Seconds: A Salvation Society Novel

by Freya Barker

  “Fair enough. It’s just that tracking is what I do best,” I explain. I don’t mention that I want this shitshow over with so I can enjoy my relationship with Reagan without pressure from every side.

  “Trust me, I get it, and I’ll promise to keep you up-to-date.” He opens the driver’s side door. “I best get going; I have a person of interest to locate.”

  I give a rap of my knuckles on the roof of the cruiser as he climbs behind the wheel, and I turn back to the house. Inside the game is still on TV and a quick glance at the clock shows it’s time for a beer.

  I grab a couple and glance out the window to see if Reagan is still on the deck. I can’t see her, but the side door to the garage is open. She keeps her garden tools in there so she’s probably grabbing something. I stick one bottle back in the fridge to keep it cool and twist the top off the other, taking a swig while my eyes drift to the game playing on the TV in the living room.

  I’m not even sure what inning they’re on, and I’m not sure I really care at this point. I turn away and pull open the freezer to see what we can throw together for dinner. It’s steak or chicken. I walk to the sliding door and stick my head out.

  “Reagan? You want steak or chicken for dinner?”

  I listen for a response but hear nothing.

  “Reagan?”

  Setting my bottle on the railing, I make my way down the steps and over to the garage. I poke my head in and call her name again, but she’s not in there. Cold tendrils crawl up my spine as I turn back to the yard. Her wheelbarrow is still parked by the vegetables.

  “Reagan!”

  I take the steps up to the kitchen and storm inside, heading straight upstairs. This is like fucking déjà vu. I remind myself last time I panicked she was fine as well. I’m sure she’s fine now too. She’d better fucking be.

  She’s not upstairs either and I stop to look out her bedroom window to the yard below. That’s when I spot it, a piece of fabric or something, at the far end of the yard where the trees start.

  I have my phone in my hand and am already dialing as I barrel down the stairs.

  “Reagan’s gone,” I manage out of breath, as I tear out of the house and to my truck.

  “Where are you?” Mark asks right away, and in as few words as possible I tell him how I was just saying goodbye to the detective and when I came back she was gone.

  “Seconds,” I whisper, as I grab my gun and a folding knife from the glove compartment. I shove the knife in a pocket and automatically check to make sure the gun is loaded, even though I feel like I’m losing my mind. “I swear I was out here only a few seconds.”

  “Cal, get a grip, my friend. Are you sure you’ve looked—”

  “I don’t have time for this,” I cut him off, shove the phone in my back pocket, and start running around the side of the house to the back.

  I know what it is before I even touch it. A makeshift sap or slungshot; a sock filled with sand or gravel lying on the edge of the grass. A quick and easy weapon used to knock someone out.

  The panic that was seizing me is washed out by the wave of rage. I see red at the thought of someone touching Reagan, let alone hurting her. I’m sure she was dragged into the swamp but I have to keep my head about me, I can’t just charge in blindly.

  Forcing myself to slow down, I let my eyes scan the edge of the trees and the underbrush, looking for anything out of place. A scuffed piece of bark, a broken branch, a crushed leaf—any evidence of someone trampling through.

  There—a flash of red. I make my way closer and see one of the flip-flops Reagan was wearing earlier. My instinct is to rush right in but I don’t know how far my phone signal will last out here, so I quickly retrieve my phone and hit redial.

  “On my way,” Mark says without introduction. “I got hold of Melville and he turned around. He should be there any minute.”

  “Don’t have time to wait around. You’ll find a red flip-flop about twenty yards to the right of a massive oak, halfway down the tree line behind her yard. I’m going in.”

  “Fuck,” I hear him swear. Not something you’ll hear often from him. “Mark your trail.”

  I feel for the knife in my pocket.

  “Will do.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Reagan

  My head pounds.

  I blink my eyes open but everything seems to be moving, causing my stomach to revolt so I quickly close them. It takes a moment to orient myself. I’m being moved, my body bouncing in rhythm to the crunch of footfalls.

  Someone is carrying me. Every footstep is one farther away from safety.

  A large hand clamps down on my leg the moment I start struggling.

  “Fuck.” The deep grumble is one I don’t recognize and my body freezes.

  I open my eyes again, fighting down the accompanying nausea as I try to focus on the body carrying me. All I see is a pair of jeans-clad legs and mud-covered boots.

  “Close enough,” he mutters to himself, and the next moment I feel myself sailing through the air.

  I land hard on my back, the air forced from my lungs on a cry. I squint to get my first glimpse of the looming figure standing over me, but his face is in shadows. I blink a few times to clear my vision.

  “Who are you?” I croak. “What do you want?”

  He barks out a phlegmy laugh.

