Eye For Her: A gripping must-read thriller

by A B Alexander

  In the bathroom, she lowered her baggy sweatpants and wrapped a roller bandage around her right thigh, securing it in place with duct tape. She then strapped the knife, with the blade facing the floor, to her bandaged thigh using more duct tape. She studied herself in the mirror, appreciating the improvised sheath. The knife was strapped vertically to her bandaged thigh, but the handle wasn’t taped. If she pulled hard on the handle, the blade would slice through the tape. It wasn’t ideal, but at least she wasn’t helpless.

  Bzzzzzzzzz, her cell phone vibrated on the bathroom vanity top, the screen displaying Molina.

  “You’re early. It’s only been fifteen minutes.” Abbie said.

  “Look, princess, get going. We got to work,” Molina said, annoyed.

  “Two minutes, I’m out.” Abbie hung up the call, pulling up her baggy sweatpants that did an excellent job concealing the knife. She put on a matching hoodie and headed downstairs. Molina’s frustration was evident, expecting urgency and co-operation, having no inkling of Abbie’s concerns. Before stepping out the front door, Abbie slipped her hand into her sweatpants and took a deep breath, her fingers feeling the knife’s metal handle like an insect’s feelers probing for food. If she tries anything, I’ll be ready for this bitch.

  A rundown black Ford Fiesta was parked in the driveway, the passenger door wide open. “Get in, fast!” Molina screamed from the driver’s side. She kept one arm on the wheel, and with the other, she swiped across the filthy passenger seat, throwing the fast-food wrappers and cans of energy drinks onto the car’s floor.

  Abbie dived into the car without breaking her stride, panicking from the urgency in Molina’s voice. The wheels of the car screeched and sped off before the door shut.

  “Keep your head down,” Molina barked and shoved her head downwards.

  Abbie crouched into the brace position, resting her forehead on the dashboard. She watched Molina wrestle with the steering wheel, her eyes scanning the review mirror.

  “God damn it, if they saw us, we’re screwed, and the plan is off. I told you to hurry, what took you so long?”

  “You didn’t give me . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. Sit up.”

  Abbie leaned back and reached for the seatbelt, the car weaving at bullet speeds between the moderate morning traffic.

  “The FBI is surveilling your home almost round the clock. If they noticed us, they’d stop us. We need to get our story straight,” Molina said, her eyes darting between the road ahead and the car’s rearview and side mirrors.

  “Yeah, sure . . . I’m with you,” Abbie said, trying to sound convincing. She had lost faith in the erratic Molina, whose eyes were bloodshot, and her neat, bunched hair was loose and frizzled. The skin on her hands was dry and scaly. The dark circles under her eyes showed that she hadn’t slept in days and had neglected essential self-care. It was apparent that she was on her last legs, and Abbie wondered, under the circumstances, whether it would have been better to be in the custody of the FBI.

  “The story is that after I lost my daughter, we became friends. That we meet every two weeks or so for coffee.”

  Abbie nodded; that was simple enough. A short, logical explanation.

  “If they ask what we were doing together today, you say that we were on our way to the Park Avenue Café for breakfast. You got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it. Friends, coffee, breakfast.”

  “Good. It’s just a precaution, as I don’t think they followed us. I picked you up at the exact time when the knuckleheads watching your house went to get coffee. I know these guys, and I’ve been tracking their routine. But because you took your time, they may have spotted us.” She huffed, maintaining a firm foot on the gas pedal.

  Abbie swiveled in her seat and monitored the road through the rear windshield. There was nobody in pursuit. Is she lying?

  Molina took the next right turn, heading down a side road. She brought the car to a complete stop on the gravel and waited. “We’ll know soon enough if we’re being tailed.”

  They sat in tense silence, watching the mirrors. Not a single car passed.

  After a few minutes, Molina turned the ignition, satisfied that they were in the clear. As the car rolled through the gravel, Molina slammed the brakes. She adjusted the rear-view mirror. A black SUV sped down the road. She tugged on Abbie’s seatbelt. “I hope you’re buckled in tight.”

