by Skylar Finn
He drummed his fingers slowly and ominously on his knee before withdrawing a wicked, serrated blade from the holster on his belt. “Which poses the question of, what should I do with you now?”
24
“Of course, I could kill you where you sit, but I can’t be sure this was your fault, now can I?” he continued. “Maybe you were just doing what hubby wanted. Maybe if we got rid of him, and kept you, you’d be a little bit more...willing.” He leered at me.
My stomach lurched with revulsion. I struggled to remain expressionless. He smiled slowly. It was as if he knew what I was really thinking and enjoyed how disgusted and uncomfortable he made me feel.
“I wasn’t always a bad man,” he said ruminatively, stretching out his legs in front of him. “I was a pretty good kid, actually. I was even a Boy Scout! Can you believe that?” He laughed.
“What happened?” The longer I kept him talking, the longer we would stay alive.
“The usual.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket, removed a flask, and shrugged. “My old man took off when I was young, my mom married a guy who liked to get wasted and beat on her and me and my sisters. Till I got old enough to defend myself and killed him.
“I was still a minor, of course. I was smart. Lawyer argued self-defense, insanity from getting beat. Something like that. But the funny thing about killing people is, you develop a taste for it. You wouldn’t know anything about that. Even though I planned to kill him to keep my family safe, once I realized I could stop somebody from doing something I hated that way, the power...you can’t even imagine. Before that, killing somebody seemed like the worst thing I could ever do. After that, it became hard not to do when I want something. When I don’t want something.” He unscrewed his flask and said, “What do you think? You seem like a smart person. You think people are born bad?”
“I don’t think anyone is born in any particular way,” I said. It was deeply odd, under these circumstances, to be having such a conversation. It was a conversation I would have had with a student or colleague in previous times. Instead, it was occurring with a murderous fiend who knocked my husband unconscious, kidnapped my daughter, and likely planned to kill us all before the day was out. The stakes seemed higher than normal.
“I think we have a choice,” I said. “Whether we commit good or evil, right or wrong. We determine what kind of person we wish to be. Even when we tell ourselves, ‘what choice did I have?’ or think that we ‘have’ to do something, it’s just a way of reassuring ourselves that we made the right decision. We choose to do what we can live with.”
He laughed again. “You think it’s hard for me to live with killing people? You think maybe my conscience is acting up?”
“I think in the case of some people,” I said, pausing to choose my words carefully. “Maybe it’s harder to do the right thing and live among people. Some people feel as though they’ll never belong and that they would never want to, even if they could. They find themselves unable to abide by a system of law and order. And so they invent their own.”
He looked impressed. “Well, I’ll be damned. I never heard it put like that. Not by my lawyer, not even in my own head. Sounds like you got me all figured out. So: let me ask you this. What does that mean I’m gonna do with you? You and your hubby here?”
“Obviously, given our circumstances, I find it unlikely that you plan on doing anything positive with us,” I said. “You clearly consider Ethan a threat. I doubt that you’re threatened by me, but we’re kind of a package deal. I could take this opportunity to try and convince you to keep us alive, and that you don’t have to kill us. You wouldn’t care. It would probably amuse you, listening to me beg for our lives. And you’d still wind up making the same decision we both know you’re going to make, anyway.”
“You think I’m that cold-hearted?” He feigned offense. “You think I’m just gonna kill you, just like that?”
“Probably,” I said. “Although I guess I would be unsurprised if you chose to torture us first.”
“Well, I don’t appreciate that at all,” he said. “You know I’m a man of scruples? Might not seem that way to you, all things given. But when the EMP hit, I saw an opportunity for me to make a place for myself. I couldn’t, as you mentioned, make a place for myself in society as it was. I’m not much one for school or work. Probably couldn’t get a job with my felonious convictions. I couldn’t exactly walk into the bank and get myself a small business or a homeowner’s loan, either. Don’t have credit; if I do it’s probably bad. And I have never once paid my taxes. But this EMP thing, as far as I was concerned, it made this into a free country again. I could do whatever I wanted and take whatever I wanted. I just had to be bigger and stronger and meaner than the next guy. But I also provided a safe house for these people. Nobody wanted them, either. Now they have a home.”
