And probably the balls to watch their prey from as close as across the street.
The first letter was hand delivered after all. Had to be, what with the lack of return address or postal markings. Or even a stamp. The woman has nerve. Lots of it.
Marcy silently prays that the sign Marcy bought worked. It seems to have, but she couldn’t know for sure. But if it did, that means that she turned the woman’s attention to her intended target.
And now she’s stalking the neighbors.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I didn’t move. Even though the bench slats were cutting into my hip, I didn’t move. I wasn’t sure I even could. I felt like a deer in headlights—frozen, waiting for the inevitable impact. Only my impact was recapture. I knew there was no way he would just let me go. Just leave me somewhere and drive away. No way.
Was there?
I watched his taillights grow dimmer and dimmer as the fog curled in around his car. It was so dense it looked sliceable. My brain noticed the most irrelevant minutia like that—dense fog, the way his loose muffler chattered like a bird, the fact that one square tail light was burned out. It was like I couldn’t bear to grab onto anything else. Anything like hope.
When the car was gone, I still didn’t move. It was like invisible snipers surrounded me, each one just waiting for me to shift the tiniest bit and then BAM!
Moments passed. Time, in its confusing, disoriented rhythm, passed. I felt strange. Off kilter. Unsteady. I blinked my eyes over and over again. Stared up at the night sky. Begged my mind to clear. I took one deep breath after another. Tried not to give in to the panic I felt rising. It scratched, clawed, picked at the ragged edge of my consciousness. It warned me not to fall for this.
This was too easy, too convenient. Too good to be true.
He would come back. He would come back and get me and continue his torture.
That or he had something else in store for me. Something worse. And I knew things could always get worse. You could go from worrying about food and water one minute to taking a human life the next. Only God knew what else a sick, depraved person could think up. I, for one, didn’t want to find out.
I moved my leg. A patch of skin on my hip had gone numb from the pressure of my awkward position. The instant I shifted, I instantly regretted it. My muscles tensed, my pulse fluttered. What if he was watching me? From the woods. From a distance. Watching and waiting.
I went statue-still again. Barely even breathed. I couldn’t work out in my mind what good feigning death or unconsciousness would do against someone like that, but it seemed like the right choice at the time.
When nothing happened, when no one jumped out of the forest to drag me back to my prison, it forced me to think of things from another perspective. Maybe it was too good to be true. Maybe he didn’t drop me off and leave me for real. Maybe he didn’t really let me go. But the fact of the matter was, I was alone. At least for the time being. And if I was alone, free for even a few minutes, I had an opportunity. And if I had an opportunity, however small and uncertain, I had to take it.
First things first. I needed to know where I was.
I rolled my eyes left. Then right. All I could see were treetops. Dark, fuzzy heads, brushing a blue velvet sky. They swayed in the breeze. Looked like they were clamoring at the foot of the crescent moon. Worshiping her.
I turned my head in different angles. Took in my surroundings.
I was in a clearing of some sort. There was gravel in a semi circle around me. Trees on every side. The woods were dense. Thick. Even more impenetrable than the fog. Directly in front of me, the gravel gave way to a narrow road. It sliced through the forest and disappeared into the fog.
When my eyes told me everything they could, I listened. Listened for anything. Everything. But all I heard was silence. Heavy. Absolute. Not even creatures of the night had shown up for tonight’s production.
A chill raced up my legs.
Slowly and carefully, I started to shift, to move. I sat up. Something that took more effort than I would’ve thought. I looked around again. Hoped for something more. Hoped for a different landscape behind me.
I was disappointed. It was just more of the same. Minus the road.
Next, I flared my nostrils. Sniffed the night air. Wet leaves. Damp moss. Earth. Nothing helpful.
I felt.
I hypothesized.
I plotted and planned and formulated. The latter was especially hard when I had no idea what the rules were, what my limitations were. Even free as I seemed to be, I was still at a distinct disadvantage.
