Right Next Door

by Leah Montgomery

  Mark rounds the corner. His eyes rake John, Marcy, and, finally, Jill. They come to rest on her and stay there. She stares back at him, unwavering.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Days started to go by in bursts. Nothing would happen for hours and hours, for days and days, and then boom! We’d make a tiny step forward.

  Grace got a job at Tallman as a part time receptionist. It didn’t happen immediately. The position was posted as full time, so Grace had to get creative. Luckily, that was something Grace was very good at.

  First, she got the name of the head of human resources. She looked him up on a business networking site. Took a screenshot of his picture. Spent a couple of afternoons waiting for him to leave work. When she finally saw him, she followed him home. She got up early the next morning and parked down the street from his house. Waited for him to leave. She tracked him to a Starbucks on the way to Tallman. Then, in true Grace style, every day after that, she “accidentally” arrived at the same time.

  On day three, she struck up conversation with him as they waited in line. Being a beautiful woman had its perks. She’d batted her lashes. Flipped her hair. Touched his arm. Laughed at things he said. In six business days, she’d sold the whole “mom who needs a break” bit, gotten him to reconsider Tallman’s receptionist needs, and landed the job, part time.

  There was no question. She was a force to be reckoned with.

  The process had cost us almost two weeks, though, and every second that went by made me edgier. More frantic. More desperate.

  Once Grace started working, I texted her after each of her shifts. I couldn’t wait for an update. Fortunately, she was able to find out within the first week that our guy worked in sales. That was why he wasn’t in the office as much. That was why I didn’t find him sooner.

  She wasn’t able to find out much about his route. She didn’t want to risk seeming suspicious. I didn’t want that either. So she played it safe. It was what had to be done. I just didn’t like it. Patience had never been my strong suit. Even less so now.

  In her role, Grace didn’t have access to personnel records, so she couldn’t find his address. At every turn, it was hurry up and wait. One step forward and wait. And wait. And wait. It felt like we were always waiting.

  Four weeks in, we got another break. Grace happened to be working when he came into the office. She struck up conversation. Pretended to be the stereotypical vacuous blonde who chatted too much. Reading her text that day had curled my lip. “As much as I hate to admit it, he seemed nice. He was pleasant, polite. Just not very talkative.”

  “He’s a sick bastard. Even if he isn’t the guy, he at least knows the guy. Or is maybe hiding the guy. Either way, he’s a sick bastard.”

  “I agree, but I try not to focus on that. I don’t want it to show on my face.”

  “God forbid. You’ve always had an expressive face.”

  “I know, I know. That’s why I’m keeping it cool. Just have a little faith, okay?”

  “I do. Or else you wouldn’t even be there.”

  “There’s a staff meeting tomorrow. Mandatory. I’m sure that means him, too. I’ll be sure to bump into him at the coffee urn.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t forget what happened to me. He might be more like his friend than he seems.”

  Grace made a hacking sound of disgust in the back of her throat. “Lowlife perverts.”

  It was three days after that conversation that I got an alarming text from Grace. It raised the hair on my arms. It wasn’t lengthy or verbose. Quite the opposite. It was two words. Two very impactful words. I’d never forget reading them. Or how they made me feel—panicked.

  * * *

  He’s moving.

  It was the only text I’d gotten from her that day. It could’ve meant a number of things. Pertained to a number of people. But I knew what it meant. Who it pertained to. I didn’t have to ask a single question. I knew. And I felt the urgency of it like a stab to the heart.

  The guy was moving.

  And he could very well take my son and his kidnapper with him.

  My response was equally brief.

  Where?

  Three bubbles popped up. Danced along the bottom of the screen. One second. Two.

  Then two more words appeared. They would be the last part of our new address. Gabe didn’t have a choice. I didn’t have a choice. We would make the move, too. We would do whatever we had to do. He could take a leave of absence from work. Get a new job. Something. Anything. All I knew for sure is that we were moving to South Carolina.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Mark stares at Jill, his eyes cold and steely. Then he swings them to Marcy, then to John.