“That’s very moving,” I said. “If you overlook the people you killed to get there.”
“So that’s it?” He looked disappointed in me. He lit another cigarette. “You’re not even going to try to talk me out of getting rid of you? What about your daughter? Aren’t you going to beg for her life, at least? I thought you were one of the good guys.”
“Of course I want you to spare our lives,” I said. “Of course I want to believe that even you aren’t so evil that you would hurt an innocent child. I don’t believe it. But I’d like to.” I sat for a moment in silence while I considered my next words carefully. “I also know something that you don’t.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” His interest was piqued.
I listened. Somewhere outside of these walls, distant but undeniable, was the sound of hoofbeats. They sounded far off now, but would, within minutes, grow closer until they closed in around us.
“We’re not the only people who have unfinished business with you,” I said. “And the other people who have a bone to pick with you have considerably more manpower and firepower than we do. So I think you’ll find it hard to dispose of them as easily as you disposed of us.”
Dexter’s eyes widened, listening. Not just to me, but the sound outside. I could tell he heard it, too.
“Wentworth,” he hissed. He got up and looked out the window. He slammed his fist down on the sill, then rushed over to me and stuck his face in mine. His horrible breath, reeking of cigarettes and liquor, blasted me in the face. “Is this your doing?”
“I’m pretty sure it was yours,” I said.
I could tell he wanted to throw me out the window, but he didn’t have time to bother.
“I’ll deal with you later,” he said menacingly. “Once I deal with them. They’re gonna be sorry they messed with me.” This last part he seemed to add more to himself than to me, as if trying to convince himself that he had the upper hand and would come out on top. He rushed from the room, taking long heavy strides, and slammed the door shut behind him. I could hear the key turning in the lock behind him.
I stared at the chest at the foot of the bed, hardly able to believe his stupidity. In his distracted, agitated state, provoked by the arrival of Wentworth’s militia, he’d left the room without holstering his knife. The wicked, serrated blade he’d menaced me with only moments before sat primly waiting for me on the chest, almost as if he’d done it deliberately to allow me to get away. I knew that he hadn’t, of course; that he could and would return at any minute once he realized it was missing, so I had precious few minutes to do what I needed to do.
I swiveled the chair and rolled it over to the chest, stretching out my fingers to grab Dexter’s forgotten knife. It was incredibly difficult to saw through the ropes as quickly as I could without accidentally cutting off my hand. It would do us no good if I got free but severely injured myself in the process. It always looked so easy in the movies, when the imperiled hero grasps a stray piece of broken glass, unseen by their enemy, and frees themselves from their bonds in a matter of seconds. Trying to do it now, I thought the war between Dexter and Wentworth might be over by the time I sawed th
rough the first bond, sweating and cursing.
By the time the rope gave and snapped, I could hear shouts from downstairs. A screen door opened and slammed shut. I heard the first volley of bullets fired--the first wave of Wentworth’s attack, followed by an answering hail of gunfire below my feet. I hurriedly hacked at the ropes binding my ankles to the chair. We were running out of time to get Grace and get out of the house safely.
The instant I was free, I ran to Ethan’s side. I checked his pulse. He was alive. I lifted his eyelid and slapped his face repeatedly. He was out cold. I quickly cut through the ropes that held him. Thinking quickly, I dragged him over to the bed and rolled him underneath. If anybody did come back, hopefully they’d think he had also gotten away without searching too thoroughly. I had a feeling they were pretty preoccupied for the time being, but if they did come back for us, I wanted Ethan hidden while I got Grace. I left my gun by his hand and took the Governor.
