Isaiah was no longer in the house.
He was outside. Creeping through the forest.
He'd seen through Gabriel's lame ploy and had flipped the script. Gabriel looked closely in the mirror and thought he saw Isaiah carrying a jagged mirror in one hand, too.
Damn it! I underestimated him.
In Isaiah's other hand, he gripped a mean-looking pistol.
From what Gabriel saw, he was unable to determine from exactly where Isaiah was walking, or where he was going. He could be twenty feet away, sneaking up on him. Or in the woods on the other side of the driveway.
Gabriel whirled around.
The only noises were the drizzling of rain against leaves and brush, the soft sigh of the wind, and his own frantic breathing.
Where was Isaiah?
Gabriel glanced in the mirror, hoping to catch a clue.
Gunfire rang out. Splinters exploded from the pine tree beside him.
Gabriel took off running.
Chapter 65
-heo woke up-and immediately wished he hadn't. He was in a universe of torment.
His muscles felt as though they had been shredded in a blender. His jaws ached from clenching his teeth. Even his eyes hurt; they felt puffy and tender.
He couldn't believe that Isaiah, his own son, had done this to him. The boy didn't possess an atom of compassion. He was singularly cruel.
For the moment, Isaiah appeared to be gone. Theo vaguely recalled having heard Isaiah leave the bedroom. He didn't know how long ago that had happened. Pain had warped his sense of time.
But Isaiah wasn't finished with him. He'd promised to kill Theo, and Theo fully believed that his son would make good on his threat. Theo had tried to talk reasonably to him, but he now realized that was a lost cause. Isaiah was a pure psychopath, beyond the reach of logic and fundamental morality.
What was Naomi? Had his encounter with her all been a dream? He wasn't sure. Nothing that had happened felt real since Isaiah had captured him in the basement at home. This entire experience was like the most vivid nightmare Theo had ever had in his life.
The cabin was mostly silent. Rain ticked on the roof and against the windows. But he didn't hear Isaiah moving around in another section of the house. Maybe he had ventured outdoors for some reason.
Theo had to get the hell out of there while he had a chance.
He lay on his side on the hardwood floor, his limbs strapped to the chair. The mere thought of moving sharpened his pain. But he had to try. He was certain Isaiah had stored more implements of torture in the toolbox and he didn't want to be around to give him another opportunity to use them.
He tested the strength of the ropes. They had loosened, probably due to his wild flailing when he was being shocked, but there wasn't enough give in the knots for him to work free.
He craned his head to look behind him. Pain lanced into his neck and he gasped, nearly blacked out. He maintained his tenuous hold on consciousness only by sheer force of will-the same iron will that had enabled him to rise from a roach-infested shotgun shack in east Texas to a mansion in Atlanta.
He spotted the toolbox in the corner, perhaps ten feet away. The lid was open, but he couldn't see inside.
He wondered if there was a knife in there. Something he could use to cut himself free.
He gritted his teeth against the expected pain. Then he began to wriggle across the floor.
Chapter 66
abriel fled through the woods. I
He believed the gunfire had come from somewhere near the cabin, so he did the logical thing and ran away from the house, delving deeper into the forest. He had explored these woods many times over the years, knew them as well as he knew the lines of his own face. But in his frenzied state, he might as well have been running blind through a blackened room. He was completely disoriented, thinking only about survival.
He ran hard, the shotgun on the sling jouncing hard against his ribs. A mist of buzzing insects obscured his vision and clotted his nostrils and he quickly raked his hand down his face.
The rain had abated but the day had grown darker and every patch of darkness seemed to conceal a threat; he imagined a hundred Isaiahs closing in on him, aiming for a fatal head shot.
If I can just get to the lake, Gabriel thought. Then I can make a stand.
The lake was-or should have been-not too far away. A few hundred yards. If he could reach it alive, he could take cover among the big rocks and clumps of dirt scattered along the shore and have a clear shot at Isaiah when he ran out of the woods.
