There was a loud crash, and then a stinging pain just below her right eye, and then Troy was looking at the remains of her bike. He had tossed Dite off the structure. There hadn’t been any time to do anything but leave her there. She had to save herself, right? She had to. Troy reached up and touched the spot on her right cheekbone. In the shadow of the overhang, she couldn’t see her hand, let alone discern if it were blood or tears on it.
Chapter Thirteen
Standard, Oregon, Years Ago
The last time Hoyt had taken The Boy hunting, he had become so frightened that he had wet his pants. It wasn’t the blood that scared him, he didn’t mind that. It had been the sound of the gun firing. He had heard gunshots on TV and in video games, but neither of those prepared him for the ear-ringing sound, the sharp metallic taste of the air, or the feeling that something that was once alive wasn’t anymore.
Hoyt had made him wash himself in an icy stream before forcing him to ride home with his naked ass sitting on a towel that Hoyt used to check his oil. Everything about that hunting trip came flooding back to him now as he sat shivering in the dark. All of it was the same, the cold, the whispering of trees, and Hoyt’s breath—a combination of caffeine and tarter, mixed with nicotine and milk, overpowered the more pleasant scent of green grass crushed beneath their boots.
“Look at her.” Hoyt handed him the binoculars. “Beautiful, ain’t she, boy?”
“Yeah,” The Boy said as he looked through the lenses. “Yes sir, she is.”
“See how long her legs are? How she kinda prances a little when she walks? That one there ain’t never had no kids. You see what I’m sayin’, boy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You sure you ready for this? You even awake?”
“Yeah, I’m awake,” he lied. He hadn’t been awake when he’d pulled on his camouflage clothes. He was still asleep when Hoyt had driven them to a dirt road behind a line of houses and had told him to “get out and be careful not to slam the fucking door.”
His eyes were half closed as he followed Hoyt for what seemed like an hour, but was probably more like fifteen minutes, until they got to where they were squatting now.
He would not complain about being awakened only a few hours after he had gone to bed, nor would he ask questions. He wanted to, though.
There were things he didn’t need to ask. Like why Hoyt liked to hurt people. He knew why. Hoyt’s eyes gleamed when he read the newspaper reports about the things he did. He liked to hurt people because it made him feel good. The Boy figured it was a lot like how he had felt when he’d poured the bleach in those drinks. He had felt powerful, as if he could do anything.
“So, what you think, boy? You ready for your first one?” The Boy put down the binoculars; he could already hear Hoyt’s breathing quicken. His skin crawled, but at the same time, his crotch tightened.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m ready.”
“Remember, do it real gentle. Same way that little rat dog of hers does when he’s ready to come back in.”
“Okay.” The Boy was shivering now, and it wasn’t even cold outside.
“Now we’re in this together. You’re the same as me. If you ever tell anyone about this, even your friends, it’ll get real bad, real fast. You understand?”
“Yeah, I understand.”
“Good.” Hoyt cupped the back of his neck and gave him a gentle little push. He walked hunched over toward the back door. He squatted down low and scratched at the door, about two feet from the bottom. He felt real bad about what Hoyt made him do to the dog until he remembered that Hoyt had said he would let him try to pick the lock on the next one.
He heard her get up from the table where they had been watching her eat. “What took you so long, sweetie? I had to keep your dinner warm.”
He hoped this didn’t take long.
*
Troy stared unblinking into the darkness. She hadn’t slept, at least she didn’t think she had, but she had drifted in and out of awareness.
He must have left the car up there, because she hadn’t heard him drive away. She almost wished the car hadn’t been disabled. At least then, she would have been able to hear the engine before he could get close again.
The fear that he might sneak up behind her on foot had kept her in her place longer then she intended. That, and the fact that she hated to leave Dite scattered on the ground in this place.
Something took flight from behind her as she scrambled to her feet. The lights in the parking structure had long since been knocked out by kids bearing rocks. She herself was responsible for destroying the one at the entrance ten years before. Shadows would have been welcomed over the utter darkness.
Sharp bushes grabbed at her arm and clothes as she pushed her way out of them and onto the dry creek bed. She heard the pinging sound of metal hitting rocks as she stumbled and then began to run. The moon and stars would have helped to light her path if they hadn’t been cloaked by clouds. She knew the creek was fairly straight and would lead her to a street to the left of the parking structure. She could take that out through Chinatown and follow some of the smaller, less traveled streets back to the Pearl District, back to Emma. All she had to do was keep running.
The dark was so complete that she could have closed her eyes and been in no more danger of falling. Her mouth was dry and salty. Sweat? She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, and the sting of pain confirmed that it was actually blood. The impact of the fall had caused her to bite her tongue. Don’t think, just run, she told herself, and for at least a mile, the mantra kept her from becoming crippled by terror.
What about Emma? What if she starts to worry? What if he finds her? I have no way of warning her. Why didn’t I ask Emma for her phone number? Hell, does she even have a phone?
