by Неизвестный
He was running twenty minutes late for the wedding, and then he was gone. His convertible had been struck on the freeway by an eighteen-wheeler being driven by a man who'd fallen asleep at the wheel. Dead instantly were Samuel and his best friend John, who was Ricky's brother.
“Samuel,” she whispered. “It's you.”
He nodded and glanced up at the ceiling of her prison. When he looked at her again, his expression was that of grim determination.
“I know,” she said. “I know you don't want me to give up, but Samuel, it's so hard. Everything is so hard without you. I want to be with you. I want to just die, and go to where you are, and we can be together.”
He shook his head and gave her a stern look. She swore at him. She kicked and clawed at his image as she screamed and cried and yelled at him for leaving her, for leaving her all alone. He stayed where he was, patiently waiting until she was done, and then he held her.
She fell asleep in his arms and slept a while. When she awoke, she knew what she had to do.
Chapter 15
June 10th
7:15 p.m.
Owl Bend Community News
“Don't you worry your pretty blonde head about her,” said Charles DeWitt to his coworker, Caitlyn Winters.
Caitlyn was at her desk, eating a meal at her computer for the second time that day. Two hours earlier, she'd received an upsetting phone call from that smarmy know-it-all, Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud. He was calling people all over town, making a fuss over the whereabouts of Samantha Torres.
If they only knew, Charles thought, grinning.
They would be working late on a story about forest fire prevention. He'd offered to pick up dinner for Caitlyn at the burger place, but she'd declined, saying she preferred her salad. That was just like Caitlyn to always prioritize keeping her pretty figure over temporary pleasure. He really admired her restraint. He would have to practice restraint of his own, waiting until after he'd worked out the details using Samantha as his first doll. It was a shame she wasn't blonde, so he could imagine she was Caitlyn, but she was still good for practice. And she deserved what she got. It was wrong of her to come to this town where she didn't belong and start socializing with people she didn't have any right to be friends with. Charles had lived there his whole life. People like the Winters family belonged to him, not outsiders, and especially not snoopy private investigators, or FBI agents, or whatever that liar Samantha Torres was.
Caitlyn sniffed, wrinkling her pretty nose. She had a spot of salad dressing at the corner of her mouth that made Charles ache with longing. Soon, he told himself. Soon he would play with his pretty blonde doll.
“It's just that Samantha's so nice,” Caitlyn said.
“She was,” he agreed.
Caitlyn's expression immediately switched from passive sweetness to angry fury. She did that sometimes. But he knew how to deal with crazy women. He knew when and how to play dumb.
“Wait, who are we talking about?” he asked. “I'm confused.” He faked a yawn. “I've got a skunk family under my cabin. They kept me up all night, scratching around down there.”
Caitlyn turned her body ten degrees away from him. She was always doing that. Shutting him out. And everything he'd done for her over the years.
“Never mind,” she said. “I'm sure it'll sort itself out. She's kind of spacey.”
He nodded. Samantha Torres was spacey. She'd accepted a ride and a drink from a stranger. “Caitlyn, do you want to get drinks after work? A group of us are going out.” It was a lie, but he could probably turn it into reality. Lately, he'd been making his dreams come true. The sky was the limit.
“No,” she said. “My mother's back from her trip, and we're having dinner together.”
He gave her a winning smile. “Then I'll bring the wine and the party over there.” Getting in wouldn't be a problem, since he'd busted the lock months ago.
“Another time.” She turned to her computer monitor and mumbled about needing to work for another hour. She was a very hard worker. She had to put in more hours than a smarter person would have to put in, but he didn't hold it against her.
Charles left her to her work.
He packed up his things, whistling as he worked. There was an unofficial rule against whistling in the office, but today was a special day.
He said goodbye to the others who were staying behind to work the night shift on the radio. At the entrance, he held the door open for a woman who was an inch taller than him and twice as wide.
“You're Wendy Jameson,” he said cheerily.
