Eye For Her: A gripping must-read thriller

by A B Alexander

  Abbie halted her advance and used a nearby branch to clamor to her feet, ensuring that she remained concealed. Through a small opening between the branches, she watched him, frozen. The driver’s door creaked open, and a pair of black military boots hit the mud. He wore navy tactical pants and a dark-green bomber jacket. She couldn’t get a proper glimpse of his face as he rounded the truck and popped the front bonnet. From the side, his matted, dirty blonde hair reached down to his square jaw and obscured his eyes and cheekbones. He was tall and hunched, his shoulder blades protruding through his jacket. She remained still, holding her breath. The distance between them was less than thirty yards. Abbie watched his every step, shivering like the surrounding pine needles from the gusting wind.

  He shut the bonnet closed with a loud metallic clang that rang through the forest and made his way to the trunk. He removed a shovel, a metal bucket, and some rope, laying it on the ground. He reached again into the trunk, this time delving deeper. A few seconds later, he emerged with a double-barrel shotgun. He turned around and surveyed the forest, loading the weapon with shells.

  Abbie placed both hands over her mouth to suppress her frightened whimpers. This time she got a decent view of his face. A broad forehead pasted with matted dirty-blonde hair led to unusually thick eyebrows. His eyes were dark, oval, and bullish. He had a roman nose and prominent cheekbones.

  She recalled the image of Fiona applying makeup in front of the vanity dresser. Despite some similarities, there were many stark contrasts. But it had been years, and a new personality might have taken over from Freddy and Fiona, altering the physical appearance. But what about the eyes? Fiona’s eyes were bright blue like the swimming pool on a cloudless summer day. The drifter’s eyes were dark and violent, like a raging bull. Then she recalled the color change of the eyes as Fiona “switched” personalities, from blue to a light shade of black. The resemblance was uncanny.

  “Oh my God,” she said under her breath and steadied her weight by placing a flat palm on nearby pine bark. There was no escaping her past this time, the hour of justice beckoned.

  CHAPTER 30

  She waited for him to turn toward the house, ensuring that her movement was not in his line of vision. She took eight calculated steps through the forest, avoiding any twigs or leaves, and dialed Molina’s cell once more.

  The subscriber you have . . .

  She panicked. The distance between them was short, so it was odd that Molina was still without signal, while her own cell connection showed full coverage. Something had happened to Molina, she was sure of it. The only rational explanation was that this guy wasn’t alone; he had an accomplice. The thought spread a deathly chill that ran down her spine.

  She quickened her pace as soon as the drifter turned his attention back to the trunk. She weaved between the pines with her head lowered like a cougar on the prowl. In motion, she slipped her hand into her sweatpants and placed a shaky palm on the knife’s handle. In some instinctive, primitive way, it was rousing. Although it would be no match for his shotgun, at least she wasn’t defenseless. She yanked the handle out of the taped sheath, and the blade tore through duct tape as if it were a bluefin tuna. Knife in hand, she circled to the back of the cabin, seeking an alternative route inside. There was nothing but a wall of weather-beaten wooden slats.

  “Molina, can you hear me?” she called out in a hushed voice, pussyfooting along the exterior, tapping her knuckles against the slats. On the far side, there was a freshly painted green door, its glossy, vibrant color a stark contrast to the bleak surroundings. It was an odd-looking backdoor, and her only way to get inside without going past the drifter first. She strode toward it, gearing herself up for the potential showdown. Every thought in her mind told her to turn around and run. To go back to the car and head straight to the nearest police station. There is no coming out the same, if ever, after entering the devil’s chambers. But her gut refused the alternative. By the time the police would show up, the drifter could vanish, and it could be too little too late for Molina. No, that’s not an option, she urged herself to be brave like agent Molina.

  She twisted the doorknob with her left hand, pointing the blade with her right. The door clicked open without a sound. To steady the knife in her clammy hand, she slashed at an invisible enemy like a medieval sword fighter. This was it, the moment of truth. The choking fear was worse than waking up in the dark chained to a foreign bed. Beads of sweat rolled off her forehead, stinging her eyes. Now she knew full well the dire consequences, and there was nothing darker than anticipating death.

