by L. T. Vargus
Her hand caressed her phone again, and she imagined what the conversation might be like if she were able to tell Owen where she was right now.
She remembered then something he’d said to her after the mess in Atlanta, where they’d first met.
“You know,” he’d said, “when the shit hits the fan, most people duck for cover.”
She’d waited for him to go on, but Owen liked audience participation when he was doing a bit.
“And?” she’d asked finally.
“And you’re the kind of person that runs face first into the blades.”
She gazed out through the open back end again and saw the first glimmer of stars. A nursery rhyme from childhood echoed in her mind at the sight.
Star light, star bright.
First star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might.
Have this wish I wish tonight.
What was her wish, then? For courage? For strength?
In the end, she begged the stars for luck. Just enough to last her through the night.
Chapter 40
Mark paced the kitchen like an animal in a cage, the soles of his shoes thumping out a rhythm on the linoleum. Keeping time.
Claire’s whimpers laid a sad melody over that beat. Feminine mews that stopped and started and broke off into choked sobs and silent shivers.
God, he wished she’d stop that. Just for a little while. It’d all be done soon, and then… Well, he didn’t know what happened then. He’d find out when he got there.
He could feel the tension physically now, manifesting itself in his body, in his posture, in the tightness along his neck and shoulders.
What was going to happen was what had to happen. Had to. There was no choice. This was the refrain in his head. The idea he looped back to over and over, trying to etch order onto the chaos swirling inside of him. And he could almost make it work, could almost hold all of the black spiral in his head and be OK with it.
He just wished Claire would stop crying.
“You gotta be quiet now,” he said, trying to keep the hard edge out of his voice and not quite pulling it off.
She sat on the floor in the corner, nearly all of her body, it seemed, leaned up against a cupboard door. Pressed into the green paint like it might morph into some means of escape, like that little door could lead out of this room after all, out of this place.
She kept her face mostly tilted away from him, weeping softly.
But even at an odd angle, he could tell, somehow, that she was trying to stop crying and couldn’t. Some tightness in her cheeks communicated this, an extra set of wrinkles pulling at the sides of her mouth. He’d seen the expression before.
Nevertheless, her eyes stayed fastened to him in their way, watching him out of their corners, swiveling along with his every motion. She didn’t look him in the face, though, didn’t dare meet his eyes.
He glanced down at himself, his stride coming to a stop. He squinted. Concentrated. Huh. What was it that she was looking at, exactly? He tried to follow the trajectory of her vision, but this was easier said than done with all the beers he’d guzzled down. She was all fuzzy, flicking in and out of double.
Wait. Maybe it was the gun.
Again, he dipped his head for a look.
The slim piece of black polymer dangled at the end of his arm. The M&P Shield 9mm from good ol’ Smith & Wesson. It was about as compact as a piece could get while maintaining full-size power — a touch over six inches long and, incredibly, not even an inch wide.
He’d always maintained a pride about the gun, about what its purchase said about him — other people went out and bought big ass cannons — Magnums, Desert Eagles, etc. Almost like they were compensating for something. Well, this little gun was easily concealed, practical, and it could still poke holes all through someone’s guts or brains if and when necessary.
Anyhow, that was probably why she wouldn’t stop crying. The gun. It upset her. Well, that made sense. Shit.
“Hush now, baby. It’s… This is something I have to do. That’s all.”
His words didn’t help. At all. If anything, Claire’s sobs came harder and faster.
Goddamn. He opened the cupboard above the fridge, looked in at the couple bottles of vinegar, the big plastic jug of olive oil.
He brought the gun up to eye level, his arm slowing as it extended toward the cupboard. The weapon’s progress stopped, so it hung there above the fridge. He licked his front teeth, worked his jaw a few times.
His arm retracted, brought the gun back to dangle at his side. With the opposite hand, he closed the cupboard.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t put the gun away. Not now. Not even for a little while to calm her down. It wasn’t worth it. He wanted her to stop crying, but not at this price. No way. He needed the gun in his hand. Needed to feel it.
He went back to pacing the length of the room. Down and back and down and back.
The sink dripped every once in a while. Drops of water ticking away the seconds until the agent arrived, until it all went down.
He couldn’t wait to see the look on Loshak’s face, that telltale flash when he saw what Mark had for him.
Chapter 41
After what felt like hours — though she doubted it could have been that long — Darger sensed the forward pull of the truck slowing and heard the downshift. How long had they been on the road? She wasn’t certain. Time had grown strange in the dark. Murky. Hard to measure.
The truck took a sharp right, and Darger’s weight pressed up against the plastic tub. The smooth hum of asphalt under the tires was replaced by the crunch of gravel. Gas sloshed against the metal sides of the jerry can as they bumped over ruts and potholes. A dirt road, she thought, or maybe a driveway. From her narrow view out the back, all she could tell was that it was a slender lane, hugged on both sides by Ponderosa pines and quaking aspen.