  “Wait,” Abbie screamed, placing her arm across Molina’s chest. “Think rationally. We can’t outrun them. They’ll call in support and cut us off with a roadblock or get a chopper in the air. Then our story of going for breakfast won’t stick.”

  “You’ve been watching too many movies. But you’ve got a point on the alibi. The thing is, we’re short on time as our guy could disappear or take more victims.”

  “You make a run for it, they’ll catch us, and we’ll be spending time behind bars until they investigate. Then it’ll be out of our hands.”

  “Damn it,” Molina said, smashing the steering wheel with her fist.

  Abbie turned her sights to the fast approaching SUV. This has to be them. She hoped that just once the police would save her. The road trip with Molina wasn’t a wise gamble; it was potential suicide.

  CLICK.

  Abbie’s head twisted toward Molina. The chilling metallic sound was unmistakable. “Oh my God, what’re you doing?”

  “No one’s going to stop me. My daughter deserves payback,” Molina said, readying the Glock and lining up another three spare magazines. She ground her teeth with an icy stare. “When the SUV pulls up behind us, I’ll get out the driver’s side and open fire.” Her tone was steady, with no signs of panic.

  “Are you going to shoot at your own agents?” Abbie said, ghostly pale and trembling.

  “Hopefully, I won’t have to. I’ll fire at the tires and their engine block. I’ve got a few rounds here. That should give us enough time to bounce.” She didn’t bother disguising the fact that if she had to, she’d kill anybody.

  The SUV had covered half the distance to their car and was approaching fast. Abbie bounced her legs to ease the tension, not taking her eyes off the mirror. Every few seconds, she glanced at Molina, who held the pistol with both hands between her knees, narrowing her eyes the on the approaching target.

  The SUV slowed on approach and pulled up beside the beaten-down Ford on the passenger side.

  “Stay darn still and don’t say a damn word,” Molina warned.

  The tinted window on the driver’s side rolled down, revealing an older man with a blue baseball cap and a wispy gray beard.

  “Y’all need some help?”

  Abbie wanted to scream out for help but thought better of it. Molina would have shot the old-timer before he blinked.

  “No, sir, we stopped off for a short break, we’ll be on our way soon,” Molina said, hiding the gun between her thighs.

  “There’s a gas station just five miles up ahead. They serve ice-cold brewski’s.” The old-timer cracked a smile, revealing a full set of stained teeth. His red, bumpy nose showed that he was a big fan of the juice.

  “Great, thank you, sir,” Molina said with a tentative smile and waved the old man along.

  Abbie stared at her intertwined fingers, the image of Molina shooting the old man in the face flashing through her mind. The gun shot humming in her ears.

  “Yous have a pleasant day now, ladies,” said the driver after a tense silence, tilting the tip of his cap as the SUV sped off.

  “Close call. Let’s go.” Molina hit the ignition and guided the Ford onto the road. For the better part of an hour, they drove in silence. The surrounding greenery was growing denser by the mile.

  “Where we headed?” Abbie asked.

  “Deer Island. It’s an ass-end community located off U.S Route 30, north-northwest of Columbia City.” Molina kept her eyes on the
road. The speed she was driving at and her blunt tone showed that she was in no mood for chitchat.

  Abbie slipped her hand into her sweatpants, wrapping her palm around the blade’s handle. Hard pull, turn toward her, and stab in the stomach, throat, chest. Grab the steering wheel. She envisioned the steps, ingraining the motions until it felt like reality. She would not be a sheep taken for the slaughter and dumped in a remote hell hole.

  “Have you heard of Deer Island?” Molina asked, breaking the tense silence and Abbie’s chain of thought.

  “No, I haven’t,” Abbie said, surprised that Molina had spoken up.

  “It’s an unincorporated community. Middle of nowhere.”

  “You mean it’s lawless?” Abbie asked, tightening her grip on the blade.

  “Nah, I wouldn’t say that. Although its local municipality doesn’t govern it, I believe the parish or the county keeps em straight.” Molina paused and turned to Abbie with bloodshot eyes. “It’s the perfect place to go dark,” she said, her voice raspy and ruthless.

