The Long Way Home

by Andrew Klavan

  Frantically, I looked around the room. I had to think, I had to think. In the outglow of the flashlight, I saw the laptop on the floor. I saw the cell phone. I grabbed them.

  I would need them if I was going to save Beth’s life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Five Minutes

  Sherman’s car was parked just down the path from the house. I saw it in the early moonlight: a sleek, silver BMW.

  I rushed to it, stumbling sloppily over the pebbles and loose dirt under my shoes. I jumped behind the wheel, tossing the laptop onto the passenger seat beside me. I flipped the laptop open and brought it out of sleep mode. While it woke up, I jammed the car key into the ignition and started the engine.

  There was so much I needed to do, and it all had to be done at once. I needed to get to Beth’s house to protect her. That was the first thing because I wasn’t far and I could probably get to her before the police. But I needed to call the police too. And even before that, I needed to warn Beth, to tell her to get out of the house before Sherman’s killers came for her.

  I tapped the webcam icon on the laptop and brought Beth’s computer up onto the screen.

  I flipped the car into gear and stepped down on the gas.

  I felt the tires spit pebbles out behind me. Then the rubber gripped the dirt and the Beamer shot forward. The car bounced and bounded toward the mansion’s gate.

  I glanced over at the laptop. She had her camera on. I saw the webcam image of Beth’s room on the monitor. I could see her bed against one wall with big pillows and a stuffed alligator on it. I could see her closet at the head of the bed, the door open, clothes hanging inside. I could see her dresser against the other wall under a bulletin board crowded over every inch with snapshots. I could see the door with a cross to one side of it and a poster of a window with a green field outside on the other.

  But Beth herself was not in sight.

  The BMW sped through the dark along the dirt path, shuddering and skidding. The headlights speared the deep shadows under the trees. I went for the cell phone in my fleece pocket. Held it to me, snapped it open with my thumb. Driving clumsily with one hand, I had to struggle to keep the car from veering to the left or right, from smashing into the trunk of one of the trees along the path.

  Josh had programmed all my friends’ numbers into the phone. I pressed 1 with my thumb. I dialed Beth.

  As I waited for the phone to ring, I saw the iron gate up ahead that led out to the public road. Luckily, Sherman had left the gate open. I held the wheel firmly with one hand, guiding the car over the rough path, aiming it for the open gate.

  The phone rang in my ear—and at the same time, the car went through the gate, bouncing out onto the bad road beyond. The car wiggled under me, trying to skid on the broken macadam. I wrestled it straight with my one hand, holding the phone to my ear with the other.

  The phone rang again—and then I heard Beth’s singing ring tone come echoing back to me over the laptop’s speaker. I glanced at the monitor. I couldn’t see it, but her phone was in her room somewhere, the sound of it coming over the microphone in her computer as it rang.

  But where was Beth?

  The phone rang again. There was no sign of her. I remembered Sherman’s sneering threat.

  They’ll kill her quietly, too, a knife to the throat. Cutting deep so she can’t cry out. She’ll bleed to death on the floor without a sound.

  Horrible images came into my mind. Maybe I was too late. Maybe Sherman’s thugs had already come into the house and . . .

  I took my eyes off the road, glanced at the computer again—and now I saw Beth’s door start to open. I glanced from the monitor to the windshield and back again. And then I saw Beth herself step into the room.

  I breathed a deep sigh of relief. She looked all right, perfectly fine, good, wearing jeans and a sweater, calm, relaxed. They hadn’t gotten to her.

  As I glanced over again, I saw her find her ringing cell phone lying on the bed. She looked at the number on the readout and picked it up.

  “Charlie?”

  “Come to the computer, Beth. Talk to me through there.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Do it.”

  I snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into my pocket. Now I could drive with both hands and talk to her through the computer.

  I felt the road grow more solid under me as I drove quickly through a run-down neighborhood on the outskirts of town.

  “Charlie?”

  Beth’s voice sounded small and tinny now as she spoke to me through the computer.