“Hi,” she said unenthusiastically.
“We've met before,” he said. “Charles DeWitt. My mother had de good looks and my father had de wit.”
She gave him a blank look before continuing on her way to drop an envelope into the comment box, just inside the front entrance.
“Well, look at that,” Charles said. “Now you're doing hand deliveries? What happened? Did you run out of stamps?”
Her expression turned to suspicion. She crossed her arms and walked right out again. Charles shook his head. If only he'd realized sooner that the person stalking Caitlyn was Wendy and not her nephew, Warren might still be alive.
What was that thing he'd said when Charles had confronted him on the mountain? “You've got the wrong Jameson.” With the storm rolling in, it had sounded like “wrong one” or “wrong son.”
Oh, well. Charles shrugged and continued on his way to his car. He never cared for good-looking, spoiled guys like Warren anyway. And it had been good practice, just like how drugging the hippie-dippy waitress at Yolanda's had been good practice for getting the sedative mix right.
What was it his late father had always said about luck? Luck was when preparation met opportunity plus genius. He'd been a genius to keep the sedative-laced alcohol in his vehicle, and when Samantha Torres had practically fallen into his lap, that had been very good luck.
* * *
At sunset, Charles DeWitt pulled up to his family's cabin and parked.
He'd eaten his cheeseburger and fries while driving. Now that he was stopped, he ate Samantha's fries as well. One cheeseburger was all that she deserved, and besides, he wouldn't want her to fill up on fries and not have room to eat the sedative-laced burger. He knew it wasn't very sporting of him to drug the woman again, but he couldn't take any chances. He was not a large man. He barely weighed a hundred pounds. He had reasonably good proportions, but his height forced him to buy clothes in the Juniors' section.
He finished eating, wiped his mouth with a fistful of napkins, and stepped out of the car. He sucked the last ounces of red cream soda from the waxy drink container. He stretched and admired the colors of the sky. The last low layers of crimson faded to indigo, and the stars twinkled overhead. Had the stars ever been more beautiful than they were this magical night? No. And he'd never felt more alive.
He reached into the passenger seat, grabbed the bag with the cheeseburger, and went inside the cabin to prepare Samantha's final meal.
He whistled as he spread the sedative around inside the burger. His dark-haired guest was probably so hungry, she'd snap it down in two bites. Thinking about how hungry she was made the full meal in his belly all the better. He took his time cleaning up the kitchen and wiping down all the surfaces. He didn't want to accidentally ingest any of Samantha's treats.
With the plate in hand, he unlocked the padlock holding down the trap door. Before lifting the door, he paused. She wasn't screaming. The last time he'd returned to the cabin, she had made a terrible racket. Now she was quiet. Perhaps she was sleeping, or already dead. If it was the latter, he hoped she hadn't started to stink. The last thing he needed under the cabin was a rotting animal.
He set the plate on the floor, grabbed the biggest knife from the kitchen to use for protection, and creaked open the trap door lid. It was dark below, but he spotted the glow of her blouse where he expected to see it, in the corner with the most head clearance. He sighed with relie
f. For a moment, he'd imagined she might have broken through the cement floor into the red earth and tunneled her way out like a red-eyed rodent. He set aside the knife and traded it for the plated cheeseburger. He'd used a paper plate rather than a ceramic one, because he was a careful man who thought things through.
“Samantha,” he called out in a sing-song voice. “Dinner time. Wakey wakey.” He leaned down to set the plate on the concrete, and as the echoes of his voice came back to him, he wondered how many children he and Caitlyn would have. At least two. And he would wake them up by singing to them, and together—
All of Charles DeWitt's thoughts smashed to a flat line as his head hit the concrete. The impact made him swoon, and his mouth filled with water, but he didn't lose consciousness. Despite the searing pain and the stars flashing in his head, he saw her, and he understood what was happening.