  Quickly, suddenly, he raises his arm. His hand is gloved and, in it, a shiny black gun.

  Jill springs up from the sofa. “Mark, no!”

  Marcy gasps. “Oh, God!”

  John lurches to his feet. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Halpern?”

  “Get up. All of you. We’re leaving.”

  “You’ve lost your mind if you think we’re going anywhere with you,” John spits. “We’ll be the ones leaving. And as soon as I get home, I’ll have your ass thrown in jail for brandishing a fire arm.” John reaches for Marcy, tugging her to her feet. “Come on.”

  Mark steps forward. Shifts the aim of the gun from John to Marcy. But his eyes…his eyes never leave John’s. “Try it and I’ll put a bullet between her eyes.”

  He issues the words with such calm, such utter calm that the hairs on Marcy’s arms rise to attention.

  John moves until half his body is in front of half of Marcy’s, shielding her. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, I would.”

  Marcy clings to John’s side, her heart flapping wildly in her chest. Like a bird trying desperately to flee its cage. “Wh-where do you want us to go, Mark?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’d hate to ruin the surprise.”

  Jill finally speaks up. “Mark, let them go. This is between us.”

  “Get in the car.” When Jill doesn’t immediately comply, he barks again, “Get in the car. Now!”

  She rushes to do his bidding. Marcy wants to scream at her to run. Go for help. Grab a weapon. Do something other than follow his orders. But she hears the door in the kitchen that leads to the garage click open and then there’s silence.

  Mark waves his gun at Marcy and John. “You two, too. Move.”

  John takes Marcy’s hand in his, glancing down at her as they begin to walk the way Jill had gone. His gaze pauses on Marcy’s. He nods almost imperceptibly, his silent reassurance that everything will be okay. Marcy knows him well enough to know he’s already working on a plan. He’s gotten them out of worse scrapes, always brilliantly and without harm. He will do it again.

  The garage is empty except for a big, black SUV. Jill is standing beside it, arms crossed over her chest. From behind Marcy and John, Mark snaps, “Open the back door.”

  Jill does as he says. When Marcy passes her to climb into the back seat, she notices that Jill’s eyes are big frightened pools of chocolate. John starts to get in beside her, but Mark taps his arm with the gun. “You, in the third row.”

  John maneuvers between the door and the seat, and scoots into the back row of bench seating. Mark gets in last, angling his body so he can aim the gun at John and keep his eye on Marcy. “Jill, you drive.”

  Jill closes the door and rounds to the driver’s side. Marcy watches as she gets in and starts the engine. Without being told, she presses a button on the sun visor and the garage door purrs open.

  She reverses out of the driveway, shuts the garage door, and pauses before turning out onto the street. “Which way?”

  “Left,” he replies, never taking his gun off John. “Pull over at the entrance to the subdivision. There are no cameras there.”

  “No cameras?” Marcy asks. “What is it that you don’t want to be seen doing? Yo
u’ve already kidnapped us.”

  Mark’s lips twist into a cruel smile. “Oh, being kidnapped is the least of your worries.” He turns to Jill. “Now drive.”

  No one speaks until Jill gets to the subdivision exit. She slows, puts on her blinker, and pulls to the right. She puts the vehicle in park. “Now what?”

  Mark reaches into the pocket on the back of the passenger seat and retrieves a wad of black material. He shakes it loose on the seat, revealing two sacks. He tosses one to Marcy. “Put that on.” Then he throws one back to John. “You, too.”

  “If you think we’re going to go along with—”

  Mark jacks a round into the chamber of his gun, effectively cutting off whatever John had been about to say. “Not another word. Do what I tell you.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” John sneers.

  “No? What about your wife?” Mark swings the gun toward Marcy, pointing at the center of her forehead. “You think she’s afraid of me right about now?”

  “You mother fu—”

  “Let’s save the namecalling for our destination. You’ll have plenty of time to air your grievances. Right now, you need to get these hoods on before I shoot one of you in the leg.”