As they wound around a tight bend, gravity signaled that they were heading uphill, a steady rate of ascent tugging at Darger’s body. Dust swirled in the red glow of the taillights. She scanned the dark landscape for anything she might use: a fork in the lane that could signify a driveway, lights that might indicate a house in the distance. She saw nothing but the silhouettes of trees and rocks and scrubby undergrowth rising out of the dirt.
The land leveled out, and with a whispering hiss, the tires came to a stop in the sand. The truck continued to idle. Darger held her breath in anticipation of the silence that would come when he cut the engine. Seconds ticked by.
Adrenaline flooded her veins and her pulse swished in her ears so loud she was certain he’d hear. Her lungs felt like they were about to explode, but she didn’t dare let herself breathe.
What was taking so long? Darger dug her fingernails into her palms, but eventually she couldn’t help it. She released the lungful of air she’d been holding, slow and steady, like a leaky tire. Her head swam with relief on the inhale. She let herself breathe regularly after that, though she was sure to be quiet.
The air was different here, clean and scented with cedar. How far from the city were they? She wasn’t sure, and she still hadn’t been able to look at her phone to figure out how much time had passed.
The stillness when the engine finally cut out was sudden and absolute. Eerie. Unnerving.
A latch clicked and hinges moaned as the driver’s side door opened. There was a patter of what sounded like heavy boots striking the ground, one after the other.
The whole truck listed to the port side as Stump climbed out, shimmying and lifting higher on the shocks from the change in weight. The door slammed shut with a metallic thunk, followed by rasping footsteps through the gravel drive.
It took her several seconds to identify the next sounds, but she was able to piece it together: the screech of an old-fashioned screen door, the scrape of a key in a lock, the clunk of the deadbolt sliding free.
Darger had her eyes closed as she listened, but now they popped open as a thought struck
her.
Had he left Nicole in the truck?
Of course, he’d want to get the door open before he dragged Nicole inside. It made sense.
She should grab Nicole while he was inside, get her away from the house, away from Stump. But Darger had no idea how far into the house he’d gone, how soon he’d be back. If he surprised her in the middle of her rescue maneuver, she was still unarmed.
Something plucked at her mind, wanting to be acknowledged, but she couldn’t get the thought to solidify.
Her heart thudded with the indecision.
And then she heard the shrill squawk and slam of the screen door again. Footsteps.
It struck her then that he might come around to the back of the truck for some reason. To get his tools or the gas can. Or to check for hitchhiking FBI agents.
Shit.
She should have rolled out of the back as soon as they’d come to a stop.
Panic welled in her belly, face flushed, the palms of her hands writhing with pins and needles.
Too late now. If he came around back, she’d have to ambush him. The impulse to search the truck bed for a weapon struck her, but her instinct to keep absolutely still and silent won out. If she heard his footsteps coming this way, she’d reach into the Rubbermaid bin and go with the first thing she found.
She lay in the truck bed, as taut as a mountain cat waiting for a jackrabbit to hop into sight. Her muscles quivered with the tension, starting to ache, and again she found herself wishing for her gun.
The stun gun. That was what her brain had been trying to tell her before. The stun gun in Nicole’s purse. If the purse was in the cab, she could have gotten the jump on him. But it was too late now. Always too fucking late.
She tried to remember what the purse looked like. A little shoulder bag, she thought. Red or maybe brown. Leather.
Darger followed the sound of his footsteps as he moved around the truck, her body almost aching with the tension, every muscle coiled tight. Her eyes started to water from not blinking, staring into the rectangle of darkness beyond the truck bed.
The footsteps came right up to the truck and stopped. There was an agonizing pause before she heard the passenger side door open.
Darger squeezed her eyes shut at last.
The truck swayed again. She could hear him breathing now with the effort of dealing with Nicole’s unconscious body, the dead weight. He grunted as he pulled the girl’s bulk from the truck and shut the door.
The footsteps back to the house were slower, dragging a little with the extra load.
It wasn’t until the door closed that she released the tension in her muscles. Her head thudded softly against the truck bed as her body went slack, and her lungs sucked in greedy lungfuls of air.
She strained her ears and heard nothing, no further sign of him, but her instincts told her to wait, told her not to move. Some part of her wanted to hide, wanted to stay concealed in the truck cab until morning. Until help arrived.
But no. She was the help. Hiding wasn’t an option.
Her tongue prodded at the inside of her cheek, and her eyes blinked rapid-fire.
OK. She’d obey those fearful instincts, she decided, but only for one minute, and then she’d move out.
She forced herself to count to sixty, like she was playing hide and seek as a kid.
While she counted, she prayed that Nicole’s purse — and the stun gun — were in the cab.
The minute passed. It was time.
Ready or not, here I come.
Chapter 42
Moving what felt like one muscle at a time, Darger sat up and slid down to the rear bumper. She settled one foot onto the ground and then the other, taking care to jostle the gravel as little as possible. Then she crept around to the side of the truck, keeping her body tucked low.
When she reached the door, her hand snaked up to the handle and hovered there. She scanned the front of the house for movement. Curtains shrouded the windows, prevented her from seeing much, but at least that meant she was concealed from this angle as well.