  Abbie squirmed in her seat, there was no doubting the purpose of the trip. Molina was thirsty for revenge. The critical question was, whose blood was she going to spill? It’s yours! Do it now. What’re you waiting for? Abbie tugged the handle, her hand trembling, the blade pressing higher on her thigh. No, wait. Ask her. She released the grip and inhaled through her nose to slow her drumming pulse.

  “Hey, you okay?” Molina asked and glanced at her with genuine concern.

  “I’m a little tense, that’s all. What’s at Deer Island?”

  “There’ve been more butchered girls showing up in surrounding Clear Creek, Scappoose, and along the river at Columbia City.”

  “Were they marked with the tattoo?” Abbie asked, her eyes widening.

  “According to info that I squeezed from Cunningham, yeah, they all had the same teardrop tattoo.”

  Abbie shivered, fear rippling through her body. The killer had widened his scope, and the victims were piling up fast.

  “You’re finally catching on. We got to haul ass,” Molina said, flooring the gas pedal.

  “You think he’s hiding out at Deer Island?”

  “After the latest murder at Columbia, I hung around town for a few weeks. I chatted to the clerk at the local hardware store. Asked him if he had seen anybody suspicious stocking up on shovels, buckets, ropes.”

  Abbie straightened her back, wringing her hands; this sounded promising.

  Molina continued, “The clerk recalled some lanky blonde guy with scarred bony features entering the store every two weeks or so to pick up knives and some rope. His physical description fit the bill of your kidnapper.”

  Paralyzing adrenaline coursed through Abbie’s veins. At last, a glimmer of concrete hope. “What did you do?” Abbie asked, resting her elbows on the dashboard.

  “I staked out the store from across the street for every damn minute that the place was open. Two weeks passed, and there was no sign of the guy. But my gut told me he’d show up.” Molina paused for a moment and navigated a sharp curve in the road. She continued, “Toward the end of the third week, the guy showed up. He looked wasted. His blonde hair greasy as shit and pasted to his scarred forehead. He had on a pair of blue jeans and a worn-out green bomber jacket that was too big. His military-style boots were covered with mud. He seemed like a lonely drifter type with a dark secret. I waited for him to leave the store and followed his brown pickup to Deer Island.”

  “Did you get the exact address? How did he not notice you? Didn’t you say the place is remote?” The questions burst out of Abbie, unable to contain her eagerness.

  “Good question. Once he veered off the main road nearing Deer Island, I had to stop following. He would’ve seen my tail.”

  “I can’t believe you let him go. We’ll never find him. That’s our guy, I’m sure of it,” Abbie said, slapping her thighs, on the verge of tears, her hope and excitement dissipating like a cloud on a breezy day.

  “Relax, chica, I didn’t let him go. I had a drone in my car I used for private surveillance. It can’t fly at driving speeds, but the aerial view kept him in my sights. I stopped my car on the side of the road and followed him using the drone’s remote.” Molina paused and reached for the glove compartment, pulling out a set of photographs. “I captured these with the drone.”

  Abbie studied the photographs for any resemblance to the cabin where she was held captive. She noticed the brown pickup truck, as described by Molina, parked a few meters off to the right. At first glance, this cabin seemed almost a polar contrast to her place of captivity. There was nothing modern or design-oriented about it. The wood was weather-beaten and hanging off the hinges in parts. The tiled roof had lost its color, morphing into a remorseful grayish layer as if sprayed with cement. Even the surrounding trees seemed cold and ominous, their trunks hunched, causing the branches to slant. If she ever imagined a real house of horrors, this was it. “This isn’t the place where I was held captive,” she said with absolute certainty.

  “Don’t get your hopes up. There’s no evidence that this drifter is our guy or that he’s guilty of any crime. He could also be a copycat killer. Either way, we’ll find out.”

  They drove in silence, the tension growing the further north they ventured.

  Abbie couldn’t take her eyes off the image. Is this where Freddy and Fiona moved? It seemed so unlikely. Although they were frightening characters, they had an air of sophistication about them. But the psycho was one person with multiple characters. What if more characters were hiding inside his mind? The thought raised her hopes.

