The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "Mum, he's coming." Then she looked out at the storm and screamed.

  "Mum!"

  Mags snapped her eyes back to the road in time to see a huge truck, stationary, its bulk blocking their path. It was on its side. The heavy vehicle must have jackknifed, its trailer pulling the cab after it as it overbalanced. All Mags could see at first was wheels - twelve of them looming out of the white and black night. They were still spinning. The accident must have only just happened.

  Mags did precisely what drivers are advised never to do in icy conditions. She stamped both feet onto the brake and jerked the steering wheel hard to the left. Such a manoeuvre in a car manufactured when she had first passed her test would have been her death sentence, but the modern SUV had sophisticated computer-assisted safety features. Anti-lock brakes began a rapid series of actions and reactions. As soon as the tyres slid on the ice, the brakes released their hold for a few hundredths of a second before applying again, more gently this time. The rapid cycle of releasing, braking, releasing, and braking communicated itself to the vehicle's occupants as a violent juddering. Precious speed was scrubbed off in those few seconds, but nothing could stop the slide initiated by Mags' jerk of the wheel. The back-end of the SUV swapped places with the front.

  There was a loud metallic bang as the rear corner of the SUV hit one of the truck's enormous tyres. The air inside the tyre absorbed some of their speed, and the SUV bounced away, shuddering. It came to rest parallel to the underside of the truck.

  "Tam, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

  The look in her daughter's eyes was a mixture of shock and fear, but it was nothing to do with the accident. She gripped her mother's hand.

  "He's coming, Mum."

  A figure in fluorescent clothing walked round from the front of the truck, materialising in their headlights like a ghost. On seeing their car he broke into a jog.

  Tam's fingernails dug deep into Mags' palm. "We can't stop. We have to go, Mum, we have to go."

  The engine was still running. Mags pressed the accelerator, and the car lurched forwards, all four wheels fighting for grip as it built up speed. The driver of the truck waved his arms over his head. He was shouting. Mags could just make out his words over the noise of the engine.

  "Stop! It's too dangerous! You'll get yourself killed."

  He stepped away from the truck and into their path. Mags pushed hard on the accelerator and leaned on the horn. She flipped the headlights onto full beam. The man's face went slack with shock. He dived out of the way as they passed him.

  The truck lay across both lanes of the interstate, but there was just enough room for a single vehicle to get through. Mags breathed in as the side of the SUV scraped the front of the cab, a cloud of steam rising from its punctured radiator. She was shaking.

  As they pulled back onto their side of the interstate, the car developed a worrying clunking noise. Within the next thirty seconds, Mags almost lost control twice, despite keeping her speed under twenty miles-per-hour.

  When the sign for the next exit came up, she almost missed it. She slowed to a crawl as another sign appeared.

  Motel. There was a motel half a mile away.

  Tam whimpered. Mags held her hand.

  "We have to stop, Tam. I can't drive in this. I'm sorry. It'll be the same for… for anyone who tries to follow us. No one knows where we are. We just need to lie low until the snow eases off. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  Mags risked a quick look at her daughter. Her voice sounded flat.

  "What is it?"

  Tam's voice was as emotionless as before. "It doesn't matter what we do. He's coming now. Nothing can stop him."

  Chapter Forty-Two

  At first, as he drives, the American tries to make conversation. My guess is he heard about this somewhere; that it's a good idea to talk to someone who is threatening you, get them to see you as a human being, establish rapport. I make it clear it won't work with me. Every time he talks, I tighten the belt. He gets the message. He's a smart guy.

  After we've been driving for just over two hours, he holds up his hand for permission to talk.

  "Forget about it," I say. "Pee in your pants if you have to. We're not stopping."

  He shakes his head.

  "Okay, what do you want?" I tug on the belt to warn him.

  "We're coming up to the Sunapee exit," he says. "Our lodge is on the mountain, so we need to head west and skirt the lake. But the roads, in these conditions… Look, I'm not sure we can make it. I'm already having a hard time keeping it on the road."