But Gabriel had to get there first.
Isaiah's gun barked again. Gabriel turned, half expecting to catch a round in the head. But the bullet shaved bits off a tree several yards behind him.
He saw Isaiah back there, too, a dark shape lurking in the brush. But he saw him for only a microsecond, not long enough for Gabriel to get off a good shot. Isaiah weaved and bobbed like a boxer as he ran, making himself a difficult target.
He was so much better at this than Gabriel that Gabriel felt an onrush of anxiety that almost tangled his legs as effectively as a snarl of weeds.
I can do this, Gabriel told himself. Just get to the lake before he does. Do that, and I'll have him in my sights.
Gabriel's second wind arose and he hustled through the brush with increased speed.
The trees and shrubs began to thin. Ahead, at the bottom of a hill, he glimpsed the darkly rippling lake.
He lowered his head and willed all his remaining energy into his leg muscles.
As he burst out of the woods, Isaiah's gun boomed.
Pain tore into Gabriel's shoulder. He roared.
Oh, shit, I'm hit.
His body stunned, he lost his footing. He tumbled down the rocky embankment, rolling end over end.
Memories of his car accident flashed through his thoughts; hurtling through the guardrail and down the steep hill, bouncing around in the seat like a crash test dummy.
I'm gonna die this time....
He banged onto the lake's shore, slamming against an outcropping of rock. Something in his pocket-had to be the makeup compact-crunched, and he thought of how angry Dana would be when she found out he'd broken it.
But as he raised his head, groggy, he found that he was in a far worse predicament.
He'd lost the shotgun somewhere along his tumble down the hill.
And a huge water moccasin lay coiled on the rocks, staring directly at him.
Chapter 67
s Gabriel ran out of the forest and into a clearing, Isaiah fired at him-and scored a hit.
Gotcha, little brother!
Struck in the shoulder, Gabriel whirled like a mad dervish, lost his balance, and fell down the slope beyond, plummeting out of sight.
Isaiah sprinted forward. Breaking out of the woods, he halted at the crest of the hill.
Gabriel's shotgun was snagged in a stand of weeds halfway down the embankment. Farther below, sprawled on the rocks near the lake, lay the golden boy himself. Gabriel was alert and when Isaiah looked closer, he saw why. A water moccasin was on a nearby shelf of stone, within striking distance.
Isaiah grinned. The irony was delicious.
The snake was not an illusion; in his haste, Isaiah had not thought to bring Gabriel's pen and mess with the guy's mind. The reptile was real.
But would Gabriel realize that?
If the water moccasin did not finish off Gabriel, Isaiah would.
Isaiah checked his Glock, verified that he had a few rounds remaining. Then he began to walk down the hill, taking his sweet time, savoring the thrill of final victory.
Chapter 6 8
L abriel heard Isaiah at the top of the ridge. But he didn't look at him.
He didn't dare take his attention away from the water moccasin. The snake watched him with its evil, slitted eyes. It flicked out its tongue, tasting the damp air.
He wondered if it could taste his blood in the air, too. Warm blood seeped from the shoulder wound, but the
initial pain had faded. Had the bullet penetrated his flesh or merely grazed him? He wasn't sure.
The snake hissed.
Was the snake another illusion, engineered by Isaiah? Or was it real?
He didn't know the answer to those questions either. However, cottonmouth water moccasins were common in this wilderness. When a snake had bitten him several years ago, it had happened around the shores of this same lake.
Indecision had frozen him. He was afraid to move, for risk of upsetting the snake. But if he remained in place, the snake might bite him anyway.
He had to do something.
"This is gonna be interesting," Isaiah said above him. Slowly making his way down the slope, he glanced at the snake and laughed. "Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place, eh?"
A realization hit Gabriel like a kick in the stomach: the snake was real. Isaiah saw the creature, too, which wasn't the case with an illusion.
His terror hit a new, higher peak.
If the snake didn't strike, Isaiah was going to kill him. He had no way to defend himself.
