“Another old woman?” Tattoo sneered at Roach over his shoulder, pausing in his efforts to scrub the blood off the floor with a mix of water and bleach. Ken Roach put their dishes in the sink, squirted in some Ivory liquid dish soap and ran the hot water over them.
“Thirty something. Not bad. Tall, green eyes. Cold fish though.”
He was hoping to cool any ideas Tattoo might be getting, but he could see he’d managed the opposite . A sadistic glint appeared in his eyes as he went back to scrubbing.
Ken was thoughtful as he washed the dishes and put them away. He wiped his shoes thoroughly on the kitchen matt by the door that said welcome. He did a walk-through, rag in hand, double-checking to be sure they hadn’t missed anything. And the whole time he did, he had a sense that they were probably wasting time. There was little to no conversation between them. Roach straightened the cushions and smoothed the sofa cover with its ruffled bottom, where Tattoo and Dog had sat watching TV.
Finished cleaning up, the two men waited on the porch for Dog to return from hiding the truck. As they stood looking past the green fields and into the deep woods for a sight of him walking back with that side to side gait he had, the phone in the living room rang. It was one of those old squat beige phones sitting on an end table, a crocheted doily beneath it.
The shrillness of the sound reverberated through Ken Roach, like an alarm.
They let it ring.
Chapter 8
In her tiny but posh apartment on Gottingen Street in Halifax, Sally Nichols frowned at her cellphone before snapping it closed. Where could her mom and dad be? They were getting on in age, and while they were in pretty good health, she still worried about them. Especially Dad since he broke his hip last year. He was always trying to do more than he should, and of course her mother refused to think of herself as getting old. She actually hated the term ‘senior citizen’. And it wasn’t a question of vanity, either. Her mom had a youthful spirit and could work rings around a lot of younger women. But the truth was, they weren’t young. She had a moment’s guilty conscience for not being there for them in their later years.
Sally had come along late in their lives and she had always felt a responsibility toward her parents, especially since there were no siblings to share in it. She was raised on the small farm in Three Brooks and though her childhood was hardly deprived, by the time she reached her teens she couldn’t wait to escape the boredom of the country and start her real life in the city. She worked in real estate, loved her job and was very good at it. She never married, had no interest despite the fact that her father and mother were one of the happiest married couples she knew. Sally had friends, dated some. No one serious. She had her share of admirers, as her mom would say of herself at Sally’s age. But she liked her independence. Actually, so did they, she smiled to herself. They would never want her to stay there out of a sense of duty. Especially her mom. Or was she just making excuses for herself?
Sally had to admit she bore a strong resemblance to her mother in those old black and white photos in the family album. People used to tell her that all the time. Fair-haired, petite, given to weight gain if she wasn’t careful. But while her mom was content with the simple life, Sally had wanted a faster pace, more excitement. Her mom called her their little dynamo. They were proud of her. She missed them both and got back home as often as possible, though it had been a while now. Lying in bed last night, she had an overwhelming urge to see them, which was why she was planning a visit this weekend. She glanced at her watch; she was meeting a client in less than half an hour. She’d call her parents when she got back.
They probably took a drive into Erinville to run some errands or maybe to keep a doctor’s appointment for Dad, she mused as she buttoned the charcoal-grey, pencil-striped jacket of her pant suit, worn over a simple but expensive white blouse. She slipped her cell phone into her Gucci bag. After feeding Tara, her grey ball of fluff, and making sure the cat had fresh water and some tender loving care, she left the apartment, locking the door behind her.
It was late when Sally arrived home that night, tired but with a sense of well-being and satisfaction. But still, a vague sense of unease lay just beneath. She toed off her heels and set her bag on the hall table. She had closed the deal on a beautiful Victorian home in downtown Halifax and taken her clients out to dinner to celebrate, a young affluent Asian couple both in the medical field.
She poured herself a glass of Chianti and took it into the living room, where she settled into the big stuffed chair in front of the TV, but didn’t turn it on. Massaging her stockinged feet on the thick carpet, she sipped her wine, while stroking Tara who had curled up on her lap and was purring up a storm. “I missed you too, kitty,” she said. Tara nuzzled Sally’s cheek, then licked her hand with her rough little tongue.
She debated calling her parents, but it was nearly ten-thirty and they were probably in bed by now anyway. She’d call in the morning. Then she’d throw some jeans, shorts and tops into a suitcase and just head on home, which is how she still thought of the house in Three Brooks, where she grew up. She’d bring a bathing suit too, maybe get in some swim time. A little of that simple life she couldn’t wait to get away from as a kid seemed very appealing to her right now. The old farmhouse was always a great place to center herself and recharge her batteries, as the saying went. A place where not much in the way of excitement ever happened. And that was fine with her. It was just what she needed. “Want to stay with Mrs. Brimm for a few days, Tara?” Mrs. Brimm was her upstairs neighbor who loved animals and was always happy to look after Tara when Sally had to be away. She had a male cat of her own but the two got on fine.
The cat blinked at her, then lay down again.
