Persecution

by C. A. Shives

  In one motion she flipped her body over and sliced at him with the knife. It cut across his cheek, sending blood streaming down his face. She slashed again, this time cutting his neck. The blade of the knife was so sharp that she felt almost no resistance when she pierced his skin.

  The blood spurted from his neck. He grabbed at his gash with his hands, pressing his palm against the wound, but red blood spewed from between his fingers. His eyes widened and then closed, and he fell to a heap on the floor.

  Charlotte didn't hesitate. She slipped the thin, sharp blade beneath the leather collar that encircled her neck, sawing at the band that had held her prisoner for so long.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The ranch style home sat in the middle of a wooded lot. White pines and scrub trees surrounded most of the brick house. Only an acre or so of grass had been mowed into a lawn, and it was overgrown and needed tending. Dark blue curtains hung in the windows, hiding the interior from Herne's view. He could see that half the house sat on a small hill, and a basement had been dugout under the home’s foundation.

  Herne pulled beside Miller's car, not bothering to hide the sound of his tires skidding across the gravel surface. He'd hesitated once before—waited almost too long to save a woman—and it had almost killed them both. He wasn't waiting for the proper authorities this time. Not if there was a chance to rescue Charlotte.

  As he ran toward the front door he pulled his Ruger ACP from his holster. He could hear his heart thumping in his chest. Everything else was quiet. Very quiet. It was as if even the birds in the trees had stopped their song.

  The front door was standard for a Hurricane house. A lock in the doorknob and a cheap deadbolt. It only took two kicks with Herne's foot to break through the door.

  The house seemed quiet. Herne waited at the front door. Waited to see if Miller would come running toward him with a shout and a weapon.

  But there was nothing. Just silence.

  Then he heard a woman scream.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The knife finally cut the last thread of leather that held the collar around her neck. The chain fell to the ground, and for a moment Charlotte was motionless.

  Free, she thought.

  She dropped the knife and ran for the basement stairs.

  She'd climbed about a dozen steps—halfway to the door that would lead her to freedom—when she heard a sound behind her. Guttural. Angry.

  Charlotte froze. She looked back and saw him at the bottom of the stairs, his massive form hunched over but his head raised. He grinned when he saw the look of shock on her face.

  He won't die, she thought. She was paralyzed with fright and hopelessness. He won't die.

  And when he put his foot on the stairs and began climbing, she screamed.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Herne knew the woman was close. He could hear the fear and panic that filled her voice. He looked at the door to the left. A basement door.

  In two strides he reached it and flung it open. A woman rushed out toward him.

  He knew it was Charlotte, though she looked nothing like her photograph. Her face was swollen and bruised. The purple and green bruises on her white flesh made her body look gray, and he could see the redness of broken veins and capillaries beneath her opaque skin. She was covered in blood, like someone had splattered her with a pail of crimson paint. It took him a moment to realize that she was almost naked.

  Herne grabbed her arm and she screeched again, an animal sound, as she pawed at his face. He thrust her behind him and looked down into the basement.

  Miller was slowly ascending the stairs. He was only a few steps away. His shoulders were hunched and one hand grabbed his abdomen. He, too, was covered in blood. A fillet knife glittered in his hand.

  Herne didn't hesitate. He raised his weapon and fired five rounds into Miller's chest. Miller crumpled, and his body fell to the basement floor.

  Herne turned to look for Charlotte. But she was gone. All she’d left behind were bloody footprints on the hardwood floor.

  DECEMBER - EPILOGUE

  Herne knocked on the door, unsure of the reason behind the invitation. It was a Tuesday afternoon—Tucker was on duty—so Herne knew Elizabeth wanted to speak with him alone.

  She opened the door silently and nodded to him, moving aside so he could step into the foyer. They walked together to the living room. She turned to face him.

  Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet and even. "I've never thanked you for finding Charlotte," she said.

  Herne shrugged. "You don't need to thank me," he said.

  She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, and the warmth of her fingers seemed to burn through his shirt sleeve. "Yes, I do. You saved her. You saved her life. And I know it cost you."

  So she had noticed. She had seen the extra drinks he'd been having with dinner. She'd noticed his bloodshot eyes when they ran into each other around town. She'd smelled the stale scent of whiskey that seeped from his pores.

  "I can handle it," he said.

  "I'll help you in anyway I can," she said.

  And then he looked into her eyes. Brown. Sad. Serious. And full of love.

  And it took every ounce of his willpower to stop himself from pulling her close to him.

  Then footsteps—soft and light—sounded in the hallway. Charlotte walked into the living room. She wore blue jeans and a turtleneck sweater. The bruises and wounds had faded, leaving her skin clear and white again. He didn't sense fear or hesitation in her step. And he was relieved to see that she had not been reduced to the role of a victim.

  But then he noticed the slight tremor in her hands, and he realized her scars hadn't yet healed.

  Not completely.

  Herne thought about the blood on his hands. Not just the blood of psychopaths like Miller, but innocent blood. Blood that, perhaps, shouldn’t have been spilled.

  Some scars never heal, he thought.

  "I never thanked you either," she said. "I owe you a tremendous debt."

  "Not really," Herne said gruffly. "He was pretty much finished by the time I got there. You had almost killed him already."

  Charlotte shook her head. "He was coming for me. He was going to kill me."

  Elizabeth reached out her arm and put it around her cousin's shoulders, drawing Charlotte close to her. "But it didn't happen," Elizabeth said. "Art saved you."

  Herne looked at the two women, their eyes somber as they gazed at him.

  I did save you, he thought. But who will save me?

  More C.A. Shives stories can be found at the author’s Amazon Page.

  C.A. Shives is the author of two novels, PHOBIA and PERSECUTION.

  When not reading, writing, editing, or publishing, C.A. enjoys watching a good action movie. The author also spends time target shooting on the range and raising backyard chickens.

  To learn more about C.A. Shives, visit the author's website: cashives.com.