  I glanced over at her. Her face loomed large as she stared through the monitor at me.

  “Beth, listen to me. It was Sherman. Sherman killed Alex.”

  “Mr. Sherman?”

  “He’s sent people to your house.”

  “What? I don’t understand. Why . . . ?”

  “To hurt you. To kill you, Beth. You need to get out— and then you need to call the police. But get out first —now—carefully—make sure no one’s waiting for you. Get out and call the police. Don’t ask questions. Just do it.”

  “All right, all right.”

  I came to a stop sign. I wanted to rush through it, but I was afraid of the police. If they pulled me over, I would never get to her. By the time I convinced them Beth was in danger, it might be too late.

  I slowed the car just enough, then stepped on the gas again, coming around the corner onto Morgan Drive, a large boulevard with four lanes of two-way traffic. There weren’t many cars out tonight, but there was a steady flow in both directions. I had to keep a careful eye on the road.

  I kept stealing glances over at the laptop. There was Beth. She was moving toward the door. I urged her on in my mind: Get out of there. Get out.

  But then she stopped. I saw her freeze, tense, one hand uplifted. She had left the bedroom door open when she came in. Now she was staring through it, out into the hall, out to the top of the stairs just visible on the computer monitor.

  “Beth . . .” I said.

  At the sound of my voice, she glanced back at the computer, back at me. She put her finger to her lips. Her voice came softly through the computer.

  “Ssh. I think someone’s in the house.”

  “Are you sure?” I said, trying to keep my voice down. I hated to think that her time had run out, that she couldn’t get away.

  She shook her head quickly. She wasn’t sure. Putting her finger to her lips again, she moved to the door to listen better.

  I drove quickly down the boulevard, weaving through the traffic, glancing over at the scene on the computer. It was like watching a horror movie, like watching the suspenseful scene where the heroine is caught in the house with the killer. I felt that afraid, that helpless to do anything about what was happening onscreen.

  Only this wasn’t a movie. It was real. It was Beth. And I needed to get to her.

  Beth stood listening. Finally, I couldn’t take the tension anymore.

  “Beth!” I said in a hoarse whisper. “Shut the door. Lock the door. Call the police. Dial 911.”

  A horn blared loudly. I looked to the windshield just in time to see I had let the BMW drift across the center line. A pair of headlights was lancing toward me. I wrestled the wheel to the right, wrestled the car to the right, back into my lane, out of the headlights’ path. The oncoming car raced by me.

  Now there was a traffic light up ahead. It turned from green to yellow as I approached. I jammed my foot down on the gas and sped through it.

  Finally I had a chance to glance over at the laptop again. There was Beth. She hadn’t heard me. She had crept out through the doorway into the upstairs hall, walking softly. I could tell by her posture she was listening, listening to see if anyone had come into the house.

  “Beth!” I said. “Get back in your room. Lock the door.”

  But even as I spoke, I heard it. Even there, in the car, the sound reached me through the computer’s speakers.

  A
floorboard creaked in Beth’s house. Someone was coming up the stairs.

  Watching the busy road ahead, grabbing looks at the monitor, I saw Beth freeze in her tracks in the upstairs hallway. I saw her turn back to look at her bedroom door, to look at her computer, to look at me. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide with fear.

  “Beth!” I whispered harshly. “Get back!”

  I gestured to her—to the computer. I waved frantically to get her to come back into the room.

  Finally, she moved. Hurrying on tiptoe, she dashed back down the hall, back into her bedroom. She closed the door quietly. There was a little twist knob, a bolt lock. She turned it. It wouldn’t keep anyone out for long, but it might slow them down. Sherman had told me they didn’t want to make any noise. They wanted to come and go quietly—come and kill her quietly and go. I didn’t think they would just blast through the lock with a gunshot.

  At least, I hoped they wouldn’t.

  I saw Beth standing in the center of the room. I started to speak, to tell her again to dial the police. But before I could, she flipped open the phone. Dialed 911.