  He isn't lying. We've had a couple of slides. But I can't stop now. Not when I'm so close. I can't let her get away again. I have a second chance, and I'm not about to blow it.

  "You let me worry about that," I say. He nods, and a few minutes later, we leave the interstate.

  That's when I feel the change. Since leaving the parking garage, the whole time we've been driving, I'm like a fish on a hook being hauled in. No effort from me. I just relax and let myself be taken to her.

  Not now. There's something wrong. Pain blossoms in the part of my mind where the new flower unfolded.

  It's all wrong.

  "Stop the car."

  He does as he's told. He tenses as we pull over. I know he is thinking about making his move.

  "Uh-uh," I say, pulling hard enough to close his windpipe this time. He gasps when I release him.

  "Keep it down. I need to think." He wheezes more quietly. Keeping my grip tight, I let my attention return to that unfolding, that new awareness. It's her. This is the wrong direction. The pain began when we left the interstate, and it's getting worse as we sit here. I'm losing her.

  "Turn around," I say. "Get back onto the interstate. Head north. Drive faster."

  He raises his hand to speak again. I jerk his head back against the headrest.

  "Yeah, there's a blizzard. I get it. If you drive too fast, you might crash. You might be killed. The thing is, if you don't drive faster, I'll lose control, and you will get killed. Do as I say."

  He does as I say.

  The moment we turn onto the interstate, I'm back on the hook, everything is right again. I am being reeled in.

  I see the problem before he does. Flashing red and blues. The American takes his foot off the accelerator, and we coast towards the police car.

  The road is blocked by a truck on its side. A cop has pulled up alongside it. The cop is out of his vehicle, waving to turn approaching drivers around, sending them back the way they came. A pickup truck U-turns in front of us. The cop holds his hand out, palm facing us.

  The American tenses again.

  "Turn around," I tell him. "We'll use the smaller roads. Do it now."

  The cop watches us approach. He acts like he knows something is wrong. One of his hands goes to the butt of his gun and stays there.

  The American moves his hands on the wheel. I think he is about to obey and I relax. Only a little, but enough for him to seize the moment.

  He accelerates, then slams on the brakes. I am thrown forwards, taking the pressure off his neck. He reacts, diving to his right, fumbling with the glove box. It drops open. I see a gun.

  At that moment, the car—which has been sliding sideways ever since the American hit the brake—reaches the truck. We've slewed across two lanes, and the trunk of our car hits the truck's cab hard, sending us into a clockwise spin. I pull hard on the belt. The American jerks and flails.

  I don't know what we hit next, but there's a bang, the world tips, and the roof of the car is an inch under my knees. The American is wearing a seatbelt, and the airbag has exploded, pinning him into his seat. All my weight is on the belt as I hang there. It doesn't take long for him to die.

  I drop onto the roof, still trying to get my bearings. There's shattered glass everywhere. When I put my hand to the side of my head, it comes away wet. My vision blurs.

  "You okay? Yell if you can hear me."

  The cop. He's coming over. I blink, screw my
eyes up, shake my head, hunt for the gun. I don't see it anywhere. Glass fragments bite into my palms as I stretch into the shadows, panicking.

  The cop is close. I see boots, black pants, the holster on his hip.

  "Are you hurt?"

  Something cracks my shin, and I reach under my leg. The gun is underneath me. I pick it up, wipe blood out of my eye, and brace the gun with my other hand.

  "Help is on the way."

  He's so close I can see a streak of mud across the top of one boot. Glass crunches under his feet.

  The safety. I thumb it off. I don't even know if it's loaded.

  The cop bends down. He has green eyes and a brown moustache.

  I shoot him in the face.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The motel owner was bemused by the sight of two new guests turning up in the middle of the worst storm of the season. She looked up from a sudoku book and brushed cookie crumbs off her chest.

  "You folks sure picked a night for it."

  Tam clung to her mother's hand in a way she hadn't for years. Mags squeezed her hand in mute reassurance. Her gaze darted around the hotel lobby, as if the Bedroom Killer was hiding in the shadows.