  John still resists. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Marcy has already pulled the hood over her head, but she can hear the defiance in her husband’s voice. He’s protective of her. Dangerously so. They both know John would do anything, anything for her. Including sacrificing himself. Marcy can’t stand the thought of that, though, which is why she speaks up. “John, please. Just do what he says. I couldn’t…I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”

  “He won’t—”

  “Don’t test him. I don’t…I don’t get a good feeling from him.” And she doesn’t. Something in Mark Halpern’s eyes looks downright murderous. Marcy’s only hope is that once they get where they’re going, maybe she, John, and Jill can overpower him somehow.

  “Smart woman.”

  “John, please.”

  She hears his sigh, and then the rustle of material moving against skin as he moves his arms and pulls the hood over his head. She exhales. He may have just bought them time. Minutes that could be crucial to their escape in the near future.

  Marcy can hear someone shifting in their seat, but she can’t be sure who. It sounds like it’s coming from multiple directions. And the material that the hood is made out of is thick. Very effective at compromising their sight.

  Cool fingers wrap around Marcy’s wrists. Before she can react, her hands are bound in front of her, secured with a zip tie. Marcy is confused by the touch. It isn’t rough and masculine like she would expect from Mark. Besides, he’s holding the gun.

  But that would mean…

  “John, just so you know, I have a gun pointed at your wife’s head.” The voice belongs to Jill. Marcy recognizes it. Of course she does, but it’s as different from the Jill she’s come to know as night from day. This voice is cold. Hard.

  Involved.

  “Jill, what are you—”

  “You’re going to reach your hands forward and let Mark tie them. If you try anything, anything at all, I’ll redecorate the inside of this SUV with your wife’s gray matter.”

  “What the hell is going on here? We were trying to help you,” John hisses. Seconds later, Marcy hears the telltale sound of the zip tie tightening.

  “Save it, John. I’d rather work through the details when we can talk face to face.”

  “Take this hood off and we’ll talk right now face to face.”

  Jill laughs. The sound is as beautifully musical as it is heinous. “Nice try.”

  Marcy hears more shifting and, seconds later, the gears pop as Jill puts the transmission into drive and hits the gas pedal.

  “Jill, you really don’t—”

  Marcy’s plea is cut off by Mark’s stern bark. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear another word from either of you until we get where we’re going.”

  Marcy’s stomach is clenched tight with fear and dread, but one thought overpowers it all. “Caroline. We left her at the house by herself. She’s just a child.”

  “Lucky for you, we’re not monsters. Sabrina is probably already there. She’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “So, so she’s part of this, too?”

  “Not one more word,” Mark says, his tone deep and dark and all too serious. Marcy clamps her trembling lips shut.

  Her mind races as she and John are transported to God knows where. Marcy hopes John is concocting a plan. He won’t give up so easily, but without Jill’s help, they’re at a bit more of a disadvantage. And this whole operation is something that’s been planned for quite some time. That much is obvious.

  Marcy takes comfort in one truth: These two have underestimated John and Marcy Stanley. As long as they’ve been together, that has never worked out well for any of their enemies. She has to believe that they will be victorious in this situation, too.

  Marcy estimates that it’s probably a full thirty minutes later when she feels the tires of the vehicle leave the asphalt. They travel for a minute or two on gravel, and then even that disappears. The road becomes bumpier and bumpier, and Jill has to slow to a crawl to traverse what feels like a series of deep potholes. Marcy imagines it’s a dirt road, which only gives her a more ominous feeling.

  After another couple of minutes, Jill slows, shifts into park, and cuts the engine. Neither she nor Mark speaks.

  Marcy hears Jill’s door open and slam shut. Seconds later, Marcy’s door flies open. Marcy gasps.

  Fingers grip her upper arm and tug. “Come on. Get out.”

  Marcy does as she’s told, wishing she could stop shaking. It’s humiliating to be intimidated by these two lunatics.