The conniving, red-eyed crawlspace rodent had removed her clothes, just like the cheap whore she was. She'd draped them over something in the corner to trick him, and she'd attacked poor, defenseless Charles, pulling him down to her level. He'd landed head first, the rest of him following in a heap. He was lucky he hadn't snapped his neck. Poor little Charles! He had always been small for his age. People could be so cruel, and none were more cruel than women like Samantha Torres, with their teasing eyes.
“Wait!” he screamed. He croaked out something indecipherable, muddled between a threat and a plea, and then the trap door slammed shut.
He heard her curse above him. The padlock! She wanted it, but he had it, in his pocket. He righted himself, his head swimming in pain, and started shouldering the trap door. It only opened an inch before she stomped it back down. But her body weight wasn't enough to keep him down, and when he got out, there would be hell to pay. He pushed again and again, and now she screamed. The little possum wasn't playing dead anymore.
He paused to catch his breath and heard a noise. Furniture being dragged. He howled in outrage and threw his weight at the trap door. This time, it barely budged. He took a full breath to scream at her, to promise her that a high price would be paid for her insolence.
He checked his pockets, feeling around in the dark. He still had the keys for his car. The cabin was isolated, far removed from any neighbors, and two miles from a main road. She would not get far on foot, but he would have to work fast. He braced himself to push the furniture from the trap door. If he could lift it just a little, he'd have an angle and the sofa would start to slide.
* * *
Above, Samantha gave herself orders in single words.
Heavy, she told herself as she pulled the room's furniture over the trap door.
Leave.
She got to the door, where the calm voice in her head spoke again. Boots.
Boots?
She looked down at her feet. They were bare. She was nearly naked, wearing only her underwear. Her clothes had been sacrificed to create the scarecrow down in the corner of the crawlspace. Parts of the bucket had formed a rib cage. The metal handle of the bucket had been her tool to break free of the plastic cuffs. She'd used the metal and a jagged bit of stone to cut through the ties. And now she was nearly free.
The voice spoke again. Look.
She looked around. She was in a cabin of a similar size to the one she'd been renting. A few lamps were on, and the windows were black. It was night.
She would run, but she didn't know where she was, or how far away help would be.
Boots, the voice said, and now she knew it wasn't her speaking. It was her guardian angel, Samuel, the man she'd been mistaking for Warren for the past month. Her grief had been so powerful, she couldn't accept what was right in front of her eyes.
She couldn't see her angel Samuel anymore—he'd disappeared when the trap door opened—but she could hear him now, and she could feel him all around her.
She found a pair of Charles DeWitt's boots near the door. With shaking hands, she pulled them onto her feet. They were small, but seemed to fit. She even managed to pull the laces tight. Tying a bow was impossible, so she shoved the loose ends down toward her ankles.
Coat, Samuel said.
She grabbed the longest jacket from a hook next to the door and pulled it on. The feel of the fabric on her skin caused her to cry out in a mix of gratitude and relief. After thirty hours in the dark crawlspace, it was a miracle to feel something other than dry wood and cold concrete.
Keys?
She checked the hooks by the doorway and did a quick search of the counter in the kitchen. She didn't find her captor's keys, but she found the spread-out contents of her purse. Her phone had been dismantled, and parts appeared to have been smashed. Phone. Her gaze flicked from the busted cell phone to the old-fashioned phone on the cabin's wall. She lunged for it and held the receiver to her ear. No dial tone. She depressed the receiver several times to make sure.
Down below, Charles had stopped screaming profanities and threats. His silence worried her.
She spotted the knife next to the trap door. If she killed him, he could never hurt her again. Did she dare open the trap door again?
No, said her guardian angel. Run.
On shaking legs, she bolted for the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the furniture on top of the trap door shift. Samantha opened the front door, shot out into the night, and she ran.
* * *
When Charles emerged from the crawlspace, everything was red. He'd scraped the ridge of his eyebrow getting out, and now blood from the cut ran into his eye.