I moved my wrists. Ground them together. Felt the pen. At least I still had my weapon. That was better than nothing. I decided to get it out, have it ready in case I needed it. No reason not to now.
With as little motion as possible, I worked the pen loose. Freed it just enough that the tip stuck against the tape. Wiggled it loose from there. And that gave me an idea.
I worked the pointed tip into an angular position. Maneuvered it back toward the tape that bound me. I moved it centimeter by centimeter until I could get it to penetrate the edge of the tape.
Then I did it again.
And again.
And again.
I made my own perforated line. It was probably less than a quarter inch long, but when I tugged, I felt it give.
A tear.
A tiny tear, but still a tear. A weakness. And a weakness, I could work with.
I kept poking until I could saw. And then I kept sawing until I could tear some more. All the while I glanced up and looked around, jumping at every sound. And at no sound at all.
I was paranoid, I knew. Partly delusional, I suspected.
I got the last of my wrist restraints torn. The only thing that held it on was the adhesive. I left it. I could break out of that in a flash. I still appeared to be bound, and that was how I wanted it. It was a small advantage, but it could mean life or death in some cases.
Cases like the one I’d been in.
I palmed the pen. Turned my attention inward again. Started to think. Started to plan.
When several minutes had passed, or at least what I thought was several minutes—what the hell did I know about time anymore?—I slid off the bench.
I moved in short, soft, quick bursts. Hesitant. Hopeful. Like a rabbit sniffing out the freedom that lay inches beyond the open door of her cage. I took one step. Only one. And then another. My legs were as shaky as my confidence. Shaky, but not broken. After all that happened, at least he hadn’t destroyed that.
I paused. Waited. Nothing happened. No booby trap was triggered. No maniacal killer rushed in. No alarm sounded.
I took another step.
Then another.
I sped up.
Sped up a little more.
By step twenty six, I was limping-running along the side of the road. Following in the direction of my kidnapper. Which sounded stupid crazy, but what choice did I have? I couldn’t afford to get lost in the woods, and my sense of direction was passable on my best day.
I watched and listened as I shuffled along. Didn’t even notice that gravel was biting into the soles of my feet. Didn’t even care that they were bleeding. Or that I was naked. Every step I took gave me energy. Gave me clarity. Gave me hope. I was one step farther from the bench. Farther from where he left me. Farther from where he might be tempted to go back and find me.
Maybe I was free. Maybe, for whatever reason, he’d really let me go. Maybe, just maybe.
This was the only way to find out. Try. Or die trying. No way was I just going to lie there and wait for him to change his mind. He’d let me get this far. If he wanted me back, I wasn’t going to make it easy. If I saw any signs of life, I’d duck into the woods. Hide. Wait him out. Pray he wouldn’t find me.
I don’t know how long I’d gimped along the two-track road when the crunch of tires on gravel broke through the night. My heart stuttered. A staccato rhythm. Like a scream. Nuh – Nuh – Nuh – Nuh - No!
I
veered off the road. Dove into the forest. Bit my lip to keep from squalling in pain when a sharp stick dug into the sole of my right foot. That wasn’t going to stop me. Or give me away. Neither was the tremble of my legs. The ache in my chest. The pound in my head.
Branches slapped me in the face. Dug into my hair. Clawed at my skin. I ducked them when I could. Shrugged them off when I couldn’t. I needed to get away from the road more than I needed to avoid some scrapes. I waved my arms, pushed at any and every obstruction that entered my field of vision.
I ran as far and as fast as I could. Ran to what I hoped was deep enough into the woods.
I stopped. Held my breath. Listened. My eyes scanned in every direction. The moon provided little light. Just a few beams slanting between the trees. I could see much more clearly than I expected to. Maybe because the dark had been my companion these last weeks. Or maybe because my eyes knew more what to do with it than the light now. I didn’t know, but I was grateful for it, whatever it was.
I looked for other lights. Flashlight, headlights, phone light. Saw none. I looked for movement, too. Saw none of that either. As far as I could tell, I was alone.