Chapter 9
Like Sally Nichols, Abby had always thought of herself as a city girl, but the truth was she really liked being at the cabin. There was a serenity here that came with being away from the sounds of traffic in the street, TVs and computers and ringing telephones. In feeling at one with nature. She had just never had much experience with rural living until Corey, who even in childhood had had a passion for camping and hiking and anything else that got him out-of-doors. And away from that joyless house, Abby thought. She had taken to country living like the proverbial duck to water. “You’re a natural,” Corey had told her, beaming with pride as she placed the fish he’d caught in a pan and cooked it over the fire, and served it with roasted potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil. He taught her how to douse the fire safely. Burn it to ash, he’d said, stir the embers with a shovel, then dump more water on. Sand and dirt if none was available. She smiled, remembering. If Corey’s spirit was anywhere, it would be here. Here at Loon Lake.
The cabin now cleaned and put to rights, she sat before the fire in the fireplace listening to its snapping and crackling, and willing the muses to come visit her. She wasn’t ready to give up yet. The fire lent a comforting glow to the room. The kerosene lamp sat on the table, two lit candles at opposite ends of the mantle above the hearth, adding their own flickering light to the scene. Though it was late June, it could still get cool in the evenings, especially after all the rain. This was true of their apartment as well, but then Abby was often cold when everyone else was too warm.
She had installed new batteries in the radio and the strains of classical music filled the cabin. Something soothing, familiar, but she couldn’t have named it. She rose from the chair and took her cup of tea to the window, parted the curtains to take in the full view.
She’d been expecting too much of herself, thinking she could just decide to come up with an idea for a new novel and it would happen. She should know better. Even when she was in the zone, it could take days or even weeks to come up with an idea that excited her enough to commit to a year or two of work to bring it to fruition. Before she got to that place, she would consider and reject a dozen ideas. And when she did seize on one, it was only a seed at that point and needed time to germinate, to grow. When the story weighed heavy on her mind
like fat, ripe grapes on the vine, then it was time. You had to prime the creative juices, kind of like that old water pump out there. So what was the big rush after all? She sipped her tea, looked out on the waning sunset. A brush of otherworldly crimson stretched across the horizon, promising another fine day tomorrow.
Looking out into the coming night, at the silhouetted trees, the glimpse of dark water beyond, listening to the music — Chopin, she recalled — she began to recapture something of the peace she’d felt upon waking yesterday. Almost as if someone were gently stroking her temples, lulling her senses, slowing the world down.
She went back to the table and sat down, began to make notes in her notebook. Nothing concrete. Scribblings. She knew from experience you couldn’t think your way through writer’s block, you had to write your way through it. You had to invite the muses by showing up for work.
After a couple of hours she rose from the chair, and stretched the kinks from her shoulders and back. Made a cup of tea.
It was dark out now, the sky strewn with stars. A three-quarter moon drifted above the tallest trees, giving enough light to let her see the landscape and through the trees, a patch of lake, silvered now in the moonlight. Now and then a raggedy bit of cloud would block out the moon, darkening the night momentarily. Then it would pass over.
She was about to turn away from the window when she thought she saw movement from the corner of her eye. She brought her face closer to the glass, stared intently. A deer? she wondered, as she had yesterday when she heard what sounded like the snap of a branch behind her. But then, not long after, the man had knocked on her door, hadn’t he? Was he back? She stared hard at the place where she’d caught the movement. Another cloud passed over and she was staring into a clot of blackness, seeing only her own reflection in the glass.
Nothing to worry about, she thought, turning away from the window. An animal of some kind, or maybe just a shadow. That man, whoever he was, wasn’t likely to be still hanging around. But her mind didn’t readily dismiss him. What was he doing out here anyway? It wasn’t hunting season. On the other hand, he could have been on his way to anywhere when he broke down? Who knew? She was making something out of nothing. Yet, seconds later she found herself back at the window. She was there not a half a second, when she saw something move again at the edge of the woods. Definitely not her imagination this time. Something — or someone — was out there. She peered into that same spot until her eyes began to burn. An animal on the prowl? Something larger than a porcupine. A bear? She’d never heard of any bears around here. But that meant nothing.
Her eyes were growing heavy from the strain of staring. She massaged the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger and turned away from the window. She was tired. But for some reason, decided not to go into her bedroom. Instead, she lay down on the sofa. She left her sneakers on. Her ears alert to every sound, she closed her eyes.
They flew open as something thumped hard against the side wall. She sat bolt upright on the cot, heart thudding against her ribcage. No deer, that. Deer were graceful creatures. Racoons? Foxes? No. Something larger. A bear? she thought again. But there was nothing out there to lure them to the cabin. She had put the groceries away in the cupboard. No garbage was left around outside. No. It had been a deliberately-made sound. Planned. She was off the sofa now, standing in the middle of the floor. Despite the fire, she felt cold.
A second thump against the side wall caused her mouth and throat to go dry. Her eye went directly to the iron poker leaning against the fireplace, and a second later it was in her hand. Gripping the poker, she checked both doors to be sure she’d bolted them, no longer harboring any delusions that it was an animal out there in the night that she’d heard — not the furry kind anyway. Both doors were locked. Not that that would deter anyone really determined to get in here. But they didn’t just want to get in. No. They wanted to terrorize her first.