  The smell of burned toast and fried eggs filled the dusty air. Through the bleak daylight streaming in the window, her eyes scanned for movement. Canned food and rusty copper cutlery littered the ruff-hewn open shelves. The yellowing white paint peeled from the kitchen cabinets. A light buzz came from the soiled stainless-steel sink as a fly circled above the leaning pile of dishes. Two chairs and a round wooden table were in the center of the kitchen. A dark doorway led to the next room.

  “Molina, are you okay?” Abbie said, her voice just loud enough to be heard in the next room. Besides the incessant buzzing of the fly, there was no sign of movement. She made her way toward the doorway, gripping the knife as if it were an extension of her arm. As she reached the table, she stopped. It was strewn with photographs, an empty coffee mug, and a half-eaten buttered toast. She picked up a photo and held it up to the daylight streaming through the window.

  The buzzing stopped. Silence. An outer-body sensation driven by intense trauma engulfed her. She observed herself studying the photos in the dreary daylight, drifting toward the photo like a ghost floating through the shadows.

  “No,” she screamed, dropping the photograph.

  Footsteps.

  She snapped her head toward the doorway. “Molina . . .” she stuttered, too frightened to speak or react.

  “Abigail, is that you?” Molina called out.

  “It’s me . . .” Abbie said and ran for the doorway, Molina’s voice breathing new life into her like fresh oxygen after a lengthy period underwater. Abbie charged into the living room, and the dingy front door lay straight ahead. The footsteps were coming from a shadowy stairwell to her right.

  “What happened?” Molina said, halfway up the stairs.

  “Hurry, he’s here. I tried to call you. Your phone was off.”

  “Damn it! I can’t believe he arrived so soon. There was no signal in the basement,” Molina said, spilling breathlessly into the living room.

  “He’s our guy . . .” Abbie said, unable to finish the sentence, their attention turning to the sound of fast-moving boots on the front porch.

  Molina placed her index finger to her mouth and dragged Abbie by the arm to only eight feet from the front door. She motioned Abbie to remain still and positioned herself behind the front door just as it opened.

  The drifter’s jaw dropped as he saw Abbie, raising his shotgun toward her chest. “Who the hell are you? I don’t want no trouble,” he said, his callous finger jittery around the trigger. His voice was deep and carried a heavy southern drawl.

  Abbie stared into the depth of his wild eyes without saying a word. She stepped backward, not averting her gaze for a second.

  “Drop the knife and scoot. I won’t hurt you,” the drifter said.

  His request sounded fair, and if Abbie hadn’t seen the photos, maybe she would have even complied. She continued to slide backward, just enough to encourage him to follow.

  The moment the drifter took more than two steps forward, Molina pounced from behind the door. “This is the FBI. Drop the gun on the floor now!” Molina screamed, pressing the barrel of the Glock through his thick greasy layer of matted hair until it hit the back of his skull.

  The drifter froze, tightening his grip around the shotgun, the barrel pointed toward Abbie’s face. “You don’t look like no police . . . ”

  “Dro
p the gun now,” Molina screamed again, digging the barrel painfully into the back of his head.

  The drifter let the shotgun fall to the hardwood and raised his arms. “You better have a good reason,” he said.

  “Bring him to the kitchen, you’ve got to see this,” Abbie said.

  Molina tapped the barrel against the back of his skull, motioning him to follow Abbie.

  As they entered the kitchen, Abbie switched on the lights, and a single low-hanging lightbulb illuminated the table.

  “Sit down,” Molina ordered, shoving the drifter with a firm smack to the upper back. As he stumbled into the chair, she got a clear view of the photographs. The bloody corpses of the various girls, mangled, soiled, and marked stared back at her, a vicious reminder of her daughter’s miserable fate. “You son of a bitch!” she shouted and smashed his square jaw with the handle of the Glock.

  “Argh.” The drifter grabbed his mouth with both hands, blood streaming like a splitting river between his fingers.

  “Why did you take my daughter?” Molina said, the veins in her face and neck bulging. Despite emotions running high, she seemed more composed than Abbie had ever seen her.