I cocked my head. Listened again. Heard no footsteps. No crunching or snapping. No heavy breathing or whispered commands. It seemed I was in the clear.
And then, a sound. A familiar sound. A voice. Off in the distance.
“Shannon!”
It was my imagination. It had to be. An auditory mirage. Definitely too good to be true. It couldn’t possibly be Gabe’s voice I was hearing.
“Shannon!”
My head twitched to the side. Tilted to better hear. It came again. A third time.
“Shannon!”
I breathed. Exhaled. Whispered. “Gabe?”
I stopped moving. Every muscle. Stood completely still. And I waited.
This time it was louder. Clearer. More real. “Shan-non!”
My eyes burned. Mind raced. Could it be Gabe?
My heart shouted yes. Hoped yes. But my mind hesitated. How could it be Gabe?
It wasn’t Gabe, I decided. It was a trick. A cruel trick of a mind in danger of shattering. I was holding on by a thread. And the night was tugging on the other end.
I was hearing what I wanted to hear. That was all.
I started walking again. Stopped when I heard it for the fifth time. When it was louder. More insistent.
“Shannon!” A pause. “Shann-onnnnn!”
It was angry. Frantic. Pained. Desperate.
It echoed everything I was feeling. It was as if his voice was telling me that he was as afraid of finding me as I was afraid of being found. I was no longer the Shannon he said “I do” to on our wedding day. I didn’t know if anyone would ever see her again.
I started to turn away, but my name rattled through the trees again. It came out broken. Cracked. The A in my name disappearing altogether as his voice wavered with emotion. “Sh-nnon!”
That spoke to me. To my heart. To my soul. To my body.
Adrenaline shot into my blood stream. Invigorated my muscles. Made me light and agile, like a deer running gracefully through the woods. In that moment, it didn’t matter what I’d been through. Didn’t matter how weak I was. Didn’t matter that I’d only had a trickle of water in days. There was one goal. One aim. And it was all consuming—get to Gabe. Now.
I took off in the direction of his voice. Ran without thinking. I sailed over stumps. Leapt over logs. I had wings. Big beautiful wings that carried me all the way to him.
But that was just how I felt.
Time and time again, I picked myself up off the ground. I stumbled. Fell. Picked myself up again. I ignored the warm ooze of blood down my legs. Down my arms. Down my cheeks. I was single-minded. Determined. Recklessly so. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Gabe.
Dalton.
They were waiting for me.
I would make it to them.
The trees broke up ahead. Revealed a pale, glowing beacon. It was the gravel clearing. And at its center, the bench.
Light shone upon it. More than just moonbeams. Headlights. From the car parked in front of it.
I studied the vehicle as I ran. The closer I got, the more familiar it became. The color was black blood in the night, the shape a tall, sleek cab that lowered to a bed. Gabe’s truck. I could almost smell the coconut air freshener he kept plugged into the vents.
With every step, my legs grew weaker and weaker. They were running out of steam, my goal so close yet so, so far.
“G-Gabe!” I tried to yell, but the sound was as graveled and dry as the road up ahead.
But it was enough.
I saw a silhouette move. Shift between me and the headlights. A phantom. An apparition. A figment of my imagination.
But then I heard another frantic cry of my name as the shadow turned. Started toward me.
Like a battery running down, my steps grew shorter and shorter, shakier and shakier. My knees crumbled under me like plaster of Paris. I slid to the forest floor.
Sobs, gut-wrenching sobs, quaked in my chest. There were no tears. I couldn’t physically shed them. But my eyes still burned with them. They still poured through my heart.
And then I was being lifted. Light as air, both inside and out.
“Shannon, Shannon! Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God!”
It was Gabe. It was my husband. Cradling me. Crushing me. Smothering me with kisses.
His tone wavered as he said my name over and over, each syllable a plea for reassurance that it was me, that I was okay.
I could offer him neither. I wasn’t me and I wasn’t okay. I might not ever be either again. But I was found. I was safe. And, at that moment, that was all I needed.
