“You’re going to kill me before we make it to a hotel room, aren’t you?”
“But I’m having so much fun.” With her hair dancing in the rush of wind through her open window, her eyes alight, she was impossible to resist.
“Fine. My turn, then. What’s the craziest place you’ve ever had sex?”
“Mark! Unfair. I’m trying to drive here.”
“It’s a simple question. It’s not like you have to relive it.”
“Well, I kind of do, because it was in a moving vehicle.”
His cock responded with another hard pulse. Well, he had only himself to blame for this line of conversation. But he was too fascinated to back off now. “A moving vehicle? What kind of moving vehicle? One of those four-wheelers?”
“No. That would be extremely uncomfortable. Even more so than it actually was.”
“Now I’m dying from curiosity.” All kinds of images were running through his brain. Back seat of a car? Pickup truck? Airplane? Funny thing, though—in all of those scenarios, he was the one with Gracie, no one else. He planned to keep it that way—at least in his head. He unscrewed the cap of his water bottle and took a swig. “Okay, I give up. What was it?”
“A snowplow.”
He snorted, spewing water all over her dashboard. “Sorry. What?”
“In the cab of a snowplow. I dated our snowplow driver for a few months.”
“You got plowed in a snowplow?”
“Okay, now was that really necessary?” she protested over his laughter. “What are you, twelve?”
“All grown-up, baby.” He used his best sexy growl and watched her shiver. “Snowplow, huh? I guess the mountains do have some good points after all.”
“Okay, now we might have a problem. Are you disrespecting my mountains?”
“Mountains are perfectly fine off in the distance. Peaks on the horizon, that sort of thing. Let’s just leave it at that.” He was teasing her, mostly. His love for the ocean went deep.
“You’re being close-minded. You haven’t given the mountains a chance.”
“A chance to what? Freeze my Southern California ass off?”
All her sexy lightheartedness disappeared as she frowned. “I think we just hit a major roadblock. The ocean is beautiful, but nothing compares to the mountains. Especially the Cascades.”
“Agree to disagree?”
“I guess so.” But she still wore a troubled expression. “It’s good thing this is nothing more than sex. Otherwise we’d have a big problem. Did you ever think about living anywhere besides Ocean Shores?”
“Not really. I actually got into college on the East Coast. But I didn’t go so I could help my uncle at the marina. He always said he was going to pass it on to me, and I liked knowing I had a place. I never had that ‘what do I want out of life’ debate. I didn’t think like that.”
“How did you think?”
He watched the power lines flick past in a steady, reassuring beat. “I thought about security. Surviving. Here’s the thing. Once your world has gotten smashed up, you always know it could happen again. You’re never naive again. You always have that doubt in the back of your mind. This could all go away. You’re never really safe. Safety is a fucking illusion.”
She startled at his forceful words. “So how do you live, then?”
He gaped at her, realization striking like a hammer to his head. “Not very well,” he admitted. “I don’t take a lot of risks. I only get along with misfits, or people who need a helping hand. Gives me a purpose in life. I avoid complications. I avoid tough emotions. I just chug along, try to enjoy the simple things. A cold beer at the end of the day. Sunrises the color of mangoes. A really excellent guitar solo. Shark Week. A pretty girl smiling at me as I walk by. Striped spinnakers. Jumping off the deck of the Buttercup on a hot day. That’s what life is, to me. All these little moments. I don’t have bigger plans. I don’t want to have bigger plans because I know it’s pointless. It could all get ground under the heel of some stranger’s boot.”
He stopped talking because that was more than he’d said to any other human being except his therapist in years. Including him, come to think of it.
While he was ranting, Gracie had taken an off-ramp that led to a truck stop where gas stations and the Black River Bar and Grill shared space with a decent-looking motel.
She came to a stop with a jerk and sat looking at him silently.
“What?” he said, suddenly defensive. Had he said too much? Bared too much of his wounded spirit?