  “I ain’t kill nobody,” the drifter mumbled, slurring his words through the broken jaw. “I don’t know yous people.” He swayed from side to side, cradling his chin and mouth.

  “Then what’s this?” Molina asked, picking up a photograph of a young teen lying face down and naked in a muddy ditch, her body riddled with bloody knife-like slashes, the teardrop tattoo visible on her inner thigh.

  The drifter glanced away, belching, closing his eyes to avoid the gruesome image.

  “Open your God damn eyes, or I’ll blow your brains out right now!” Molina said and pressed the Glock against his temple. “You did this, and you’re going to take a closer look.” She dug the edge of the barrel against his temple until he bled.

  The drifter opened his eyes, tears welling up. “I swear by my Mama. I’ve no idea what ya talkin’ bout.”

  Molina slapped him hard across the face with an open palm. “Why my daughter? Answer me! You owe me that, at least.” She was desperate for information, anything to make sense of her daughter’s death. Tears streaked down her cheeks as the realization dawned that an answer may not be forthcoming. The drifter made for a sad figure as he sat in the chair, hunched over, whimpering, and desperate for a reprieve. This wasn’t the monster she expected.

  “I ain’t hurt nobody. I’ve ain’t never seen these photos before,” the drifter sobbed.

  Smack!

  Molina lashed out with another open-handed blow to his face. “Don’t lie to me! These photos were on your kitchen table, right next to your morning coffee and half-eaten toast.” Molina paused and wiped away the sweat building up on her brow. She took a deep breath to steady herself and inject some rational thought. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll spare you. I need to know why.”

  The drifter reeled in the chair, his palms gripping either side of his temples. He seemed more like a frightened child than a ruthless murderer. “Someone planted these photos. Please, don’t ya beat on me.”

  Without warning, Abbie reaffirmed her grip on the blade and circled the table in three quick strides. Just as the drifter raised his eyes, she thrust the edge of the blade into his upper abdomen. Baring teeth and screaming, she thrust over and over, with repeated bloody stabs.

  Molina stepped back, away from the bloodbath, her hands clasped around the back of her head. Abbie had caught everyone off guard.

  “You’ll hurt nobody again,” Abbie screamed, continuing her violent onslaught. It was brutal, detached, an out-of-body craze. It was as if she was a spectator at a deathly spectacle with no way to stop the show.

  The drifter’s internal organs spilled out of his bowels as the punctured holes grew, soiling the floor and his clothes with a shower of blood and excrement. His bulging eyes rolled in their sockets, and he emitted a deep gurgling sound as he choked on the blood forming in his throat.

  “Stop!” Molina shouted.

  Abbie withdrew the blood-soaked blade from his abdomen for the last time, letting the seated corpse fall forward, head smashing onto the table. The thud of the lifeless body snapped her into the reality of the deed. “Oh my God, what’ve I done?” she said, throwing the knife to the floor. She dropped to her knees, soaked from head to toe in warm, fresh blood, gasping.

  “It’s not your fault. This man was a monster, and he got what he deserved. It’s over,” Molina said, cranking her tense neck. She crouched and wrapped her arms around Abbie.

  Abbie cried from the depths of her traumatized consciousness. Molina’s words, although true, were a hollow consolation. She had killed a man, a gruesome cold-blooded murder that would stay etched in her memory forever. She swayed back and forth, pressing her palms together in prayer. How did I lose control like that?

  Despite the pool of blood, Molina kneeled and clutched Abbie’s head, stroking her hair, trying to ease her out of the shock. “Killing is never easy. After all the years of torture, your instincts took over,” Molina said.

  “I’m sorry, I know you wanted answers,” Abbie sobbed.

  “I’ve been in enough interrogations to know that he wouldn’t say shit. Maybe this was his other passive personality. Either way, he had to die.”

  Abbie sniffled and wiped away the tears, smearing the tacky blood. Molina was the only living person that could relate to her pain. He had taken everything from them, and finally, they had exacted revenge. Whatever the future would hold was now solely in their hands and depended on whether they could leave the past behind. She faced Molina, who, for the first time, had exhibited genuine affection and sympathy.

  “Thank you, Agent Molina.”