He staggered through the cabin toward the bedroom. He yanked open the bedside table drawer, tossed aside the thin piece of wood that formed the fake bottom, and grabbed the gun. It was loaded and ready to go. The gun wasn't his top choice, because someone might hear the shots and call in a report, but he would do what needed doing.
He ran out the front door and scanned for her. There was a single road leading from the cabin. The road zigzagged down the mountain for two miles before it branched off. He jumped in his car, rolled down the windows, turned off the headlights, and started down the road.
It didn't take long before he spotted movement in the woods next to the road. He kept his foot steady on the gas and didn't allow his head to jerk. He kept driving at the same slow speed, not letting on that he'd spotted his prey. Once he'd rounded a hairpin corner, he killed the engine and jumped out. He pocketed the keys and closed the door gently, then doubled back.
She was quiet, making no noise as she moved through the forest. It was a miracle he'd been able to spot her movement in the wan moonlight. He stepped slowly, carefully, but kept snapping branches underfoot.
She stayed ahead of him, always out of reach, but close enough to keep his hope alive. He aimed the gun once, twice, three times, but every time he had a clear shot of his prey, she seemed to evaporate into the dark forest. He didn't dare fire and give away his position. All he needed was patience. She was either lost or disoriented, climbing up the mountain and above the cabin rather than down and toward town. He stayed on her trail, keeping his breathing calm and measured. Persistence pays off, he told himself. I am a persistent man. A patient man.
After an hour of stalking Samantha Torres through the woods, they both reached the peak. There was nowhere else to go.
And there she was, waiting for him in a clearing at the top, shivering like a sacrificial lamb. She slipped off the jacket she stole from his cabin, kicked off the boots, and turned to face him.
Her expression was that of acceptance. Of love.
She was thirty feet away.
Twenty feet away.
The night wind picked up and made her dark hair flutter around her bare shoulders. She was as beautiful as any woman in a painting.
And her face was so serene, so calm, so inviting.
He was ten feet away. Her eyes caught his and held them. In her eyes he could see eternity.
He pulled his gun from his pocket and showed it to her. She smiled and closed her eyes.
N
o, the gun was too impersonal.
He tossed the gun at her feet. It made no sound as it hit the dirt.
She tipped back her head, exposing her neck to him, inviting his embrace.
He took one more step toward her, and he was falling. Falling for her. Falling... through her.
He passed through her body and through the illusion of rocky ground at her feet. The forest at the bottom of the cliff rushed up toward him. She'd been a vision, a mirage, a lie.
Charles DeWitt sucked in his breath, preparing to scream, but the only sound he made was a crack as he hit the rocky ground below.
* * *
Samantha stumbled onto the main road and flagged down a vehicle. She knew it wasn't Charles, because she'd passed his compact car halfway down the winding access road. The car was empty, the keys gone. Someone had been crashing around in the forest, growling and shouting threats. It had been easy to avoid him, even without her guardian angel, who'd disappeared.
The vehicle she was flagging down came to a stop. It was an older-model station wagon, and the woman who stepped out of the driver's-side door looked familiar.
“Do I know you?” Samantha asked.
“You don't know me, but I know you.” The woman took her by the hand and led her around to the passenger side, where she lovingly tucked her into the seat. There was no one else in the vehicle.
“Who am I?” Samantha asked. She heard herself, and let out a strangled laugh. “I mean, who are you? I know who I am. I'm not that crazy.”
The woman held up a finger, closed the door, and got in on the driver's side. She locked the doors and started driving.
“I'm Caroline Winters,” the woman said. “You know my daughter, Caitlyn. She's actually out right now, looking for you. The whole town's looking for you.”
Samantha answered in a whisper, “I was abducted. Nobody's going to believe me, but it's true.”
“I believe you,” the woman said.
They spoke for a few minutes, with the woman gently asking questions and assuring her they were going directly to the hospital, and that Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud would meet them there.