  She called for help. So did I: I prayed desperately as I peered through the windshield, working the steering wheel, forcing the car to weave left around a slow-moving van, then back quickly into the right lane to avoid a car that had paused for a left turn at an intersection. I prayed: Not her, Lord. Me. Not her.

  “Police?” I could hear over the laptop speaker how shaky Beth’s voice was, how scared she was. Well, I was scared too. I was only a couple of minutes away, but it felt like a million miles. I felt completely helpless to reach her. I heard her say, “My name is Beth Summers. I live at 45 Madison. There’s someone in my house. Please send help. What? No. Someone in my house. Please, please . . .” She was close to tears.

  And then she cried out.

  I looked over at the laptop and saw the phone fall from her hand. Now I heard what she heard: a sound at the door. Trembling, Beth turned slowly to face it. The sound came again. A soft rattle. Glancing from the road in front of me to the laptop on the seat beside me, I saw the doorknob start to turn slowly, this way and that. Staring, terrified, Beth stumbled back a step.

  It was hard to tear my eyes away, but I had to. I had to face front again. There was my next turn up ahead. I was almost there. It was a left turn and I was in the right lane. There was traffic to the side of me and traffic coming toward me. Somehow I had to get around all of it.

  I twisted the steering wheel hard. The BMW squealed. The Volkswagen beside me screeched and skidded. An oncoming Cadillac sent up a blast of its horn. I cut recklessly across the lanes and shot off Morgan onto Belmont, a smaller, darker side street.

  I stepped on the gas and raced into shadows. Madison— Beth’s street—was only four blocks ahead.

  Now I could spare a glance back at the laptop. Beth still stood frozen where she was, still staring at the door.

  The knob was turning faster now, harder. The door started to rattle.

  “Beth,” I said.

  My voice startled her. She spun toward me in terror.

  “The window!” I said. “Can you get out the window?”

  She shook her head frantically. “Too high. I’ll break my leg. They’ll catch me.”

  She jumped as a loud bang came through the door. They were going to kick it in.

  “A weapon, Beth. Find a weapon. A baseball bat. A hockey stick.”

  “I don’t have any . . .”

  “A shoe. A high-heeled shoe. Anything. Hold them off. I’m almost there.”

  Beth cried out in fear again as, again, the killers kicked the door.

  “A weapon!” I said.

  But I had to face forward, had to steer the car as it raced through the darkness under a canopy of trees.

  There was Washington Street up ahead. Madison Street was next.

  “Oh please!” I whispered—and pressed down on the gas, pushing the car at speed through the empty intersection.

  There was another bang against Beth’s door just as I glanced back at the monitor. I saw the door jolt in its frame. It was breaking. They were getting through.

  But now, Beth forced herself out of her frozen terror. She rushed to the closet. She shoved aside some clothes. She reached in deeper and when she came out, I saw she had an iron in her hand—a regular old iron for pressing clothes.

  “Oh yes!” I said.

  Beth was slender. She wasn’t athletic. She wasn’t strong. But an iron—that’ll stop a man. And I was almost there.

  “Get to where the door opens,” I said. “Get to where they’ll come through. Swing for the head the second you see them. Don’t hesitate.”

  Beth was so scared now she was crying, trembling, sobbing. But she found the courage to do what I said. She moved to the door just as the killers kicked it again. She flinched at the sound, but all the same, she positioned herself at the place where the door would open. She gripped the handle of the iron with one hand and gripped her wrist with the other, holding the iron down low at her side, ready to swing.

  And just then, before I could see what happened next, I reached the house.

  I hit the Beamer’s brakes hard, turned the wheel hard, and the car swerved to the curb and screeched to a halt.

  The next second, I was out the door, running like a madman up the path to Beth’s front door.

  The killers had left the door unlatched, but it wouldn’t have mattered. If it had been locked, I’d’ve smashed right through.

  Now I was in the house. I was bounding up the stairs, two at a time. I was in the upstairs hallway . . .