  “So, what’s the plan? Abbie said.

  “I need to get inside the house and check for evidence. I brought you along to be the lookout.”

  “And if it’s him?”

  “Then I’ll wait for him and serve him justice. The fastest death penalty on record.” Molina winked, her lips pursed.

  Abbie almost gagged, fearful of witnessing a cold-blooded murder. Unfortunately, there was no other option. Molina was ahead of the law and their only real hope. However much Abbie wanted it to end; it was incomparable to Molina’s anger and malice. Revenge had consumed Molina’s soul. For a moment, Abbie pitied her, because once this was over, Molina could not return to a normal life. She had undergone irreparable change. The killer might as well have murdered her together with her daughter.

  “We’ll dump the car here,” Molina said, driving off-road into a lush part of the forest. “Deer Island is four miles northwest from here. The cabin is one and a half miles north, straight through the greenery.”

  Abbie opened the creaking passenger door and stepped onto the muddy, leaf-strewn terrain. They parked the car in a camouflaged location, the sky not even visible through the thick brush. She stretched her aching back by widening her arms, giving her body some relief from the lengthy drive. She inhaled the fresh, cold forest air, the earthy scents revitalizing her senses.

  Molina strapped the magazine to her vest. She wore hiking boots, thick black tights, a black turtleneck and a hunting vest. She held the Glock in her right hand. “If anything goes wrong, you bail to the car and get out of here. Drive to Columbia City and dump it in the river,” she said and threw Abbie the car keys. She turned north and pushed her way through the branches. “C’mon, let’s get this done.”

  Abbie struggled to keep pace as they moved through the dense forest at running speed. Molina bobbed and weaved through the branches like a boxer evading the punches.

  After ten minutes, Abbie was dripping with sweat despite the icy air.

  “Stop here,” Molina whispered, raising her left fist.

  Abbie came to a breathless stop beside Molina. She hunched over, taking in deep gulps of the moist air. Less than one hundred yards up ahead lay the old cabin. A human-made path between the brush served as a single-car driveway. The brown pickup was nowhere
in sight.

  Molina grinned and slapped Abbie on the back. “Yeah, girl, we’re on track. I’m going inside to check it out. You watch the driveway. If you see him, call me on my cell, and I’ll slide out.”

  Abbie checked the reception on their cell phones. “It’s all good. Good luck, agent Molina.”

  Molina gritted her teeth and drew the Glock perpendicular to her body, sprinting down the driveway with zeal.

  Abbie settled on a nearby rock, keeping constant eye contact with the house. No sooner had Molina disappeared through the front door, Abbie heard the engine of a truck roaring through the forest.

  “Damn it!” Her hands trembling, she fumbled for the phone and dialed Molina.

  The subscriber you have dialed is currently unavailable . . .

  “No! What’s going on? Answer, damn it!”

  The subscriber you have . . .

  She checked the signal, and there was no problem with her phone. They were less than one hundred yards apart, how could Molina have lost her signal?

  With every passing second, the sound of the rumbling truck bore down on her like an incoming tsunami. Abbie watched the cabin’s entrance, praying that Molina would come bursting out. If the truck reached the path leading to the driveway, there would be no escape.

  One, two, three . . . go!

  Abbie sprinted as hard as her body allowed, limbs pumping away, sneakers sliding and sinking into the muddy terrain. She focused on the screen door eighty yards up ahead. It was clinging to its hinges, leading to another closed rustic wooden door. There was no time for hesitation; she would have to hit the wooden door in full tilt.

  She’d covered forty yards when she heard the rumbling coming up behind her. The groaning engine and crunching of surrounding branches was like a wild beast chasing her through the jungle. And the animal was closing in fast. She glanced over her shoulder just as the brown truck came into view and dived headfirst between the surrounding trees. The pine needles slashed at her face and arms with razor blade sharpness. Feeling nothing and obscured by the greenery, she crawled toward the house. Her labored breathing and pounding pulse were stifling as if she was moving with a gas mask covering her face. The truck rumbled along the path, passing her and skidding to a stop in front of the cabin.