  Under different circumstances, Mags might have found the motel lobby amusing. Tam would have commented. "Jolly festive, what?" Something like that. Something carefree. Something a bright, happy, eleven-year-old would say.

  The walls and ceiling were dark wood, the floor lighter, covered in thick rugs. There were two Christmas trees, one on each side of the desk, behind which was a plump woman wearing a Santa hat. Someone had covered every available surface with tinsel, baubles, or other festive decorations. Mags had forgotten it was nearly Christmas.

  "Come in, come in. I guess you didn't book. Any port in a storm, eh?"

  From her accent, the hotel owner was Canadian. As Mags approached the desk, she saw room keys on a rack behind the smiling woman. Only two keys were missing. Business wasn't good.

  Mags forced a smile and waggled her cell phone. "I have no signal. Could I use yours?"

  "Sure." The motel owner pushed the phone across the desk. Her name badge said Theresa. She smiled at Tam. "Hey, honey, cold enough for you? How does a hot chocolate sound?"

  Tam stepped back, eyes wide. She nodded, a tiny movement of the head.

  "Great. I'll be right back." As Theresa pushed through a door at the rear, Mags hesitated, the phone at her ear. Who should she call? The police? And tell them what? That a serial killer who disappeared months ago has returned, and he's hunting them through a psychic link with her daughter? She dialled the Barkworth's home number. There was no answer. She tried Bradley's cell phone. After six rings, it went through to voicemail.

  The woman was back. "It'll be ready in two shakes. Twin room?"

  "Yes. Just for tonight, please."

  "Well, you have a wide choice of cabins. We only took over this summer, had the whole place renovated. We don't get busy until the New Year. Every cabin has a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchenette. The luxury cabins have two storeys and an open fire with—"

  "Do you have any rooms in this building?" Mags had seen the cabins as they'd driven up. She would prefer to be nearer to other people. The woman shook her head.

  "Sorry. It's just Bill and me in here. Guest accommodation is in the cabins. Would you like me to tell you about—"

  Mags interrupted her again. If they couldn't be in the main building, it might be better to get further away from the road. Somewhere where they could see anyone coming. "The cabin up the slope," she said, pointing out of the window. "Is it free?"

  "Sure." She turned and unhooked a key. Her smile was still there, but it was looking strained. Mags knew she was being brusque, but she didn't care. She needed to get Tam somewhere safe. Maybe she'd even get some sleep.

  She handed over her credit card.

  "Is there somewhere to park the car round the back?"

  "There's an overflow car park back there. But you can leave it out front, it's no problem."

  "I'd prefer to leave it round the back."

  "Well. Okay, then." The smile was definitely faltering.

  Mags walked away, Tam still holding her hand. The woman called after them.

  "Don't forget your hot chocolate." She handed the steaming mug to Tam. Mags burst into tears at this simple display of human kindness. Theresa's expression softened.

  "Man trouble?" She said it in a conspiratorial whisper, laying her hand on Mags' arm.

  "Something like that."

  They parked the SUV behind the main building, where it couldn't be seen from the road. From the car park, they walked up the slope, staying behind the cabin. No footprints would betray them in the snow at the front. Mags didn't believe this killer could find them, but a primal part of her brain screamed at her to take precautions. What harm could it do to listen to it? And Tam was terrified.

  There was a log pile in an open-sided wooden building at the back of the cabin. An axe hung on a hook. Mags lifted it by its rubber grip, feeling the weight in her hand. Then she pictured the killer finding it there and slid it between the logs on the ground until it was out of sight. The cabin was the last at the top of the slope. The front door faced the interstate. At the rear, beyond the log pile, was a well-maintained path leading through the trees. According to a signpost, the town of Havers was a two mile walk away. Snow fell harder, the wind whisking tiny flakes against their faces.

  "Come on."