  And there was another loud bang, a rending crash. I crested the stairs just in time to see the killers break through Beth’s door.

  There were two of them. Big men dressed in black. The one who’d kicked the door in rushed through before I could get there. The other was already crowding in behind him.

  I heard Beth scream—and I saw her as she stepped into the doorway, as she swung the iron at the lead man with all the strength she had.

  The blow hit the killer smack in the side of the head. His mouth flew open. He toppled to the floor, falling forward with his own onrushing force.

  But the second killer didn’t hesitate. He had Beth in an instant. He grabbed her arm, twisted it, forcing her to drop the iron. With the other hand he slapped her hard across the face, once and then again.

  I was running toward him down the hall. I saw him shift his grip to grab Beth by the front of her sweater. I saw his other hand go to his waist. It all happened so fast, while Beth was still dazed by his blows.

  The killer’s hand came up in the air. I saw the knife raised above Beth’s face.

  A sound came out of me then—a sound I’d never heard myself make before. It wasn’t a karate kee-yai or a shout or a scream or anything like that. It was a wild, enormous, guttural roar of pure animal fury.

  Before the killer struck, I had him. I grabbed him by the belt and by the collar. I’d heard stories like this—stories about someone who became so desperate or so angry or so afraid, they did something superhuman: lifted a bus to save a child or outraced an avalanche or something amazing like that.

  I tore the killer off Beth by main strength and hoisted him in the air—hoisted him clear above my head as if he were nothing more than a stuffed dummy.

  Roaring, I threw him, just that easily. I hurled him headlong down the hall.

  The killer’s body went spinning through the air. He landed with a thud that shook the floor, just a few yards away from me. The jar of the fall made him lose his hold on the knife, but he quickly grabbed it again. He scrambled to his feet right away.

  But not fast enough. Not fast enough by a long shot.

  I was already there. I don’t even remember moving. It was that quick. I was there in front of him.

  He slashed at me with the knife, backhand. I dodged away. The blade went past. I stepped in quickly and blocked his arm as it came swinging back toward me. At th
e same time, I punched him in the throat. His eyes bulged. His tongue came out. He gagged. I grabbed his wrist—the hand holding the knife. I twisted it around and brought my arm down on his elbow as hard as I could. The killer’s arm broke with a loud, sickening snap. He let out a single strangled scream and dropped to the floor, unconscious.

  His knife lay beside him, just beyond his fingertips. I swept it up. I dropped to one knee. I grabbed the unconscious man by the shirtfront, hauled him up off the floor. I raised the knife over my head, ready to plunge it into his body as he lay there helpless.

  Oh, and I wanted to do it too. I have to be honest. I really did want to. I was thinking about the way he’d slapped Beth, the way he’d grabbed her and was going to kill her. The rage was inside me, filling me, pushing me, as if I were a puppet being worked by a giant hand.

  But I wasn’t a puppet. I had a choice. Sensei Mike wasn’t there to stop me anymore, but he was there, and God was there, and I had a choice.

  My hand, holding the knife, trembled in the air, but I didn’t bring it down. I wouldn’t bring it down.

  I let out a noise of frustration and threw the knife down the hall. I released my hold on the unconscious killer and let him fall with a thud to the floor.

  The whole thing took a second, maybe two. Then I was on my feet, rushing back to Beth where she slumped against the doorframe. She was holding her jaw where the killer had slapped her, blinking hard, trying to fight her way out of her daze.

  I glanced down at the floor, at the first killer, the one she’d hit with the iron. He was out cold. I smiled. Nice one, Beth.

  I took her gently by the shoulders, lifted her away from the doorframe.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  And now—again—I heard the sirens.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Into the Night

  I took Beth by the hand and led her around the fallen body of the killer, led her to the stairs and down to the front door.

  “You’re hurt,” I heard her say softly behind me.

  I glanced at my arm. She was right. The killer had cut me when he slashed with the knife. There was blood soaking through the sleeve of my fleece.