  “C’mon, let’s clean up this mess and bail,” Molina said, clamoring to her feet. She picked up the bloody knife from the floor, wrapping her fingers around the handle. She approached the drifter and lifted his head from the table by his greasy and bloody mop of hair. Gritting her teeth, she stabbed the corpse three more times, grunting with each jab like a tennis player in a heated rally. Blood sprayed across her face, and she released the drifter’s head, letting it fall back onto the table. Wiping the blood from her eyes with her forearm, she ordered Abbie to remove her shoes and avoid the pools of blood. “Don’t leave any trace of footprints. The knife has got my fingerprints on it. I’ll contact Cunningham to get the team down here.”

  “Why? Let’s just get out of here.”

  “If I don’t call it in, they’ll come for us. For a murder like this, it’ll be twenty years in the can.”

  “I think it’s a bad idea. I’m their prime suspect.”

  “They won’t know you were here. I’ll set up the evidence and take the rap. You hide in the woods by the car until I’m done giving a statement. I’ll come get ya.”

  Abbie shook her head from side to side. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do. We’re partners, right?” Molina said and winked, flipping her the keys to the car.

  “What do I need the keys for?”

  “If they don’t buy the story and arrest me. You get the hell outta here. You drop the car at my pad and wash up before you head home. Remember, they’ll be watching your house, so be smart.”

  Abbie stretched out her hand for the bloodiest of all handshakes, bonded by a violent secret that could never see the light of day. She turned and headed for the front door.

  “I’ll text you the address,” Molina called out before Abbie stepped out of the cabin.

  Streaks of sunlight peeked through the gray clouds, illuminating the forest with an orangey hue. The birds chirped their sweet song, bouncing off the surrounding rain-soaked pine trees, celebrating that the storm had blown by. Abbie shut the creaking cabin door behind her and inhaled the fresh earthy smell that comes after the rainstorm, absorbing the p
romise of a new beginning. As she threaded her way through the forest, she resolved that whatever lay in store, she would approach it with Molina’s gallantry.

  CHAPTER 31

  A single raindrop patted her nose, sliding off the tip and onto her lips. She opened her eyes to the howling wind and rustling leaves. The darkness was immersive, and it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. Were it not for the natural sounds around her, she would have feared that she was back in the black abyss. She removed the leaves and branches concealing her cover and crawled toward the car, relying on directional instincts. Her heart raced in tandem with the impending downpour, the raindrops growing in intensity.

  Where’s Molina?

  Abbie recalled falling asleep while lying down amongst the greenery waiting for Molina. She had prepared the ultimate camouflaged hideaway. If Molina had returned to the car, she would have heard her crunching through the dense terrain. Her refuge was less than fifteen feet away. Now, scrambling through the darkness, she was once again on high alert. As the rainfall came down, her knees and palms sloshed through the mud as if she were crawling through a swamp. She battled the terrain to remain on course, envisioning the short route to the car. The downpour engulfed her like a thick blanket, causing her to wallow through the mud. Her objectives quickly reduced to finding refuge from the harsh elements. She pushed on, quicker, more aggressively, using her palms as shovels.

  Clang.

  Her head banged into an obstacle blocking her path, causing an unnatural tin sound. She stretched out her arm to investigate, her hand sliding along the wet metallic surface. The door! She rose from a crawl to a knee and arched her back. She positioned her hand by sliding it to the bottom of the car, then moved it up vertically, estimating the height of the door handle. Frantically, she slid her palm up and down until her fingers clipped the handle. In her desperation to escape the rain, she pulled on the handle, knowing full well that the car was locked. The handle extended outwards, but the door wouldn’t budge. She retrieved Molina’s keys from the right pocket of the sweatpants and fumbled to unlock the door, the storm swirling around her with renewed vigor. Wrestling the door ajar, she threw herself inside, groaning from exertion and relief. She fought the blasting wind to shut the door, using her legs as leverage. The door slammed shut, throwing her onto her back. She lay sprawled across the driver’s and front passenger seats, the gear poking into her waist. She remained motionless, catching her breath and listening to the rain pummeling the car’s exterior. The ferociousness of the downpour sounded like a fireman’s hosepipe blasting the old vehicle from all angles.