Troy let out a gust of air that could have been a choked sob as light began to cut into the utter blackness. Soon she was able to make out the edge of the creek bed. She scrambled out and paused long enough to make sure that he wasn’t lying in wait for her before she began to run again.
She looked behind her several times, even going so far as to stop to listen for footsteps. You’re being paranoid. No, not paranoid enough. Remember the woman at the hospital? He tried to decapitate her. You have to be sure you don’t lead that man back to Emma. Her heart was slamming against her rib cage, and her throat felt raw. Her muscles were screaming in protest after lying in one position for so long and now being forced to propel her body so far and so fast. Her breathing became more and more labored as her fear added a twenty-pound weight to her back. No matter how hard she tried, she kept replaying the sight of the wounds to that woman’s neck through her mind.
She tried to think of Emma, but that brought her to how they had left things. If that man caught her, Emma would be left to think she had simply chosen to walk out of her life.
The argument seemed stupid now. If she had simply talked to Emma, told her the truth, told her that yes, at one time, she had planned on spending the rest of her life with Patricia, that she had had a hard time moving on with her life without Patricia in it, but that she was ready—
Troy slowed her pace and came to a stop across the street from Bike Rite, a store she was familiar with, but would never shop at, even if she could afford its pricy garments. The two large, flat-panel screens that had been one of the store’s main attractions were now broadcasting snow, and someone had thrown something heavy through the front door. But neither of those things were what captured Troy’s attention. Troy’s shoes crunched on the glass as she approached a man lying in front of the store.
The man was lying with his legs sprawled awkwardly out in front of him. His hat was several feet away from his outstretched hand. Troy squatted next to him, taking in his clothing: a pinstriped suit, an overcoat, and what looked like brand new, shiny black shoes. Come on, what the hell are you doing? You’re what? Maybe fifteen minutes from Emma’s? There’s nothing special about this guy. Troy stood up, but she continued to stare at hi
s placid face trying to figure out what, if anything, was wrong with him. He was unremarkable. So much so, that if she turned away from him, she doubted she could give an accurate description of him to save her life. Maybe that was what bothered her. She hadn’t bothered to look at the others. It had felt too much like a wake—too much like viewing the dead, but this man’s position had revived her curiosity.
All of the other people she had seen in the last few weeks looked as though they had simply lain down for a nice nap. Their peaceful positions made it easy for her to remember that they were all just sleeping. But this man looked like he had fallen…or maybe he had been disturbed after he had fallen. The thought caused Troy’s fist to tighten.
Calm down; you know he’s out there. The fact that he might have disturbed this poor man should be no surprise to you. He’s far better off than that poor woman at the hospital. Troy squatted next to him again and hesitated, remembering her horror the last time she had touched one of the sleeping, and shook her head.
That was different. She had seen at least a hundred people just like this guy since then. Troy picked up his wrist. There was an even pulse, and Troy was about to put his wrist down when she noticed that the face of his watch was broken. “Eleven o’clock,” she said aloud and looked at the man’s face. That’s what time the clock in the hospital had said, too. Chills formed on Troy’s arm, and she stood up and backed away from the sprawled figure. She hadn’t worn a watch since she was in elementary school. She lived her life based on how fast she could ride her bike from one side of town to the other. She rarely noticed clocks, but the fact that this man’s watch had stopped at eleven, and so had the clock in the hospital, seemed like an odd coincidence. Troy backed further away from him and ran with renewed strength. Troy forced herself to ignore the sound of her shoes hitting the sidewalk like drumbeats in the dead, quiet streets.
*
Emma had watched from the window seat for the first three hours before she moved to the couch where she read the same five pages over and over again until she had fallen asleep. When she next opened her eyes, thirteen and a half hours had passed since Troy had left the condo. Emma gave herself permission to stop pretending she wasn’t worried.
She was on her way to the kitchen to make her sixth cup of tea when the buzzer rang. The weight that had been pressing into her chest eased. She limped to the speaker and pressed the speak button.
“Troy?”
No answer. She’s still mad. She came back, though, which means she must be willing to talk to me. Emma pressed the door release button and unlocked the bottom lock. She limped to the window seat. She would be able to keep her hands to herself much better if she sat down. Her face flushed, and she stood up again. Maybe the couch would be a better choice. She hadn’t taken one step when a wave of nausea swept over her. Her eyes went to the door and she froze. Something bad is coming. I need to lock the door.
The feeling was acute, insistent, but she brushed it off as left-over emotion from her fight with Troy. She might be angry, but she wouldn’t hurt me. Even as she thought it, even as she told herself she was being ridiculous, she realized that what she was feeling had nothing to do with Troy. She scanned the room for a weapon and her eyes fell on her cane propped between the wall and the window seat. She needed something more lethal. A gun, no, a knife—she had knives. Her feet felt as though they had been encased in quicksand as she stumbled into the kitchen and reached for the hilt of the longest knife in the butcher block. What am I doing? I should be hiding, not looking for a weapon. She pulled the knife out of the butcher block and stood there looking at it. She would have to fight. There was no place for anyone to hide in the condo. She had made sure of that when she moved in. Just as she had made sure to have the extra security chains—the chains. Emma moved toward the front door as fast as her knee could take her.