Then he spotted the bottle of pepper spray. It had fallen out of his pocket and landed on the rocks, the cylinder partly concealed by the snake's tail.
He saw, about seven or eight feet away, a loose stone the size of a tennis ball.
As a plan stirred in his mind, his palms began to tingle.
The water moccasin, as if sensing his building energy, began to slither toward him. It hissed malevolently.
Immobilizing fear cramped Gabriel's stomach. He visualized the snake biting him in the throat, saw himself lying there, helpless, as deadly venom invaded his veins, and then Isaiah would stand over him and press the gun's cold muzzle against his forehead....
No. I have to fight this, and I have to fight it now
The snake rose.
Gabriel opened his right hand, which was angled toward the stone. He was right-handed and, thankfully, his right shoulder was unhurt.
Energy leaping across his palm, he concentrated on the stone.
As though catapulted from a slingshot, the rock darted into Gabriel's grasp. Springing upright, Gabriel lifted the stone high and brought it down on the water moccasin's head.
The snake's skull collapsed with an audible crunch. Its tail twitched like a live wire.
"Hey!" Isaiah closed in on Gabriel.
Gabriel thrust his hand underneath the writhing, dying reptile. He grabbed the pepper spray. Spun.
Isaiah started to raise the gun to shoot, but Gabriel was faster.
He fired a blast of pepper spray in Isaiah's face.
Chapter 69
n the bedroom, after an agonizing and seemingly interminable crawl-scoot journey across the floor, Theo finally reached the toolbox.
He laid there for a minute, taking in shallow, painful breaths. Every pressure point in his body pulsed as though he had been mashed in a giant sandwich press. Considering the fantastic stresses his body had endured in the past hour, it was a miracle he hadn't suffered a heart attack. Jogging three miles a day on a treadmill apparently had paid off.
He continued to listen for footsteps in the house. He heard only the dull patter of rain.
Isaiah had been away for several minutes. What was going on? Had someone come there to make a rescue attempt?
It was such an optimistic thought that Theo quickly put it away. He didn't want to give in to naive hope. He had to get out of this mess himself.
He twisted his neck, raised his head. Looked over the lip of the toolbox.
The box contained rope, a roll of duct tape, cotton rags, a hammer, several long, glistening nails ... and a utility knife with a retractable blade.
Hope-real hope-bloomed in Theo's chest.
The knife, the sharp blade jutting from the metal casing, lay atop the rope. Within reach.
But he didn't have use of his hands. That left only his teeth.
Stretching his head forward like a giraffe extending for a piece of fruit atop a tree, Theo moved his lips toward the knife. He clamped his teeth over the blunt end of the handle.
Got it.
He snapped his head sideways, flinging the tool to the floor. It landed less than a foot away.
Now for the hard part.
But, first, he waited perhaps ten seconds, panting, wrung out by the exertion.
The floorboards outside the bedroom creaked. He paused. Listening.
No one was in there. It was only the cabin making settling sounds, as older homes tended to do.
Back to work. Using his heels, he turned himself around, dragging the chair, positioning himself so that his hands, bound behind him, faced the utility knife. He wriggled his fingers, feeling for the blade. The tip of his index finger brushed against the metal, the sensation sending excitement coursing through him.
Stay cool, Theo. Focused. You haven't closed the deal yet.
His galloping heartbeat slowed.
He inched backward. Reached. Took hold of the knife.
And promptly dropped it. His fingers were sweaty, as though soaked in grease.
Concentrate.
He plucked the knife off the floor again. Held it tight.
And, after taking some time to level the blade firmly against the rope, he began cutting.
Chapter 70
L.J up his nostrils, seared his lips. He couldn't see. Couldn't t V hite-hot tongues of fire attacked Isaiah's eyes, exploded breathe. He could still hear-and all he heard was a terrible shrieking, more like an animal's cry than a man's.
It was coming from him.
