managed to reach it by the time she came running back inside to tell me what had happened to you. And there was my alibi. I was at work. Hiding in plain sight." He taps the handle of his knife to the side of his head, indicating his brain. "See? No one realizes how smart I am."

  This seems to remind him of something and he looks to the window, as though contemplating walking over to it again. I rush to occupy his attention.

  "Kathleen…why did you mess with her brakes?"

  "Me? I didn't touch her brakes. But I heard she got into that accident." He slaps a hand on his knee, gleeful. "God, it's so perfect. I was angry you got away that night, but don't you see? Don't you see how everything lined up for me? It was all meant to be. You, finding the picture in the cop's car tonight and coming back here—I wasn't sure you would. I only came here to look around. I like it here, sometimes I just walk through…touch your things…" My eyes widen and the disgust must register on my face because his expression swings from nostalgic to enraged in an instant. "Don't look at me like that," he snaps, nostrils flaring.

  He shuts his eyes and takes a breath.

  It's clear this man has serious anger issues, if he's trying hard to keep his anger in check…if he's afraid of his own temper…then I should be utterly terrified of it. He's too smart to believe I'm going to cooperate out of some change of heart. That tactic will just end up getting me killed.

  He might not be stupid, but he's not all the way reasona
ble, either. The media was bound to turn their lenses onto his family. It's what happens, every time. My story didn't trigger this, but it seems a moot point to try to convince him of this. And even though he might have targeted me out of some ill-conceived vendetta, it's clear when he talks about our interactions that the way I've treated him has twisted the dagger of his anger even further. Dale likes me. Some part of him developed feelings toward me, however convoluted. That's the part of him I need to reach.

  "Okay," I say. "Okay, you're right about everything. I didn't see you. I didn't bother. You were just someone I passed in the lobby on my way to and from work. To and from my life. I never stopped to give you a second thought. You're right and I'm sorry."

  He watches me speak, traces of anger pulling his face tight, but he keeps it there, something about his features seems satisfied at my admission. I'm confirming his insecurities, validating his concerns.

  "It's too late now," he says.

  "I know." I lay my cheek down against the floor, releasing the tension from my neck at keeping my head up. "What now?"

  "Now, I do what I set out to do from the beginning. You're coming with me. To my place."

  And with those words, a certainty rises in my mind. If I let him take me out of here, he's taking me to my death.

  It's hard to keep my voice even, but I have to try. "Good luck with that. It's going to be hard to carry me down a flight of stairs, down the hall, and into the parking lot without anyone noticing."

  I'm risking inciting his anger with my statement. But, to my surprise, he simply nods his agreement, looking in the direction of the window. I can see his thoughts play out on his face, it's getting later into the night. He will try to move me in the dead of night. It's his best bet.

  "There's a way."

  His gaze swings to me, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Go on."

  "There's a door down in the basement," I lie. "It leads to the back of the house."

  I see something in his eyes snap. He grabs me by the hair and drags me across the floor to the doorway of my room. Sharp pain shoots through my scalp where he nearly rips my hair from it.

  Kneeling down, he brings his face close to mine, but he points into my room with his knife.

  "You see that hill?"

  Just visible from between the parted blinds of my bedroom window is the parking lot of an apartment complex a few streets over. It sits higher than my own street, towering atop a hill a few hundred yards away.

  "I've watched this building from that hill and I've never once seen anyone exit through the back. Don't lie to me."

  "No one uses it, but there's a door."

  His nostrils flare again as he glares at me, the calculation in his eyes almost tangible.

  "But you don't have to carry me all the way down, Dale. I will walk out of here with you."

  "And why the hell would you do that?"

  "Because I don't want you to hurt—"

  "Hurt who? That cop guy?"

  I speak quickly to avoid letting my reaction show on my face.

  "It's not him I'm worried about."

  He frowns at this. "Then who? Tell me now."

  My pulse picks up as I prepare the lie. "My sister."

  "Your sister?" His gaze darts around the floor, an obvious panic at the reveal of new information.

  Could he know for sure I don't have a sister? Just because he hasn't seen one, doesn't negate her existence.

  "She lives in New York," I say, thinking of Sebastian's sister. "She's been talking about coming to visit this week. I haven't heard from her today, but if she decides to just show up…" I trail off pointedly.

  Strangely, the thought of this imaginary sister turning up at my door and Dale sinking his knife into her to keep her quiet arises real panic in me.

  Then I think of Emily.

  Could she show up unannounced tonight? It isn't something she tends to do. But I haven't been super responsive to her over the last few days and I wouldn't put it past her to drop by just to make sure I'm all right. I would do the same for her.

  Dale might see the worry in my eyes. He really might believe me.

  "You're lying to me."

  "I'm not."

  "You better not be lying to me."

  His voice is calm and low, and that much more threatening. I'm careful not to blink, but as I stare into his eyes, I catch the spark of doubt I've ignited.