Slowly, she pressed her thumb into the button on the door. With the smallest click, the latch released. It seemed loud in the quiet, made a lump form in Darger’s throat. She hesitated for a moment, eyes locked on the house. When no movement showed there, she swung the door just wide enough to peek through, praying under her breath that the dome light wouldn’t blink on. It didn’t.
The bag was there, on the floor, so close she didn’t even have to pull the door any wider. She snatched it by the handle and eased the door shut again.
She shuffled away from the truck, feeling instantly vulnerable now that she was in the open. As soon as her feet were off the noisy gravel, she quickened her pace. With a final glance back at the house, she ducked behind a thicket of some kind of prickly shrub.
She knew she should call Loshak immediately, but she couldn’t resist getting her hands on the stun gun. Fumbling with the zipper, Darger reached inside and felt around among Nicole’s things until she found it. Her thumb found the button on the side but stopped short of pressing it. The sizzling blue light could reveal her. She’d have to trust that it would work when she needed it.
A shaky breath rattled out of her chest. She moved on to the next task.
Swiping a thumb at the screen of her phone, she had to squint to keep her eyes on it. After so long in the dark, the glow from the screen was piercing, almost violent.
Nine letters hunched in the top corner where the bars should be.
No Service.
Fuck.
She lifted the phone in the air, tried different angles and stood on her toes in a desperate attempt to get even a single bar to show up.
“Come on,” she whispered to no one. The words came out as puffs of steam in the cold night air, hanging there for a moment before vanishing.
When a bar finally blipped on, she almost shouted in celebration.
She froze in position, the phone held over her head, and carefully moved her thumb to Loshak’s name on her list of contacts. She waited for the call to connect, but she could tell already something was wrong. The phone wasn’t ringing.
The bar vanished, and the No Service message reappeared.
No, no, no.
She glanced back at the house. This was taking too long.
Nicole’s phone wasn’t getting a signal either. She tried dialing 911 in the hopes that she’d at least be able to get emergency service, but nothing happened.
Her gaze fell on the stun gun. This was it. She’d have to go in alone.
She tried one last time to get a signal. When she found the fickle bar again, she sent Loshak a text. A red exclamation point popped up with the error message: Not Delivered.
She’d been on a camping trip in West Virginia once. Cell phone service was unreliable at best, all of her outgoing texts marked as Not Delivered. About half got through, anyway, though they were delayed by up to an hour. There was hope.
She sent the SOS text to Loshak nine more times, hoping that at least one went through.
Her fingers flailed around inside Nicole’s bag, taking stock of the rest of its contents: a lighter, cigarettes, a small vial of perfume, condoms, breath mints. Nothing of use. She replaced Nicole’s phone and hid the purse in the undergrowth beneath a pinyon tree, then had second thoughts. What if Stump went back for it and found it missing? He would get suspicious.
But no, it didn’t matter, she decided. Stump wouldn’t have enough time to get suspicious.
She was coming for him. Now.
Chapter 43
Emily sits at the desk again, everything back the way it was. Or so she hopes it will appear.
The tabletop rests on the unscrewed leg. The whole thing propped up. Balancing. Maybe a touch wobbly, but she did her best to keep still.
Knowing the screws aren’t there makes it feel precarious to her, like perhaps the breeze of Stump walking through the door will knock the thing over.
So she aids the loose pi
ece of metal with her legs, making sure both thighs stay in contact with the underside of the desktop at all times. Her lap a failsafe.
And now she waits. Watches the steel door. Wonders when he’ll be back. Who or what he might have with him when he arrives.
He would be bringing a girl, wouldn’t he? He practically said as much before he left, even if he was slightly indirect about it.
Two girls. One and then the other. That was how he worked. His modus operandi.
Emily licks her lips. Tastes the salty remnants of dried tears there. A little dried blood.
She tries not to imagine the other girl, tries not to picture a face, a shape, a tone of skin, but she can’t help herself. Can’t stop the pictures from forming in her head, mutating into endless variations.
She closes her eyes. Tries to clear her mind. But it’s no good.
The shape of the girl in her imagination shifts. Morphs. Changes faces over and over.
And soon enough she will be real. The picture in her head will be that of a real live human being. A girl. A girl who will likely bleed to death in a bathtub at the hands of Leonard Stump.
These thoughts help the imagined pictures clear away at last. The grim reality. It brings her back to the horror of the situation before her. Sharpens her focus. Steels her will.
She clenches her jaw. Goes back to watching the steel door where he will appear. Soon.
But the stillness remains, and her mind drifts for a time. Floats out into the big nothing. She is not sleeping, though she closes her eyes and achieves some distance from the here and now.
Drifting. Drifting.
A slamming door elsewhere in the building shakes her awake. Tips off his return.
This is it.
She sits up a little straighter. Rolls her neck from shoulder to shoulder. Takes a deep breath.
Emotions well up from deep inside her. Rage. Hatred. A yearning for violence she has never experienced before. A genuine bloodlust.
But her face stays blank. She checks it with her hand. Feels her brow undisturbed, the flesh of her cheeks all slack and smooth.