She had turned the bottom lock and the deadbolt and had the last of the three security chains in her hand when the elevator chimed. She froze as she heard the elevator doors glide open. They would hear her if she put the last one in. So what if they did?
Her breathing was shallow as she willed the person to go away. She had been a fool. She should have made sure it was Troy before she pushed the door release. But who else would it have been? Troy had propped the door open earlier. And why not? She’d ridden up and down those streets out there. She said she’d seen no one.
A small scratching sound toward the bottom of the door startled her enough to cause her to take a step back. The chain jerked from her hand and landed against the door with a loud crack. There was complete silence before the scratching began again. This time there was no effort made to hide the fact that someone was on the other side of her door. They wanted her to know they were there.
Movement caught her eye, and Emma took another step back. Her doorknob was moving. Why were they turning the knob back and forth? Wasn’t it obvious it was locked? Emma wanted to scream at them to make them go away. The scratching sound began again, and to her horror, Emma recognized the metallic sound that accompanied it.
She heard that sound every time she was forced to go out to the garbage chute or on the handful of occasions that the building manager brought her a package. She knew the sounds of her locks engaging, like she knew the sound of her own voice. He’s trying to pick the locks. She continued to stare with horrified fascination until the scratching stopped and started again, this time on the deadbolt, and Emma told herself she should find someplace to hide. He didn’t seem in any kind of a hurry. He wasn’t worried in the least that he might be caught.
Emma gripped the knife hard and swallowed. The deadbolt began to turn. It hung up, as it always did, in the middle, and she held her breath. The lock turned one way, then the other and finally clicked to the open position. The door swung toward Emma, but the safety chains held and sent the door crashing back closed. Emma jumped back and held the knife out in front of her. The door slammed back against the chains again and again, and Emma had a vision of a small, enraged animal.
“Stop it! Go away!” she yelled. The frenzy behind the door escalated. “I have a gun.” All movement stopped. The door stood open, the chains hanging limply, swaying as if resting up for the next test of their strength.
If she leaned to the left, she could probably see who it was, but she was afraid, and part of her was hoping that he had gone away. She knew he hadn’t. The door was cracked, and she hadn’t heard any footsteps. The point of a knife appeared in the door opening. Emma heard the clink of metal on metal as it fumbled for a moment before catching one of the links in the chain. The knife point rocked back and forth until, to Emma’s horror, the chain fell, impotent against the door. The point of the knife began working on the last chain with the same amount of patient assurance, which meant she had seconds rather than minutes.
Emma threw her body at the door. She sensed his shock and then his fury, but by then she had already turned the bottom lock and was replacing the chains. All three of them this time. Something small and powerful hit the door.
The scratching began again, only this time it was more furtive and then she heard the elevator chime. Troy had come back. Stark horror followed elation as she realized that, at any second, Troy would be walking unsuspecting out of the elevator and into the path of a maniac.
“No!” Emma rushed the door again, only this time she was unlocking it and removing the chains. She heard the door to the stairs slam just as she opened her front door. The fluorescent light drained the color from the hall and there was a long moment when Emma stood there shaking until Troy walked out of the elevator and came to an abrupt stop when she spotted Emma.
Emma got to Troy as fast as she could and hugged her tightly. “Thank God,” she said into Troy’s shoulder.
“What’s…?” Troy pushed Emma back gently. She spotted the knife and looked behind Emma toward the open door of the condo.
“Someone tried to break in. He ran down the stairs when he heard you coming.”
&nb
sp; It took Troy a second to comprehend what Emma was saying and then she was through the stairwell door, her feet thundering down the stairs before Emma could yell at her not to chase him.
Emma caught the door before it closed and rushed into the lit stairwell after Troy. She could see the top of Troy’s head below her as she took the stairs, sometimes three at a time.
“Don’t chase him. He has a knife!” Her knee reminded her with every step how much pain it could give her. She heard the door at the bottom of the stairwell open, and then the only sound was her own slow footsteps. She had the horrifying vision of Troy running out into the darkness and getting ambushed. She stumbled down the last three stairs, saving herself by grabbing the railing at the last minute. She opened the heavy door and leaned against the frame to catch her breath.
The streetlights did nothing to illuminate the area, but Emma could see Troy standing halfway down the block, her feet spread, her hands balled at her sides. Even from a distance and in poor light, Emma could see that Troy was furious.
Come back inside, Troy. We’ll be safe inside, she thought, but then she realized she didn’t know if that was true anymore. She had thought herself safe inside the condo, but he—whoever he was—had found her, had almost gotten inside, had tried to hurt her. The door had come to rest on Emma’s back as she stood in the doorway. She felt vulnerable.
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