Skin and Bone: A Psychological Thriller

by T. L. Keary

His eyes keep jumping from picture to picture to picture.

  “She had to have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on surgeries,” Davis says quietly. “We have an investigator looking into it right now.”

  “We need to get special cases involved with this,” the female police officer says in a low tone.

  “We’re not finished,” Davis says, looking up at her darkly.

  It takes me four deep breaths before I can continue. “Charity left me in that bunker to die,” I say. “She said her conscience was clean, so long as it wasn’t her hands wrapped around my throat. But Davis found me when his excavator hit the bunker. By then you’d already left with her for the weekend.”

  “No,” Ezra says, shaking his head. He won’t look up, won’t look at either of us. “No.”

  He hardly sounds coherent. I hope he’s grasping anything we say. But I’m not sure how much more he can handle.

  “I tried to come talk to you earlier,” Davis says. “But you brushed me off. At some point while I was headed back here, someone tampered with my truck. There’s no one else who could have done this.”

  “She was here, maybe an hour ago,” I say. “She dosed me with a dog paralytic and hauled me into the bath tub and started filling it with water.”

  I point at my still wet clothes. “The bath tub is still full, you can see it for yourself.”

  “This woman is extremely dangerous,” Davis says, looking over at the officers. “She’s tried to commit murder three times now that we know of. Who’s to say there isn’t more we haven’t found yet?”

  “We’re going to have to have some very long conversations at the station,” the man says.

  Davis and I both nod.

  I reach across the table and try to take Ezra’s hand. But the second my skin touches his, he yanks away.

  I don’t take it personally. I know why he can’t look at me right now.

  “She knew what she was doing, Ez,” I say quietly. “She’d prepared for this for years. All you need to do now is stay safe and stay away from her.”

  Ezra crosses his arms over his chest. He won’t look at anyone. His jaw is set hard. His face is so red I’d worry he’s not breathing, except I can still see his chest quickly and shallowly rising and falling.

  “There’s a lot more to talk about,” Davis says. “I managed to hit her twice before she ran out of here. She’s still out there. But now you have DNA you can test, get all the proof you need. But for right now, you need to keep Sawyer and Ezra safe. And I need to get to a hospital.”

  Once more, Davis reaches for my hand beneath the table, and instantly, my insides calm.

  I feel safe.

  Everything is going to work out. It’s going to be okay.

  Eventually.

  The police officers radio in, calling for another car. Davis and I don’t say much, just watch Ezra, who doesn’t say anything. He sits forward, his elbows braced on his knees. His hands fist into his hair.

  I can’t imagine what’s going through his head right now.

  Does any of this even feel real to him?

  No one could blame him if it didn’t.

  It doesn’t feel right and it certainly doesn’t feel real, when five minutes later, there’s another knock on the door and another two police officers walk in.

  “These officers will take you and Davis to the hospital,” the woman says.

  “I don’t…” I begin to protest.

  “If you were shot up with anything we need to make sure there aren’t going to be any lasting side effects. And I didn’t like the look of those bruises on you. You need to be checked out. Marko and I will take Ezra to the station, get his side of the story, gather any more information we can right now.”

  “You can’t leave him alone,” Davis says, fixing her with a sharp, penetrating look. “That woman will do anything to get him back. I want at least one armed officer with him at all times until we find Charity Cooper.”

  “We will protect him,” the woman says with a nod. “I promise you that.”

  The male officer encourages Ezra to his feet. Ezra stands, and won’t look at Davis or I as he walks with the officer to the door.

  It feels wrong. To just dump all of this on him and then have him go off on his own.

  Ezra doesn’t know anything.

  He didn’t do anything wrong.

  But what choice do we have right now?

  So Davis and I head toward the door. We see Ezra slip into the back of one police car and head toward the local station.

  Davis and I get in the back of another. The officers point us toward the hospital.

  I reach over the center seat and take Davis’ hand.

  And I look out the window, biting my lower lip as hard as I can, as I let an endless stream of tears rush down my face.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He shot me.

  Twice.

  I’d limped out of his ugly house, dove into the car, and backed it out and down the road, to the point where I could only just barely still see Davis’ front door. With the cover of some trees, I’d watched while I stuffed the stash of napkins I’d found in the jockey box into my bleeding wounds.

  This had to be it. The last move before they called the police. But I couldn’t be sure until I saw it with my own eyes.

  I had to know.

  Sure enough, the police showed up a few minutes later. But my stomach dropped to the floor when Ezra stepped out of their vehicle with them.

  They were inside for a long time. Long enough to get and tell the story, long enough to ruin everything.

  I sank down in my seat when another two officers in a vehicle showed up and went inside as well.

  Just two minutes later, everyone came out.

  Ezra got back in with the one set of officers. And Davis and Sawyer went in with the most recent set.

  As they pulled out of the driveway and went separate ways, I had a decision to make.

  Who did I follow?

  Based on the bruises and cuts I’d seen all over Davis, I had to assume he was going to the hospital. How he’d managed to survive the crash was an annoyance and I made a mental note to work on my mechanical tampering skills.

