So I hurried to the gate, slung it open, and went inside, hoping the lion would see freedom and bolt, maybe take Dillon down while he’s at it.
But he didn’t move. He sat in the shadows, watching, while Dillon helpfully closed the gate behind me. My heart thumped so hard I nearly lost my breath again.
"Hey kitty, kitty," I said in a nice friendly sing-song voice, hoping to lull him into complacency. "It’s me, food lady."
The lion ambled over, his shaggy coat riding over his shoulder blades, mouth hanging open, eyes far too alert.
I forced myself to watch the lion, watch for signs of imminent death, while I somehow got to Ben. I sat down, making myself less of a threat, hopefully, and slinked backwards toward him.
The lion approached. I froze. Then I felt it: the first exploratory chuff, rifling through the remnants of my charred hair, and hot lion breath on my face. Any sudden movement would trigger my death.
Dillon understood my predicament. That's why he closed the gate. The lion would dispatch of me, providing a far cleaner ending than what he’d envisioned in his twisted, violent mind.
He wouldn’t be held liable for a lion eating me, or a house fire consuming my sister. Why should he be held responsible if some idiot got themself eaten by a lion? He’d walk away from this, free to terrorize another hapless victim, free to find his next Amy Mathews.
Dillon glanced behind him. Police lights flashed red and blue across the yard. The silent intermittent bi-color strobe announced the presence of help, real help, who were stronger than Dillon, who could take him down. But they weren’t looking for him. They were looking at the raging house fire.
Dillon’s reign of terror was about to end anyway. If I could just survive long enough to kindly provide my damning testimony, then justice would be served. I heard the urgent honking of the fire trucks. They were all coming.
The lion chuffed again, blowing his hot putrid breath on me. He licked his thick lips and yawned, tucking his enormous teeth neatly inside his black cavernous mouth. This was a game of chess. And I was in check.
Slow, painfully slow incremental movements might get me out of it. I had to be boring. I had to stupefy the lion with my painfully slow movements. I had to be like a zombie, but without the strange lurching.
Sloth like, I dug my elbows into the snow and pulled myself backwards a few scant inches, toward Ben. Then we could escape through the door built into the perimeter wall, praying all the while that Dillon hadn't bothered to lock it.
Maybe procrastination would save me yet. Maybe little orphan Annie would start singing that catchy song again about hope and optimism, which occurs on the morrow. If I could just escape the lion den. If I could just—
The lion towered over me, snuffing curiously. Another scoot. Success. The lion stepped along with me, curiously swishing his yellow tail. Dillon still stood outside of the fence, his hand latched onto the fence, one arm hanging casually to his side. He wore a strange amused expression.
Well, he could look as amused as he pleased, but it was me who would have the last laugh. Lions were smart. He'd underestimated them, just like he'd underestimated me. The lion and I had come to an understanding. I bring food. He didn't kill me. Don't kill food lady. He knew I was food lady. He'd let me pass. He could tell good people from bad people. He was my friend; he'd eat Dillon for dinner.
I scurried backward, scooting, scooting, and yet another daring scoot. I made it. "Please be alive," I mumbled. Heart racing, looked over my shoulder. There I saw Ben's face, nebula eyes turned up to the heavens.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
I heard screams. Desperate shrieks. Mine, I realized, followed by outright laughter. Hoots, even. Dillon’s, of course.
Anguish twisted my heart. My Ben, my sweet, sweet Ben—dead at the hands of Dillon.
"Ben," I choked, taking his hand in mine, sobbing uncontrollably, caring little about lion. I cried sharp, bitter tears of pain and loss. First my sister, now Ben . . . "I’m so sorry," I croaked. "I’m—"
His gaze slid to mine.
"Ben?" I cried, hand on his shoulder.
He groaned and shifted his arm in the snow, wincing. Despite the frigid temperatures, sweat broke out on his brow. I opened his jacket and lifted his shirt, stiff with blood, and found the gunshot wound. Dillon had clearly aimed for his chest, but missed and skimmed his side instead. Then he’d tossed him into the cage for the lion to finish off. But the lion didn’t finish him off.