One of the first and most important things (according to him, and I saw now how true it was) that Ethan had ever taught me was how to pick a lock. The old-fashioned locks on the ancient farmhouse’s doors were ideal for my purposes. I took a long black hairpin from my hair and went to work.
Ethan had stood over me while I repeatedly broke into our house. He even timed me to ensure I could get into the house in under two minutes. This was enough time to prevent nearly any tragedy that might occur in the locked house in my absence, according to him: fire, someone choking, et cetera. I admit now that there was a part of me that thought he wasn’t serious. I thought maybe it was an exercise to get him through a bad bit of writer’s block: could someone actually pick a lock in enough time to save her family? As it transpired, he had been utterly sincere. It was the most important thing I could have learned.
I raised the gun before I stepped into the hallway. If Clarice was lying in wait again, I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her. But the second floor had been abandoned in the wake of the arrival of Wentworth and company, and she was downstairs defending the farmhouse with the rest of Dexter’s crew.
I ran to the locked red door and bent over it with the pin again. It was harder to pick, sticky from disuse and unyielding at first. I tried to relax my mind in spite of the chaos raging below. I heard a click and I turned the knob.
I couldn’t get up the stairs fast enough. I was terrified that they had moved her, or worse. I was afraid I was too late. I stumbled over the top step, and all the air left my body in one long, giant exhale of relief.
Grace was glued to the tiny window overlooking the front of the house, every bit the imprisoned storybook princess. Unlike a storybook princess, she had a set of binoculars glued to her face. I ran to her and crushed her in my arms. Contrary to her usual abhorrence of hugs, she not only tolerated my affection but returned my embrace wholeheartedly.
“Where’d you get those?” I asked curiously, tweaking the strap of her binoculars.
“I bothered the lady till she got so mad. I kept asking that she gave them to me just to shut me up,” she said proudly. “Some people just rode out of the woods on horses.” She handed the binoculars to me.
I looked through them out the window. Most of Wentworth’s men were scattered on the lawn below, some firing their guns and others engaged in hand-to-hand combat with Dexter’s men. I adjusted the binoculars and looked into the trees behind them. I could just make out several figures camouflaged in the brush and in the trees, lying in wait for anyone who might try to escape the farmhouse by fleeing into the woods. I handed the binoculars back to Grace.
“We have to get out of here,” I told her. “Your dad’s waiting for us downstairs.”
“Dad?” Grace jumped to her feet and ran for the stairs. “Where is he?”
“Careful,” I said. “They could come back up. They think we’re locked in a bedroom.” I went down the steps ahead of her, gun drawn.
“Charlie?” she whispered when we reached the bottom of the stairs. I paused, my hand on the doorknob.
“What is it?” I whispered back.
“I knew you guys would come,” she whispered. “That’s why I was never afraid. Because I knew you’d come to save me.”
I knew we weren’t out of the woods yet, but it heartened me to hear. I was determined to get her out of this house unscathed.
25
I eased the door open just a sliver, as Ethan had coming out of the basement. When I didn’t hear or see anyone, I opened it wider. The narrow hallway that linked the attic door and the bedroom where Ethan lay had a window halfway along. The window afforded a glimpse of the battle that raged outside. I didn’t see any sign of Wentworth or Dexter, who probably had their people doing most of the fighting for them. But I didn’t linger to look for them.
Back in the bedroom, with Grace close behind me, I pulled Ethan out from under the bed. He was still unconscious, and I leaned over him in frustration. What was I supposed to do? Throw water in his face? Peterman would know what to do, but Peterman wasn’t here. Maybe it wasn’t even safe to rouse him. Clarice hit him pretty hard, and she could have incurred some serious damage.
“Charlie?” I looked up at Grace, standing over Ethan. “Their doctor has smelling salts. He let me look in his medical bag when it was his turn to watch me. Would that wake him up?”
My eyes widened. “It might. Do you know where the bag is?”
“His room is down the hall,” she said. “He’s usually in it, but…” She looked out the window. The noise outside had increased in volume and severity. “Maybe not now.”