“Nothing. You’re very eloquent. And I don’t believe you. You don’t let yourself have bigger plans. But you can change that. You were going to, with Sophie.”
He jabbed a finger her direction. “Exactly. And you see how that worked out.”
“It worked out the way it was supposed to work out. That doesn’t mean you can’t have a different kind of future.” She touched his wrist, a light gesture that was meant to be kind, obviously, but felt more like pity.
Impatient, he shook her off. “Look, I have a therapist. I know the drill. But some things aren’t fixable. You’re better off accepting your limits and enjoying the little things in life. Like French fries dipped in mustard. Cheeseburger with extra relish and a big mug of ale. You coming?” He hopped out of the car and gestured toward the restaurant, where all the big semis were parked.
“Why are you mad?”
“I’m not mad. I’m hungry, and I could use a drink. Come on!” He set off toward the restaurant. He shouldn’t have gotten into all that crap from the past. Now he felt exposed and ridiculous. She probably thought he was complaining or feeling sorry for himself. But he wasn’t. He was just…realistic.
That was yet another way they were opposites. Gracie wouldn’t know “realistic” if it buried her under an avalanche. She would still hold on to that constant optimism.
Didn’t she know that hope was the biggest trap of all? Soon enough, she was going to find out. They were going to come face to face with the monster who had stolen his childhood.
He needed a damn drink.
23
Mark ordered a beer with his cheeseburger, then a shot of whiskey after that. Gracie stuck to iced tea and watched him with growing alarm. She knew that he occasionally drank with the fishermen back at Ocean Shores—like the night he’d fallen off the ramp when Mellow startled him. But tonight seemed different—as if he was trying to get blotto.
“You should take it easy,” she kept telling him.
“Two words.” He gestured at her with his shot glass. “Designated driver.”
“Yes, but—”
“Two more words. Hotel room.”
“But—”
“Cheers.” And he downed another one. Soon he was loose and chatty and launching deep philosophical conversations with the truckers at the table behind them.
“Vibranium or adamantium? Which is stronger?”
It was amazing how passionate people could get about random topics of conversation like that.
Under the influence of a few shots, all his reserve disappeared. He was friendly, open, even sappy, telling everyone that Gracie was his favorite person in the world. The waitresses cooed over him. The bartender told him all about his new baby.
She had to wonder—would Mark have been like this, gregarious and relaxed, if his life hadn’t been changed forever by Janus Kaminski?
After a few hours, she stepped outside and called Jake. “What’s your best tip on how to handle a customer who’s drinking too much?”
“Is it Mark?”
“It’s an anonymous person who shall remain nameless.”
“Cut him off. Make him drink some water. Keep an eye on him. Call the cops at the first sign of trouble.”
“I can’t call the cops. He’s not doing anything bad. He’s just talking. A lot.”
“Want me to come get you?”
She snorted. “I’m hours away. And I’m fine—it’s him I’m worried about.”
�
�Lyle can send a chopper. He knows a guy.”
“Jake, you’re not helping. What if I water down his drinks? I poured one of them into a cactus, but he just ordered another one.”
“Look, I don’t know the guy. I don’t know his pattern. But the two of you are heading into a stressful situation. Maybe this is how he copes. Just make sure he doesn’t hurt himself or anyone else. Especially you.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not like that. He’s just getting very…” She squinted through the window at Mark on his bar stool. “Weepy. He actually cried while telling this random trucker all about Mellow. That’s our stray cat.”
“He’ll probably crash pretty soon. Better go. Just get him into bed, and he’ll sleep it off.”
Jake knew what he was talking about. Half an hour later, Mark was yawning, and his eyelids were drooping. Gracie slung an arm around him so he could lean on her while she helped him out of the bar.
“You’re the best, Gracie,” he kept telling her. “The best one.”
“Are you always this complimentary when you get drunk?”