"Ben," I said, reporting back. "You’re shot, but I think you’re okay." I desperately hoped so anyway. "We need to get out of here. Can you stand?"
He’d lost so much blood. His shirt looked like a butcher’s apron. I didn’t see any other wound on his torso, but there could be internal injuries, possibly an internal bleed that would silently whisk away his life. We had to try though. We had to get out of the lion’s den. We had to escape Dillon. We couldn’t go through the gate. But there was the escape door, hopefully long forgotten.
Ben struggled to his feet, while I tried to support him. I nearly sank to my knees when he leaned his full weight on me. Dickhead sure enjoyed his spectator sport. He was supremely confident that his backyard kitten would take care of his dirty business.
Somewhere between levering Ben up to standing, and slinging his arm over my shoulder, the lion got tired of watching. He crouched in readiness, tail twitching, and growled.
Suddenly the front gate crashed open. Fire trucks raced up the drive. The lion jumped back, snarling. I felt a surge of relief, but that soured. Nobody would come to our rescue. Everyone was too busy with the house fire to think to check the backyard for a lion enclosure, where people were about to die.
Then the lion pounced.
"Move it!" I cried.
Galvanized by the lion’s snarling mass, Ben and I scrambled to the far door of the enclosure, well and truly triggering the lion’s prey drive.
I could feel the lion’s magnificent presence behind us, hunting us, closing down on us, hungering to sink his teeth into someone’s neck and drink in the juice of the opened jugular. The lion wasn't my friend. He was just a hungry machine. Just like Dillon wanted him to be.
His heavy paw came down on my leg. I tripped, but somehow managed to keep going. I closed in on the door. And by God, I was going to open it. This wasn't going to be another intercom saga. I was going to grip the gleaming door knob and if it didn't turn, I was going to rip that door clear off its hinges.
I could feel the lion closing in on us, playing with us. He knew we were his for the taking. This was just a fun game, called "chase the desperately shrieking items of prey." With one heavy paw, he swiped at my mincing legs and tripped me.
During my slow inexorable fall to the ground, I flung myself to the door, vaulting for the knob. I reached it, both hands grasping the cold orb.
My body sagged, but my hands held firm to the smooth metal beacon of hope. I twisted. It turned. The door did not open. Ben caught up to me, panting heavily. "Open the door!" he cried.
I glanced behind me and saw the smooth practiced arc of the lion’s muscled body, soaring through the air, teeth bared, thick lips pulled back malignantly. I heaved myself up to my knees and, together with Ben, slammed my shoulder against the door so hard my teeth rattled.
The door jolted open. The lion soared over my head, into dark depths, into the open forest beyond.
I clung to the doorknob long after he'd escaped, watching the red and blue strobes bouncing against the still white forest, listening to the firemen yelling in the front yard, trying to put out the fire. Distracted by the blaze, still nobody thought to investigate the back yard. Nobody thought to check for survivors. But it didn’t matter. We survived.
My arms shook. My hands ached. My left leg was on fire, pain ripping my ankle apart. But we were free. We were free. And we were safe, at last.
I heard the plaintive wail of more sirens. Ambulances. They, too, were coming to our rescue. And so, clinging to the opened door, I bowed
my head and wept. My body shook with sobs, sweet tears that served as a balm to my twisted and rattled soul, my shattered heart. Dillon didn't matter anymore. He'd probably try to slink off to save himself, to escape his fate like a coward. He was a coward. He was a sickening craven piece of—
The chain-link fence rattled. The gate slammed open. I looked over my shoulder and there stood Dillon, lips pulled back, starting toward us.
Ben and I started running, tripping with weakness, helping each other, limping and dragging ourselves away from Dillon. We desperately hurried across the five-foot clearing toward the thick forest.
The blue and red police strobes blinked intermittently, making the landscape jump. The dark forest loomed just a few feet away. But before I could scuttle across the clearing, I felt the heavy weight of Dillon taking me down.
I fell face first into a hard crust of dirty snow. I could feel the hot burning sensation of gravel scraping my cheek. He flipped me over and sat on top of me, straddling me, pinning my flailing arms down. I tried to fight. I tried to struggle. I tried to breathe. But he was too strong, too heavy, and I was too exhausted.