“Stay in here with your dad,” I said. “Hide in the closet till I get back. Don’t come out unless you’re sure it’s me.”
I ducked through the doorway and ran down the hall. The doctor’s room was
empty, the door standing open. There was a heavy leather bag sitting on the bureau. I grabbed it and ran back to the bedroom.
I set the bag on the floor near Ethan’s head. “Grace?” I called. “It’s me. You can come out now.” She appeared by my side and leaned over the bag as I rummaged through it.
“It’s these, I think.” She pulled out a handful of small plastic packets. “He told me not to play with them.”
I shook them and tore the tops off, holding them under Ethan’s nose. I prayed that it would work. I knew that if he could have, he would have told me to leave him there and get Grace out of the house. I was also certain that if I did, we would never see him again.
Within seconds, his eyes flew open and he sat up, coughing and rubbing his nose. He looked wildly around for his gun, still in the moment when Clarice attacked him.
“Ethan, it’s just me,” I said urgently. “I have Grace. Wentworth is here. Dexter and his people are fighting them.”
“Grace?” Ethan looked up blearily and saw her. She launched herself into his arms and he caught her in a fierce embrace. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” His voice was muffled by her hair. He looked up. “We have to get out of here. We’ll stick to our plan, okay?”
I went over to the window. It opened to the roof much like the one Ethan had described. I didn’t see any fighting on this side of the house. Whatever Dexter had seen earlier had migrated to his front door. I pulled at the window with all my might. It stuck at first, but slowly creaked open after I put my full weight against it.
I looked back at Grace and Ethan as he checked her over to make sure she was unharmed. His eyes were slightly out of focused, as if he was concussed. “Ethan?” I said. He looked up. “Maybe I should go first.”
He nodded. “I’m pretty out of it. She hit me hard.” He shook his head as if trying to clear it. “I’ll help Grace out, then follow the two of you. Be careful when you scale the drainpipe. The metal is old and rusty and you could get cut.”
I carefully crawled through the window and used the sill to steady myself. I glanced down. The ground was far enough that a fall might cause a broken limb, and the grade of the roof was steep enough to make me nervous.
Grace ca
me through the window after me, helped by Ethan. I gripped her hand tightly. “Don’t let go,” I cautioned her. “Don’t look down.”
My warnings were largely extraneous. Grace was far more agile and nimble than I was. She balanced on the roof as easily as if it was level ground. Ethan came out behind us and took her other hand.
“Ethan, I think I see a trellis,” I said. If it held, it would be vastly preferable to him lowering Grace over the side of the roof and dropping her into my arms. There was no way she could support herself on the drainpipe, but the trellis she could climb down like a ladder.
He peered over the edge of the roof where the trellis leaned against the rain gutter. It was old wood tangled with dead leaves and vines. “It might not hold,” he said. “I’ll go first, so if it gives, it gives out on me.”
I shook my head. “You’re the heaviest. Let me go first. If it holds me, it will definitely hold her.”
Ethan agreed, though I could see reluctance in his expression. I could tell he didn’t relish the thought of the trellis crumbling beneath me, but if he demolished it under his weight, we’d lose a safer way of getting her off the roof. He glanced over his shoulder. It sounded as though the gunshots were getting closer.
I hurried over to the edge of the roof and lowered myself onto the trellis. I tested it with one foot, then both. It seemed to hold. I quickly climbed down the rest of the way and reached up to support it. Grace’s sneakered feet kicked over the edge of the roof and Ethan held her as she went down the first few rungs. She was only unsupported for a few seconds after that before she reached my outstretched hands, and I supported her as she climbed the rest of the way down. Ethan’s face appeared at the edge of the roof.
“Get Grace into the woods,” he said. “I’m right behind you.”
I grabbed Grace’s hand and we ran. In the forest, the sounds of the fight behind us started to recede. We hadn’t gone very far when we came across one of Wentworth’s horses, tethered to a tree.