  Mags turned the lights on as they walked in. Twin beds, an antique pair of skis displayed on the wall above them. A bathroom through one door, the promised kitchenette a tiny room through an arch. There was a microwave and a fridge. The largest window was on the far side of the beds, looking out towards the road, although all it showed was a swirl of snow and the lights of the motel reception. There were lampposts on the path outside, spaced at regular intervals, darkness pooling between them.

  Tam reached behind Mags and flicked the lights off.

  "This way we can see anyone coming, but they can't see us."

  Smart kid. Mags kissed the top of her head. She wanted to tell her no one was coming, but she wasn't sure who she was trying to convince.

  With the curtains open, enough light spilled in from outside to illuminate the room. Tam went to the bathroom. Mags opened the cutlery drawer in the kitchen. No sharp knives.

  They shared the hot chocolate, sitting on the bed. It was a long time since either of them had eaten. Mags could hear her stomach complaining, but she wasn't hungry. Food could wait. Everything could wait. Their lives contracted to one small room, somewhere between Boston and Montréal. Time meant nothing. There was only tonight. Mags watched the wind lift great swathes of powder snow from the road in the fields, sending it skittering across the horizon.

  Tam had been quiet for a while, her body pressed up against her mother's.

  "I can feel him. In my mind." Tears ran down Tam's cheeks.

  Mags grabbed at a crazy idea. "Can you block him? Think about something else? Shut him out?"

  Tam, miserable with fear, shook her head. "I tried. In the car. I tried everything. I can't. He keeps looking for me. It's all he wants, Mum. He's coming."

  Tam shivered. Mags pulled a woollen hat out of her jacket pocket and put it on her daughter's head. She could find no words of reassurance.

  They sat close, arms wrapped around each other. They looked out into the night, and they waited.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The cop has a heavy jacket on. I take it, and his gloves.

  I take his car keys and go back to his cruiser. I look at the keyring. It doubles as a bottle opener. It's in the shape of a fish and has 'Gone Fishing' printed on it.

  I wonder.

  I drop the gun into my coat pocket, go to the trunk and unlock it. It pops up to reveal three fishing rods and a couple plastic boxes. I pop open the bigger box and there it is. Four reels of sea-fishing line, the strongest kind. It's even the same brand I used for my first devi
ce. I find wire cutters and cut it to length, wrap it around my gloves multiple times before pulling it taut. The gloves are thick. The fishing line glints, reflecting the lights on top of the car. It's perfect.

  The cop's body is lying a few feet in front of the flipped vehicle. The American's car blocks the only way past the truck. There's no way through.

  How can I reach her if I have no car?

  My face is ice cold, my cheeks stinging where the snowflakes hit them. I was asleep on my feet just then. Not sure how long for. Seconds? Minutes?

  I blink. Lights slide sideways left to right, then back the other way. I shake my head in confusion, before I work out what I'm looking at. Two vehicles, coming this way.

  I have to leave. I shouldn't have shot the cop in the face. He was wearing a hat. If I'd shot him in the chest, I could have taken it. I can't think straight in this cold.

  The lights come closer. The snow in front of me glows blue, then red, then blue again. The cars are heading towards the flashing lights of the cop car. I'm standing next to it like a fool, blood on the side of my face where my head hit the car door. The gun is in my hand, and the dead cop is a few yards away.

  Then, like an answered prayer, I taste chocolate. I'm not sure what is it at first. Warmth, sweetness, a powdery aftertaste. I have her. She's there, in the unfolding, a hidden room in my mind. I am not finished yet.

  That direction.

  I walk away from the cop before the cars arrive. At the edge of the interstate, I don't hesitate, striding off the road and into the snowy fields. I dodge around the truck and keep to the fields, follow the road north. Even in this coat, I am cold.

  After a few minutes trudging through the snow, there's a strange warmth in my feet. I look down. The thin hospital slippers have fallen off. Maybe when the car crashed. I'm walking in bare feet. But there's a numb warmth. Frostbite. If I don't get warm soon, I'll lose some toes, maybe even my feet.

  I don't care. She's ahead, drawing me in.

  It ends tonight.