Ben crawled toward us, one arm in front of the other. But he moved too slow. He was far too weak.
Cold snow melted down my neck, stealing the last vestige of warmth from my body. I shivered uncontrollably, watching the police lights strobe against Dillon face—red, blue, red, blue—making his face jump to the left and right. Making his face look gruesome, then surreal. Gruesome. Surreal.
His exposed scalp, slick with fluid and covered with patches of dirty singed hair, flashed in the light. The half-crescent scar on his cheek had reopened. A sheet of blood had dried on his face. The meat of his cheek lay exposed.
His eyes gleamed like dark pools, reptilian and cold. They seemed like two glinting orbs as dark and emotionless as obsidian. The flesh on one side of his face had melted, the weeping pustules glistened in the intermittent flashes. There were char marks along his jaw.
Virginia had lost in the end, but she'd put up an impressive fight. A swell of admiration rushed over me, thinking about how hard Virginia had fought, how much damaged she’d caused. But she'd lost in the end. Just like I would lose, too.
Dillon took both hands and wrapped them around my neck as careful as a surgeon. The cold methodical look in his eyes had returned. The naked rage had bled away, replaced by cool analytics. He was going to choke me to death, and study my reaction to the last bitter breath.
I wrapped my hands around his wrists and tried to break his hold, but I couldn’t. As my lungs started to burn, and my eyesight dimmed, I thought of Virginia, my dear, sweet Jinny, waiting for me on the other side.
"Goodbye Piss Drinker."
"It’s Eugenia," I muttered between clenched my teeth, turning my gaze up to a smattering of bright stars in the sky, to beautiful infinity where Dillon wanted me to go. "Eugenia . . . Ward."
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
My hands tightened around his. I gulped and struggled. A burning sensation grew in my chest. I tried to pry his hands off of my neck, but they were like iron manacles. My lungs burned and demanded air. Just a few wisps of it, I thought, just enough to stay alive. Then came the familiar dimming of my vision.
"Genie . . ." I heard Ben croak from some distant faraway place. "Look."
I shifted my weight a little and saw his trembling finger, pointing at something, pointing at a red silicone handle sticking out of Dillon’s waistband. The Prankster. He must have snatched it up on his way out of the house.
I squeezed my eyes shut and rallied my last vestige of strength. I dug deep into his fingers that wrapped around my neck like a vise, trying to get just one desperate breath of air. But they wouldn't budge. A soft floating sensation came over me. Soon, so very soon, he would snuff out my life, if I couldn’t get some air, if I couldn’t reach that red handle.
I was falling into my final ending, welcoming it . . . fighting it . . . reaching for the knife . . . trying to bolster my revolting body . . . trying desperately to hang on . . . slipping away . . . fighting some more, but falling again . . . fading away . . . reaching for the knife again . . . and missing . . . and missing again . . .
I scrabbled for that handle. One last time. I reached for that handle, rallying every last vestige of strength, gurgling and choking and grunting—and finally, I grabbed it. I yanked. I raised that beautiful gleaming blade up.
And I brought it down on the dead center of his neck. Hard.
I heard a soft crack. Spewing blood filled my mouth. I gagged and rolled away. Suddenly, I could breathe again. I pulled in great gulps of air, trying not to retch, but doing it anyway. A sharp rock dug into my side. The shivering returned. Fathomless cold crept into my bones.
I looked over and saw Dillon pressing both hands against his neck, trying to staunch the gushing flow. He was down. This was my moment. I scrambled to The Prankster, brought the blade up again, both hands gripping the handle, zeroing in on his skull as he writhed in the snow, and—
"Don’t move," Ben hissed.
I froze. Something about the quick revived sound in his voice gave me pause. I glanced up and saw he lion crouched in the darkness a few feet away, tail switching, ears pinned, eyes glowing. Slowly, he drew back his lips and showed me his frightening teeth.