  Two hostages? That might be more than he can handle. While he clearly has the means of overtaking another person by catching them off guard, he must not like the unforeseen complication because he gets to his feet and begins pacing in front of me.

  He glances at his watch. I look at the decorative clock over the doorway leading to my bedroom. It's only seven. It will be hours before the streets quiet down enough to use night as a cover to move me out of the back of this building without Sebastian seeing from wherever he's parked.

  Dale will risk a lot moving me and I'm not sure why it's so important that he does. I try not to think about what he's prepared for me there.

  He doesn't know this, he could have no way of fully grasping it, but just the fact that he's considering what I've said as truth is nudging control closer to my direction. Maybe he does know. Maybe that's why he's resisting even while it's clear there's a part of him that believes me, or at the very least sees the importance of giving me the benefit of the doubt.

  I move my wrists against their restraints, ignoring the pain as I gain fractions of millimeters of movement for every few minutes of struggling. I'm careful to be subtle, to keep my arms still, my body still. The tension in my muscles from doing this is wearing me out even as I lie here on the floor. I don't dare try to fight the restraints on my feet. He would see that, clearly. I want him to think I'm resigned to my position.

  He's not looking at me, though. He's still pacing, his footsteps eerily silent on the hardwood floors.

  "Damn it," he hisses.

  It's clear he's weighing his options as he taps the knife blade on an open palm. I'm sure he realizes it's only a matter of time before Sebastian comes searching for me again. If he gets worried enough, would Sebastian break down the door?

  In Dale's growing worry, I see an opportunity arise. I have no doubt that my life depends on how the next few minutes play out.

  "Please," I say. "I'll go with you wherever you want. Just don't hurt anyone else. I couldn't live with that."

  Truth rings in my voice, in my tone. It really is how I feel. The chance that someone else can become collateral damage is very real.

  "Shut up," he snaps. "I'm trying to think."

  "Untie my legs—"

  "I said, shut up!"

  "You can leave my hands tied. Put a jacket over me and no one will know. I'll walk right out of here with you. I promise."

  He goes still, watching me very carefully. I stare back at him, trying hard to keep my true intentions from showing on my face. If he glimpses them, for even a second, I'm dead. I have no intention on letting him take me anywhere willingly. He will have to drag my dead body out of here.

  All I need is a fighting chance.

  He checks his watch again and whispers, "Don't you fucking dare try anything." I'm not sure if he's talking to me or to himself, until his eyes snap in my direction, angry and accusatory. He marches over and cuts the binds on my legs. "Get up!"

  Hooking a hand under my armpit, he pulls on me, fingers digging into my skin through my shirt. All the while, his other hand keeps a steady grasp on the knife. I struggle to my feet, my hands behind my back making the movement awkward.

  The moment I'm on my feet, he takes careful steps away from me. Though he's not a large man, he still towers over my small frame. I shrink my shoulders inward, slightly hunching my posture. My intent is to accentuate his advantage, make him feel confident that he has the complete upper hand. But his eyes grow momentarily uncoordinated as they dart wildly across my body. His tongue peeks out between his mouth as he wets his bottom lip. The sight of his yea
rning makes my stomach turn. Jesus, this man is sick.

  "Where's your jacket?" he asks.

  I nod to the small closet off of the entrance.

  He pulls out a dark blue jacket and approaches me. As he walks, he tries to open the jacket with one hand while maintaining the hold of the knife in the other, and the clumsiness of the move seems to frustrate him.

  "Turn around," he says.

  I do as he says, then stand as still as I can manage. I'm surprised by how slow the rise and fall of my chest is, by how razor sharp my focus has become.

  I sense his movements behind me. I sense how close he is to me. How his legs are just behind my own. From my peripheral, I catch sight of fabric on both my right and left sides. He's holding the jacket open with both hands, blade of the knife glinting off to the side of my head.

  I'm no longer angry.

  I'm no longer scared.

  I'm no longer human.

  I'm just a series of rapid-fire thoughts.

  I turn on my heel and in one swift motion, kick him hard in the shin. My foot meets something hard, the knives he stores there, and his earsplitting scream tells me at least one of the blades cut into his leg. He stumbles backward and I do the same, keeping my balance strong and my legs in the stance.

  "You bitch," he growls. He reaches a hand down to his pant leg, where a red stain grows on the fabric.

  While he's distracted with his own injuries, I rush to squeeze my wrists out of the binds, my nerve endings protesting at the pain. It doesn't matter how much it hurts, I need to get my hands free.

  A groan of pain leaves me, and Dale's eyes narrow as he realizes what I'm doing. He lunges to stop me. But before he can reach me, I dart out of his path, bumping up against a wall and managing, somehow, to get my left hand out of the bind.

  Dale halts mid-sprint at my abrupt change but ends up shuffling on his feet to keep his balance. Hands now free, I raise my clenched fists in front of my face in a defensive posture. My right wrist still has the binds wrapped around it, but I have no time to remove them. One or both of my wrists are bleeding. I know this only because of the moisture that trickles down my arms.