“Not drunk. Don’t really get drunk. Just get…relaxed. Frees up my tongue. So I can tell you stuff. Tell everyone stuff. Good stuff.”
“Okay. Have it your way.” They sidestepped a small puddle of water that held a sheen of oil. “You’re not drunk. At all. Ever.”
“Gracie.” He stopped in the middle of the truck stop, near a puddle under a tall lamppost. “I’m scared.”
She stared up at him, feeling a weird time warp, as if she were seeing the young Mark from back then. “I know. Me too.”
Avoiding her gaze, he looked around the parking lot, then stiffened. Following his glance, she saw he was staring at a semitruck parked in a row of them. She couldn’t identify anything different about it, except for a dog sitting in the passenger seat.
“Come on, let’s get to bed. You need your rest.”
“Only doing this for you.” He didn’t resist her tug on his arm. Maybe she’d imagined the weird moment with the truck.
“I know that. I’m nothing but trouble. I know that, too.”
“You’re big trouble. The best trouble.”
“Well, that’s nice of you to put it that way.” She steered him the remaining few yards to the motel. “Man, you’re going to regret this in the morning. You’re going to need gallons of coffee.”
He swiped a hand across his forehead. “Yeah, it takes lots of coffee to find a monster.”
The way he said that word sent a terrible chill through her. The monster. Was that how the child Mark had seen Janus? Of course it was. He was the monster who’d stolen him from his parents. The monster who had caused the breakup of his family, the nightmares, all kinds of problems.
Because of her, Mark was going to face the monster for the first time since that terrible experience.
No wonder he’d gotten drunk.
Jake was absolutely right. This was all her fault. She should never have let him come with her.
Luckily, their room was on the ground floor, so she didn’t have to help him up any stairs. She got him into the room and guided him to one of the double beds. He crashed onto it like a fallen oak tree.
Within seconds, he was snoring, one half of his face smushed into the pillow, limbs askew.
She kneeled at the foot of the bed to unlace the boots he’d borrowed from Griffin. “This is definitely not what I was picturing, Mark. Remind me not to get too carried away with fantasies about hotel-room sex.”
One boot came off, clunking onto the floor. A worn spot in the heel of his sock tugged at her heart. “Oh, Mark. I wish I didn’t care for you so much,” she whispered. “You’re going to break my heart, aren’t you?”
She unlaced the second boot, listening to his soft snores.
“You have all this love locked up in your heart. I can feel it whenever I’m with you. I feel it in the way you look at me, the way you touch me. But you don’t want it to come out.”
As she pulled off the second boot, a scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and saw that it was scrawled in Mark’s spiky handwriting. It was directions. To Janus Kaminski’s place? She turned it over, but saw no name noted. It must be Kaminski’s. What other directions would he have tucked into his boot? He’d probably hid them so she wouldn’t find them and tackle Kaminski on her own.
She carried Mark’s boots to the door and put them down where he would find them. He was completely out, dead to the world. Just as Jake had predicted. How long would he sleep? What kind of shape would he be in when he woke up?
Most of all, why hadn’t she seen this coming? She’d been so wrapped up in her own search that she hadn’t truly considered what this experience would be like for him. He’d spent three weeks at the mercy of that man.
Look at him. Sacked out. Flattened. Out of commission.
All she wanted was information, but for Mark, it was so much more complicated.
She couldn’t do this to him.
After slipping the piece of paper into her pocket, she scrawled a note to Mark.
I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere. P.S. You’re pretty cute when you’re sleeping. P.P.S. Drink lots of water. P.P.P.S. The coffee maker is all set, just press the “start” button. Gracie.
It was still three hours before dawn when she got close to Kaminski’s place, only fifty miles across the Idaho border. She pulled over on the empty road, locked her door, and leaned her seat all the way back so she could get some sleep.