I saw a flash of his tongue, followed by a blur of yellow. I scrambled out of the way, however I could, but not fast enough. The lion’s heavy weight threw me to the ground. Terrible pain would surely follow. I covered the base of my neck with my hands and braced myself for it. He’d sink his hungry fangs into my skinny body without a second thought and devour me like a little Thanksgiving morsel.
With my heart hammering in my chest, I clenched my teeth, waiting for the pain. But the pain did not come.
Was it just a matter of time? And then I heard it: soft guttural growling tempered by Dillon’s gurgling shrieks. I watched the darkness shift with each flashing strobe. Dillon climbed to his feet, stumbling along the barren borderland. He was trying to get away.
He made it a few feet, but the lion leapt. His yellow body arced through the air, his heavy front paws extended, long savage claws flashing red, blue, red, blue.
The lion caught him by the shoulders, sending him pummeling face first to the ground. He was having fun. He'd found a new toy.
He pounced and sunk his long teeth into Dillon’s bleeding neck. Dillon screamed and reached back for his big yellow head, swiping to no avail. One fist grazed the lion’s eye. Annoyed, the lion shook him like a rag doll, his arms flailing helplessly.
I scooted toward Ben and put my arms around him. He was cold, so cold.
Dillon was on his back now, frantically scurrying away from the lion. Elbows and legs scrabbling in the dirty snow, trying to make his great escape. But the lion bit down on his ankle and started yanking him into the cold, dark depths of the forest.
Dillon flopped over and dug his hands into the snow, trying to stop the inevitable. He left behind long bloody scrape marks in the snow as the lion pulled and tugged. Then the lion stopped, watching, while Dillon moaned and sobbed into the snow.
The lion turned his magnificent yellow eyes to me. His bloodied mouth hung open. For one gruesome moment, I thought he'd come for us. I froze, heart rattling in my chest.
But there was understanding in his golden eyes. There was intelligence. We locked eyes for just a few scant seconds, but instantly I knew: he would not attack me. He would take only Dillon.
He licked his lips, and turned his attention back to his meal, who had scurried a good five feet away by then. No matter. The lion languidly walked toward him. His muscles bunching and sliding under his shaggy yellow coat designed for sweltering heat, doing its best in this harsh New England climate.
Huge paws fell upon the snow. He straddled Dillon’s pathetic wiggling figure, and sunk his mouth into the nape of his neck. He screamed. A singular desperate cry that echoed through the cold, still forest. He shook Dillon once more, his
body flashing red, blue, red, blue.
Dillon landed a few feet from him, prone, motionless. The lion went to him, shoulder blades rising and falling rhythmically like a metronome, counting out the solid steady beats to Dillon’s final end.
He licked Dillon’s face, dragging his rough tongue over the half crescent wound, and nibbled on the loose flap of flesh. Dillon groaned and weakly tried to bat away his huge head as if he were a fly.
The lion lifted his head to the sky and roared, followed by deep rumbling chuffs that I could feel in my chest. His breath hung in the still winter air. He seemed to be calling for his pride, announcing his kill. He stopped and looked around, searching the dark edge of the forest for his kind that would never appear.
Then he bent to Dillon, clamped his wide black mouth around the column of Dillon’s neck, and ripped out his esophagus. As I watched, all I could feel was happiness for the lion that he'd finally gotten his live kill, and elation that Dillon was finally dead.
I closed my eyes and let the tears come. Dillon couldn't touch me anymore. He could never touch me again. I was free from him forever. Free from his tyranny. Free from everything he represented.
The house was gone. Virginia was gone, too. But a strange lightness overcame me.
Shivering started in earnest, but it wasn't born from cutting winds or biting chill. It was like chains were falling away from me, chains that I had long endeavored to break. No longer would I ever let anyone have any power over me. No longer would I give in to my fears.
I had given away all my power over the years, and Dillon had taken the rest. Ruthlessly. Shamelessly. Brutally. He wrested from me everything that I had held sacred. Something in me died along with him, but something rose from the ashes. Eugenia Ward rose from the ashes.
And when the lion sank down onto his haunches to feed, Ben and I turned and limped toward the squawking police cars, toward help that finally arrived.
I Am The Lion: A Riveting Psychological Thriller Page 22