Gabriel, that motherfucker, had sprayed him with mace or some shit like that, and it was the most incredible agony Isaiah had ever experienced in his life. Like sticking his head in a barbecue pit. It was worse than dying.
Although he was screaming, some deep instinct of his mind that was still plotting survival kept his grip fastened on the Glock. He charged forward, not sure where his legs were taking him-it was as though they functioned independently, commanded by the sheer drive to live-and when he felt cold water splashing across him, he was grateful. The lake. Of course. Water might counteract or shorten the incapacitating effects of the spray.
He dove in headfirst.
Chapter 71
s Isaiah howled and rushed into the lake, Gabriel scuttled lup the hillside to retrieve the shotgun. Due to his rough fall, his muscles protested at the effort, each step bringing a fresh jolt of pain. But he pushed on. Isaiah was helpless for the time being, but Gabriel wasn't sure how long the pepper spray's effects would last. Isaiah had once averted a violent death; he would surely conquer the pepper spray, with perhaps superhuman vigor.
Gabriel wasn't feeling quite as heroic. His shoulder, still oozing blood, grew number by the minute, which made it difficult to raise his arm. And the blood loss was sapping his strength. If he did not get medical attention soon, he would be of no help to Pops at all-assuming he ever made it back to the cabin.
Behind him, Isaiah thrashed in the lake, shrieking. It was impossible to tell whether he was in pain or enraged. Probably both.
Gabriel ran harder.
The Mossberg was tangled in weeds. Gabriel grabbed the gun. Raising it to his shoulder was like lifting a hundredpound barbell. He almost fell underneath its weight.
He swiveled toward the lake, where Isaiah continued to flail. Although Gabriel used to believe in a crude code of honor, believing you had to look a man in the face as you shot him, he disregarded all those noble notions. This was a lifeand-death struggle, past the time for any of that code-ofhonor crap. Isaiah surely would not have paid him the same respect.
Gabriel fired at Isaiah.
Wings of water sprayed upward. Isaiah beat the surface once, with his hand and then his movements ceased and he sank underwater.
"I got him," Gabriel said, unable to believe it.
Except for a few outward ripples, the aftereffects of Isaiah's desperate struggle, the waters had become tranquil once more.
&nb
sp; He had killed Isaiah.
He dropped to his knees. He wanted to weep. But he was in too much pain to even cry.
He looked out to the lake. He expected to see Isaiah's corpse float to the surface. But it did not appear. His clothes could have become caught on rocks. Or ...
Make sure he's dead, Gabriel.
That quiet voice of intuition, which had not steered him wrong yet forced him back to his feet. Drawing in heavy breaths, he trudged to the shore. He looked for Isaiah's corpse.
He did not see it.
Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, he waded into the cold water. After a dozen footsteps, it was up to his waist. He saw dark material bobbing below the water's surface. He fished it out.
It was Isaiah's torn shirt.
But where was the rest of him?
Chapter 72
saiah was swimming. .I
iHe'd learned to swim as a child at the local YMCA on summer breaks from school. The big Olympic pool would be sparkling clean in the morning and polluted with piss by afternoon, the result of the bad-ass neighborhood kids who thought it was funny to urinate in the water. Those same knuckleheads, older than him, would throw him, screaming, into the deep end. He learned to swim under duress. For survival.
Just like now.
When Gabriel fired the shotgun at him, Isaiah immediately went under. The slug smashed into the water near him, narrowly missing his thigh. Still blinded by the pepper spray, knowing that Gabriel would keep shooting until he'd killed him, Isaiah tore off his shirt, dove deeper, and began to swim away in a direction he saw from memory, not from sight.
His lungs yearned for air, but he stayed underwater until he'd swum a good distance and then quickly poked his face above, pulled in a deep breath, and went under again.
As he swam, eyes open, his vision slowly returned. The water was murky, vegetation rippling like tentacles around him. Several fish peeled by, darting out of his path as though he were a great white shark, there to invade their peaceful habitat.
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