It was hard not to think about Mark, all cozy in that hotel bed. She could be curled up right next to him, soaking in his heat and listening to his deep breaths. It would have been a thousand times nicer and more comfortable than her car. But she didn’t want him to wake up and argue with her.
She had a plan. She’d pretend to be a fan of Kaminski’s art—she had her sketchbook as proof that she was also an artist. She’d tell him that she wanted to buy one of his pieces. From what she’d learned in her research, he wasn’t generally violent. He’d never been arrested for any other uncool thing after the kidnapping, so she shouldn’t be in any danger if she handled it right.
Unless it seemed completely safe, she wouldn’t reveal anything about herself. She’d glean whatever information she could, then leave. Maybe she could get back to the motel before Mark even woke up.
This way, Mark wouldn’t have to face his demons.
Even though she slept only lightly, by the time the first rays of dawn stole across her dashboard, she felt refreshed and ready for anything.
As she followed the directions on Mark’s slip of paper, she passed fewer and fewer cars until she realized it had been a good ten minutes since she’d seen any. The terrain became wilder, with fewer homes and more long stretches of woodlands. The last turn took her onto a one-track road pitted with potholes. She bumped along, forced to slow to a crawl.
And then the signs appeared, tacked onto the trees next to the road.
All the world’s a stage, said the first one. Hmm. Shakespeare. That didn’t seem too menacing.
The next sign—painted on a piece of plywood—read, Nothing but sound and fury.
“Signifying nothing,” she said under her breath, adding the next line on her own. “Are you a theater buff, Mr. Kidnapper? Or is that just a cute way to say your crimes don’t matter?”
After the signs, she passed a series of very strange sculptures installed in the woods along the road. They were made from pieces of scrap metal and abandoned parts—washing machine lid, weather vane, antennae—nailed and welded together into mutant-looking figures. More like gnomes or trolls, or maybe Wall-E if you were going to be generous. Even though they had no “faces,” their postures communicated something. Anguish for one, triumph for another.
The sculptures were creepy, and she didn’t like looking at them. She kept her gaze on the road ahead and ignored the strange works. Maybe they were rejects that he couldn’t sell to anyone. Who would buy something so weird and ugly
?
Finally, she came to a clearing filled with a motley assortment of junk cars, old freezers, metal parts she couldn’t put a name to, a half-finished house with a rusty metal roof, rickety old sheds about to fall into the ground, outbuildings with no discernible purpose, all connected by strings of twinkle lights.
The entire place had a heavy, abandoned feeling about it. Definitely much creepier than she’d envisioned. She couldn’t believe that Mark had lived here for three weeks as a six-year-old. How had he held on to his sanity? He must have been terrified every minute of every day.
She checked her phone. Great, no service. She shifted her knife from behind her back to within reach of her hand. The feel of its worn handle reassured her, but not quite enough.
Armed or not, she had no intention of being the idiot girl in the horror movie who walked down the basement stairs while the entire audience screamed at her not to.
She was so out of here.
She put the car in reverse and backed up, aiming for a turnaround about fifty yards back.
Then she heard someone yell and whipped her head around.
A man in a wheelchair was rolling toward her from the direction of the house. She put her foot on the brake but kept the engine in gear for a quick escape.
“Got my groceries?” he called.
Groceries? Sure. Why not? Keeping a grip on her knife, she rolled down the window a crack. “Hi there. I’m filling in because there’s a flu going around. I lost the grocery list they gave me. Figured I’d come out here and say hi and get another list from you.”
He rolled closer to her car. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected, based on the Gothic junkyard feel of this place. This man was gaunt, as if he had barely any flesh on his bones anymore. He wore a denim shirt and greasy work pants and a locket around his neck. Confusion twisted his features. His eyes roamed vaguely across the clearing, stopping on her only occasionally. As if it were a surprise each time.
“You’re Janus Kaminski, right?”
His forehead wrinkled, and he leaned forward in his chair. “Is it you?” he asked in a whisper.
The Runaway Page 18