  Jill leads Marcy slowly over very uneven terrain toward…somewhere. Behind her, Marcy can hear Mark getting John out, urging him to walk, getting stern when John refuses. Marcy imagines Mark nudging her husband with the gun, and she wants to call out to John. But this time, she doesn’t know what she should say. She has a bad, bad feeling that this isn’t going to turn out like she’d hoped. That there might not be an escape.

  A door opens somewhere close. Hinges squeak and a puff of musty air tickles Marcy’s nose. She feels the pointed jab of a gun at her ribs as Jill pushes her ahead. “Walk straight.”

  Marcy places one foot cautiously in front of the other. Without the benefit of sight, she’s very unsteady. Behind her, she can hear the shuffling of other feet. John and Mark must be coming up behind them. Marcy loses her balance and her elbows shoot out reflexively. On her left, she meets resistance. A wall of some sort. And unless there is a lot of room to the right, this is a very narrow corridor.

  Sound seems to deaden the farther they walk, like the walls themselves are gobbling up all signs of life. The air has become cooler and damper, too.

  Fear unfurls in the pit of Marcy’s stomach, like the dark, delicate petals of a black rose.

  “Jill, please tell me what’s going on.” Marcy tries to keep her tone soft enough that maybe, just maybe Mark won’t hear and she’ll be able to reason with her friend. Or the woman she thought was her friend.

  Jill doesn’t respond right away. They walk a little longer, the air growing heavier and heavier the farther they go. Marcy is no longer able to hear John and Mark behind them, and without John, Marcy’s panic rises.

  Her breathing starts to come faster, shallower. Marcy feels tremors start to ripple through her legs. But before they can give out, before Marcy can yield to a full-blown panic attack, she hears a mechanical click. Then her hood is snatched off.

  Bright light temporarily blinds her. She squints and blinks, her eyes tearing as they make the adjustment. When she can finally see enough to take in her surroundings, a truer fear grips her. Fear in its purest, rawest, most terrifying form.

  The room is no more than ten feet in any direction. At its center is a battery-operated spotlight. It stands unevenly on a tripod, sheddi
ng light into one corner. The corner which contains a jug of water and a small bag of dog food.

  The blue-white glow is absorbed by nearly every dark surface, but it still illuminates far more than Marcy would’ve liked to see. Everywhere she looks, there is dirt. Dark red, hard-packed clay. Walls, ceiling and floors are hewn from it, like someone dug the room with their hands, every angry swipe etched into the earth. And covering that earth is wiring. It’s held in place every few feet with shiny metal stakes that glint and gleam in the light. The place looks like a red tomb. An earthen crypt. A dirt grave.

  Her dirt grave.

  Heart pounding, Marcy turns to Jill. The woman she finds is unfamiliar to her.

  Jill’s glasses are gone, and she’s standing with her body angled toward the light, casting a wedge of her face in deep shadow. Everything about her is different. From the way she holds her head to the set of her chin, it’s like Jill Halpern has transformed from caterpillar into butterfly. Eyes that were soft brown and mousy are now hard, sparkling dots of coal. Lips that have always smiled hesitantly are now thinned into a sneer. Every line of her face is rigid. Severe. But also stunning. Despite the harshness of Jill’s expression, Marcy has never seen her look more beautiful. Savagely, maniacally beautiful.

  “You know, Marcy, I was really surprised to find out it was you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That it was you who took me. “

  “Took you? Took you where?”

  “I don’t know. Wherever it was you held me prisoner for all those weeks. Wherever it was you last let me see my child.”

  Marcy’s heart thuds against her ribcage. “I don’t… I don’t…”

  “Maybe you’d recognize me if I had my blonde pixie cut back. Or if I was naked and chained to a wall.”

  Seconds tick by.

  Heartbeats.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  A cold sweat springs to life in the center of Marcy’s palms. Dread, cool, slick, slimy dread coils through her like a snake. Pieces of a puzzle click silently into place. Even the numbers, 7-2.