  Uncle Brad tried to teach me more about cars, but at the time, I didn’t see a need to learn more beyond picking the lock and hot wiring.

  I followed Ezra.

  “I’m sorry, Ez,” I say out loud as I trail behind at a safe distance. “I’m sorry. I messed this up. The time got tight and I messed it up. It should have been so much cleaner and no one would have been the wiser.”

  I slow as the cruiser turns onto a road and then immediately into the police station.

  I park on the side of the road and slide down in my seat, just barely able to see.

  The officers stand to either side of Ezra as they walk up the sidewalk and then slip into the building.

  As if I’d ever hurt Ezra.

  This is bad. This is really, really bad.

  How much do they know? How much have they figured out? Sawyer knows my real name, but how far did she really dig?

  I need to know, because that determines my next moves.

  But I have no way of finding out right now.

  So, I need to proceed as if they do know.

  I pull back onto the road. I point the car across town.

  Five minutes later, I pull around back, behind the house. I limp up the back steps, grabbing the key that is hidden in the loose soffit.

  I curse as I step inside.

  They know exactly who I am.

  There are two sets of footprints walking all over the house. One large, one average. A man and a woman.

  Once more, I have to question what I missed. What is the connection between Davis and Sawyer? What is the history that’s between them? Were they involved and I never knew?

  The evidence and my close observation over the past few years says no. But I have no explanation for all the trouble they’ve caused in the last few weeks.
>
  I cut to the bathroom and pull the first-aid kit out from beneath the sink.

  The wound in my leg isn’t bad. The bullet just grazed me. I should probably have stitches, but for now, wrapping it tight and keeping it clean is going to have to do.

  But the shot into my left shoulder is worse.

  Davis didn’t hit any major organs, but still, a bullet ripped through my shoulder, tearing tissue, maybe hitting bone. It hurts like hell.

  With hisses and gasps of pain, I patch things up as much as I can. I find the old sling from when Uncle Brad broke his arm, adjust it to the right size, and call it good enough for now.

  I put everything away, and head for the back door once more.

  I aim straight for the garage. I emptied it out when Uncle Brad passed away, except for the five gas cans I keep there at all times. I grab one, pulled off balance by its weight, and slip a pack of matches into the pocket of my ruined dress.

  I ignore the fire that is screaming bloody murder in my shoulder. I ignore the limp that is getting worse by the minute.

  It’s a trick getting down the hatch to the tunnel with only one useable arm. In the end, I reach as far down as I can with the gas can, and then drop it. It hits with a slosh, and the fumes burn my lungs when I lower myself down.

  It had been the most fun project Uncle Brad and I had ever done together. We rented the backhoe, and he let me dig most of the hole myself. Then he’d hired a crane and lowered the shipping container in and we reburied it.

  This tunnel had been the hardest part about the whole project. It had taken three months just to dig, and it had to be low enough that the rainfall wouldn’t collapse it.

  It was kind of a thrill, the fact that no one ever had any idea it was there.

  Neither of us thought the world was going to end. But it was entertaining to pretend like it might.

  In the end, it was a critical key.

  I’ve traveled this tunnel dozens of time. I don’t take a light.

  But when my foot hits the dirt and I tip forward, dropping the gas can, I realize I should have.

  Blind, I reach out, feeling what’s in front of me.

  A cave in.

  I can’t get through to the bunker.

  I swear.

  Knowing my time could be ticking, I grope through the dark for the gas can again, find it, and take back off down the tunnel. I can’t climb and haul the can back up, so I leave it there, and climb out.

  Through the woods, I stumble. Fifty yards, that’s how many paces it should be from the hatch to where we buried the container.

  But at forty yards, my stomach bottoms out.

  The trees are gone, and I see sunlight spilling into a field of dirt, completely cleared.

  There’s an excavator sitting right over where the bunker should be.

  I see a small pile of dirt.

  Looking every direction, no cars or people within sight, I dart forward.

  Shit. Shit, shit.

  I look down in the hole. It’s obvious how the tunnel collapsed. The door to the container is shoved partly open.

  As my eyes rise, I look toward the road to check for cars.

  There’s a sign there, freshly dug dirt around the base of it, displaying a neighborhood map with sites for nine future homes. And at the bottom, there is a phone number, followed by the name Davis Knox, Knox Properties.

  I turn and aim back toward the trees.

  Uncle Brad’s property is big. Enough acres we were confident we were still on the property.

  But it was a difference of thirty feet.

  Thirty feet ruined everything.

  Thirty feet closer, and none of this mess would ever have happened.

  Thirty feet, and Sawyer would have starved to death by now and Ezra and I would be living our happily ever after.

  I retrieve another gas can. I get back to the site, climb down into the hole and step through the door.

  It smells horrendous. After weeks down in here, the toilet was used beyond its maximum. There’s a pile of empty cans and empty water bottles in the corner. There are piles of dirt in the corners where the wiring ran in and out of the bunker.