She’d come here with half a hope — more a fantasy, she supposed, of making a spiritual connection with her husband and child. She would have embraced such a visit from both or either of them. She would have felt blessed and grateful. But she knew Corey would never frighten her like this. This was not the way he would come to her. Not how he would make himself known to her, even if it were possible. Corey had loved her. Her daughter had loved her. Just as she loved them.
But someone was out there. She could hear heavy footsteps on the porch. With a suddenness that made her heart near leap out of her chest, a grinning face filled her window, dark eyes glittering, hair fallen over a moon face. Missing teeth made him look like a mad jack-o-lantern. Abby took a backward step, nearly stumbling, a scream trapped in her throat.
“Open the door and let us in,” a voice chanted through the door. A high-pitched voice, laced with insanity. This followed by a high-pitched giggle. The pounding on the door resumed, more insistent now, and so loud it might have been the work of some alien being. Or a poltergeist. Did she believe in such things? Whatever her beliefs, this was neither. The face in the window was still there, a very human, if frightening face, still grinning in at her. Fear washed through her like a wave of ice water.
“Open the door,” said a deceptively matter-of-fact voice, one she remembered. That boyish, laid-back drawl. He had come back. He hadn’t gone far as she’d hoped, but was standing outside her door. And he’d brought his pals with him. “Don’t pay any attention to my friend,” he called out to her. “He’s a joker. His bark is worse than his bite.” He didn’t sound convinced of that. “And Dog’s a good guy.” This comment evoked another chilling giggle.
“Don’t mean no harm, ma’am. I promise. They’re just having a bit of fun. No one is going to hurt you.”
Yes, it was definitely the same man. Three, she thought. There are three of them. One apparently called Dog. That was encouraging.
“Go away,” she yelled at them through the door, finding her voice. “Get away from here.”
No point in threatening to call the police since the man she’d invited into her space last night, had given comfort to —and she was sure he was one of them — well knew she had no phone.
“I have a gun,” she called out, praying the bluff would work. “I’ll use it.”
There was a long moment of quiet and she thought she could hear whispers. More tittering.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” the man said. “And even if you did, there are three of us, ma’am. You can’t shoot us all. But I think you’re lying about the gun. I really do. I’ll give you to the count of three to open the door. “One...”
Three men. Three men who had no good intentions toward her. I’m in serious trouble here. Abby’s eyes darted about the cabin for something with which to defend herself. She looked at the poker in her hand. Next to useless against three men.
“Two...”
Abby grabbed her car keys off the counter and sprinted to the back door. She’d hide in the woods and then later try to circle back to the car which was parked in the front. Just as she heard the word three, she threw the bolt and was out the door. And ran straight into the huge powerful arms of a giant. The stench of booze and rank body odor that wafted off him almost made her gag.
“Where ya runnin’ off to, sweet cheeks? The party’s just getting started.” His high-pitched voice belied his size and oafishness, and his brutal strength. She might have been a rag doll that he held in his clutches. She couldn’t move, like being trapped inside a steel vice. “Please,” she pleaded, barely able to breathe. “Please let me go.”
“Nope. Don’t think I’m gonna do that. You give us any trouble, you’re gonna be real sorry. Now you be nice and we’ll all have a good time. The Roach says you’re going to be a big help to us. That’s the only reason you ain’t hurtin’ right now.”
Oh, Jesus, help me. Terror cut through her like a cold sharp blade. She didn’t have to wonder what his idea of a good time was. No sense in trying to appeal to his decency or beg for mercy, since he was obviously devoid of either. �
�Okay,” she managed to gasp. Her ribs felt as if they were about to crack under the crushing pressure of his arms. She struggled for breath. “I — I’ll be good. I promise. I won’t make trouble. Please. I can’t breathe.”
With her promise to be good, his hold on her relaxed slightly and she took the opportunity to gasp air into her lungs. Her hand hurt where the car keys had dug into her palm as he squeezed her against him. She had thought herself defenseless, but realized now that she’d been wrong. She did have something, after all.
He was a tall man, well over six-two, towering above her, and Abby wasn’t short. This assessment came in an instant, as her mind made the necessary adjustment. Ignoring her throbbing hand, she positioned the longest of the two keys firmly between her index and middle fingers, and without hesitation, stabbed the car key hard and fast into his left eye. She hit her target dead on and the man let out an agonized wail, staggered backwards, his hand flying to his damaged eye. She had felt the metal sink into the soft wetness, making her cry out too - but with revulsion.
In that instant, the other two men burst out of the back door.
Forgetting her throbbing ribs and stinging palm, Abby wasted no time in putting distance between herself and her would-be captors. The keys still clutched in her hand, she ran, and didn’t stop until she was deep in the woods. Her breathing labored, she wiped the visceral matter clinging to the key on the wet grass, cringing with disgust and swallowing back bile. But she wasn’t sorry she had defended herself in the only way she could. Now she had to get away from here. Somewhere they couldn’t find her. But where? They mustn’t find her. But where could she hide?
The Deepest Dark Page 4