Chapter Thirty
Marcy is poised to open the door when the bell rings. Her face is wreathed in a smile. She’s genuinely pleased to be having the neighbors over for a cookout, partly because she likes Jill and partly because she is excited to carry out the plan she and John formulated.
They’d agreed upon hosting a dinner for the Halperns. They would socialize and feed them, then after eating, Marcy would engage both Mark and Jill with dessert preparation while John excused himself, citing a sensitive stomach. Marcy would keep them occupied as her husband crept between the houses under the cover of night. He would sneak in through the side door, which the Halperns would undoubtedly leave open since they’d only be next door. Of course, it wasn’t a foolproof plan, but it was a great first stab at what they could accomplish together, and Marcy was nearly manic with excitement.
She swings open the door and greets Mark and Jill. They have their daughter in tow. Cheyenne is sleepily resting her head on her mother’s shoulder.
“Welcome, welcome. Come on in,” Marcy urges, stepping aside so the family can enter.
Jill pauses on her way past, muttering, “Someone got in trouble before we left, so she isn’t very happy.”
Marcy nods knowingly, remembering just such days when Caroline was about that age. Oh, the things a kid can get into, especially during the “terrible two’s and three’s.”
Mark nods and offers a tight smile as he steps inside. “Thanks for the invite.”
“Oh, it’s our pleasure, I promise you. We’ve waited far too long to do this.”
And, in truth, they likely have. Marcy can’t help feeling that if she’d been more aggressive in urging the families to get together, she’d have been able to uncover more by now. Then again, it wasn’t for lack of trying that she hadn’t. One thing or another had cropped up to impede her progress. But that was all about to change tonight.
Glancing behind the couple, Marcy asks, “Isn’t your nanny coming? I was looking forward to meeting her.”
It’s Mark who answers. “No, she was going to do some shopping while we’re out and then grab some dinner with a friend, I think.”
“Oh. Well, another time then.” Relieved that their plans aren’t going to be ruined, Marcy closes the
door and darts ahead of Jill who has paused in the living room. “This way. We’ll have dinner outside and then I have something special planned for dessert.”
Jill’s brows rise and she looks impressed. Marcy beams with pride. And not only for her hosting skillset. The plan she and John devised is hovering at the edge of all her thoughts, lending a tinge of exhilaration to every moment of the night. She can understand how people get addicted to crime. Even though breaking and entering one’s neighbor’s house isn’t exactly legal, Marcy waves it off as both a minor and an understandable offense in the grand scheme of things. After all, if Mark Halpern is some sort of violent felon, she and John could well be saving the lives of his future victims—including Jill and Cheyenne—by taking this risk.
At least that’s what she tells herself.
Marcy isn’t always the most rational when it comes to times of high emotional stakes. Thankfully, she has John, her balance. Her buffer. The yin to her yang.
The trio makes their way outside into the back yard where John is cleaning the grill. He looks up and smiles, waving to the new arrivals. “Glad you could make it.” He bends to reach into the cooler at his side and pulls out two bottles. “Beer?”
Jill points to the load in her arms. “None for me, thanks.”
Mark, however, steps forward. “I’ll take one. Thanks.”
The men talk meats over the grill while Marcy and Jill take seats at the round wrought iron table that sits on one side of the brick-paver patio. Jill resituates Cheyenne until she’s reclining sleepily in her lap. The little girl slips a soothing thumb between her lips and rests her head against her mother’s breast, her long-lashed eyes blinking slower and slower.
“Maybe if she naps, she’ll feel more like herself,” Jill begins with a rueful smile. “Where’s Caroline?”
Marcy’s smile is tainted with a hint of sadness. “She’s in her room. I hope she’ll come down for dinner. Maybe that will help break the ice for her.”
“That would be good,” Jill replies amicably. “How’s she doing? No better?”
“No. Nothing seems to work. I’m supposed to take her back to the doctor at the end of August for another assessment. He says based on those results, he’ll be able to tell us better how to proceed.”
Right Next Door Page 16