  The TV hangs on the wall, unscathed, despite the angle the container has been moved to, hit by the excavator.

  It should have worked out perfectly.

  But Davis Knox had to go and ruin it all.

  I douse the entire place in gasoline. I’m not going to leave any evidence behind for them to find. The bed, the toilet, the walls. Everything is soaked.

  I step into the doorway. I light a match. I flick it in and shove the steel door closed immediately.

  I hear the hissing rumble as everything catches flame.

  If the walls weren’t made of such thick steel, the whole thing would explode. But those things were built to last.

  I go back to the garage, deposit the gas container. I get in the car and I consider.

  I won’t give up on Ezra. I’ve worked too hard for us, and I know that it isn’t just Sawyer he loves. I’ve given him the best weeks of his life. He loves me, not just her or the idea of her.

  I’ll fight for us.

  But I need to come up with a plan first.

  I need time to figure this out.

  But I’m also feeling light headed from the blood loss.

  I need a hospital.

  Good thing I’m great at making up stories and identities. As I settle on the hospital in Everett, far enough away they won’t look for me there, close enough I won’t pass out before I can get there, I’m already practicing the story.

  I’d been out on a date. He’d taken me shooting. I’d never handled a gun before, so I wasn’t expecting the ricochet. That’s how I got shot in the shoulder. I got hit in the leg when I dropped the gun.

  He’d bolted, freaked.

  I didn’t have my ID with me.

  Can you please help me? Act as if I’m going to pass out.

  Tada.

  People are all too eager to help a pretty girl in distress.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sawyer

  There are traces of the paralytic in my blood. The tips of my toes still feel kind of dead. But the blood tests put me in the clear. They were worried about my bruising, but a few tests show it’s just that—bruising—no signs of serious internal bleeding. I won’t see any lasting side effects from Charity’s attack.

  Davis is less lucky. He comes away with two broken ribs, a bruised sternum, wicked bruising from the seatbelt, a fracture in his left cheek, and eleven stitches between his various wounds.

  The police tried to take me back to the station as soon as I’d been cleared. I’d been standing in Davis’ room, waiting while they stitched up the biggest cut on his face.

  “Ms. James, we need you to come back with us right now,” the man had said.

  “No,” Davis and I had both yelled at the same time.

  “Not until I can leave with her,” Davis growls with a dark look in his eyes. “None of you understand who’s coming after us yet. I’m not leaving her.”

  I shake my head, too. “I’m not letting him out of my sight.”

  The two officers leaned over to each other, whispering and talking.

  Davis and I caught each other’s eyes. I reached a hand over and he took it.

  I wasn’t going anywhere without him.

  “Fine,” the officers had agreed.

  The doctors wanted to keep Davis in the hospital overnight for observation. But Davis had simply stated that he was fine, that he had other things he needed to do, and checked himself out with a prescription for painkillers.

  A notification went off on Davis’ phone as we were walking out of the hospital. A notice that we missed our visit with Faith Cooper at the prison.

  Davis and I just looked up at each other.

  Talking to her didn’t really much matter now.

  The police should have all the evidence they need to nail Charity. And maybe they could reopen the case and free F
aith.

  The officers drove us to the police station. Davis called an attorney on the way there.

  It pissed me off beyond belief that he got someone on the phone immediately. That they said they’d meet us there in a matter of minutes.

  There were a lot of officers there. The sheriff. A few detectives. Not a lot happens in Snohomish. They’d heard what was going on with Ezra. Now they wanted to hear my side of the story.

  As we walked in, I caught Ezra’s eye. He sat in an office with a few other officers. It had been hours since he’d been brought in. I could only imagine how exhausted he must be.

  He immediately looked away as soon as he saw me.

  He wouldn’t even look at Davis.

  The officers led us to a row of closed doors. And when they tried to separate Davis and I into separate interrogations, Davis got really angry and really dark.

  They let us stay together. For now. And the attorney showed up just as we stepped into a room, and the detective and the sheriff closed the door.

  And then it all began.

  We told them every detail we could think of. I left nothing out. Davis told them everything, from my first strange phone call, to how the call suddenly ended. How he thought something was wrong when the woman that looked just like me came waltzing back into Ezra’s life. How the little clues stood out to him like a beacon.

  We were just to the part about Davis finding me in the container when through the glass, we see Ezra and the officers stand up. They head for the door.

  “Where’s my brother going?” Davis asks, standing up. He winces, holding his ribs.

  “If they’re done with questioning, they’re probably taking him home,” the officer explains.

  Davis grabs the doorknob and opens it, stepping outside.

  “Ez, it’s not safe for you to go back to your house,” Davis says. He sounds desperate, which he is, considering all that’s happened. “Why don’t you come back to mine? We need to stick together until they find Charity.”

  Ezra just looks darkly at his brother. That’s hatred I see in his eyes.

  That’s betrayal.

  “Not a chance in hell,” Ezra says. He turns, and he and the officers walk to the door.

  “Ez!” Davis yells after him. He takes two steps forward, but another officer at a desk steps in his way.