  “Figures you wouldn’t remember me, you arrogant bitch. So blinded by your own righteousness, you’re as big a piece of shit your clients are. Protecting the scum of the earth from getting what they rightly deserve. You’re no better than them. You may be smarter, dress in them fancy clothes, and think you’re high and mighty, but you ain’t fooling me.”

  “I don’t know—”

  My words stick in my throat when he leans down, his menacing face coming into focus. I remember him now and fear paralyzes me when he speaks.

  “Dragging upstanding citizens through the slime, ripping apart good people, letting criminals walk. Well he didn’t go far, did he? Was watching that motherfucking coward torch your place.” Spittle hits my face and I try to scramble back, but I don’t get far. “Beautiful. Only thing better woulda been had you been inside. Take care of ya both at once.”

  I have the trunk of a tree at my back and his hot breath blowing in my face.

  “You killed Sean.”

  “Shoulda taken my time. Enjoyed it more,” he sneers. “You I’m going to tear apart strip by strip.” My heart stops when he pulls a large knife from his belt and brings the tip to my face. “Like you did my Sheila’s reputation.” He seems fascinated by the trail his knife leaves behind on my cheek and down my neck. I’m afraid to breathe too deeply. “Wasn’t sure where to find ya until that lawyer pointed me here.”

  “Lawyer?” I whisper.

  “That useless, sniveling cocksucker was supposed to nail that murderer’s hide to the wall. So full of himself, telling me not to worry. He deserved what he got too.” Another phlegmy bark of laughter. “The weasel led me right here. Tried to bargain his way out of what was coming and gave you up like a bad habit. Drove his own car up a back trail and walked me straight to your yard. Then I took care ‘a him.”

  My head is spinning trying to process what he’s saying, and when the penny drops I can’t help the gasp. The man is deranged.

  “What did you do to him?”

  Suddenly he fists a handful of my hair and pulls me up, the knifepoint pricking my throat. He never lets go as he starts walking, but on my feet I at least have a chance to get away. As long as I can get that knife away from my throat.

  A splash when something slides into water nearby has him momentarily distracted and no longer feeling the sharp point of the blade on my skin, I react. Flying on adrenaline, I turn into his body, aim my fist for his nuts, and at the same time yank my hair from his hold. Ignoring the sharp sting on my scalp, and the man’s loud bellow, I swing around and start moving my feet as fast as I can.

  Somewhere along the way I’ve lost my flip-flops, and I
feel the wet ground slick between my toes as I run my eyes in front of me. Then I hear him holler, he’s closer behind me than I thought, and I make a fatal mistake—I turn my head.

  I catch sight of him at the same time my foot catches on something and I stumble, desperately trying to stay upright, but there’s no stopping the momentum. I hit the ground and immediately try to scramble back up, when my hand encounters something soft and pliable. I swing my head around and find myself staring into a familiar pair of dull eyes. I scream, let go right away and—my pursuer momentarily forgotten—I crawl backward, away from my ex-husband’s lifeless body.

  Then I hear his voice behind me, just as my hand closes around a branch.

  “I see you found him.”

  Cal

  I try to keep my footfalls as silent as possible as I make my way through the dense trees. My gun is tucked in my waistband at the small of my back and I hold my knife in my hand, carving a quick X in the closest trunk every twenty or so paces. My ears alert to each little sound as I try to ignore the drumbeat of my heart.

  Fear is not something I’ve felt often in my life, despite some of the hairy situations I’ve encountered, but right now it’s keeping my chest in a firm vise. My instincts want me to barge through the swamp, and only by the thinnest thread am I able to let experience guide me.

  I force down mental images of Reagan hurt or even dead, and desperately hold on to reason. The fact whoever grabbed her didn’t kill her right in her garden, but took the effort to drag her into the swamp, gives me a glimmer of hope. If it was that ex of hers, I vow to tear the weasel apart, limb by limb.

  Forty-five years old and I’d long since made peace with the fact I’d be alone. No wife, no children, no family of my own, and although it had given me pause at times, I’ve been content with my life and my freedom. In the relatively short time since I’ve met Reagan, content doesn’t seem nearly enough.

  I love her.

  It seems fast, but even before I knew her, I’d known of her. Through childhood stories Muff would share, the sister he’d so proudly speak of. Over the years there’d been plenty of opportunities to bump into her but somehow that never happened. I wasn’t even at my friend’s wedding, I’d been hot on the trail of a skip back then.

  I can’t help think there was a reason it took this long for us to meet. A sense maybe the moment was never right before. It is now, but I’m terrified those few seconds I took my eye off the ball may have cut our time too short.

  I lift my knife and cut another X in the bark when I hear a howl deeper in the dense woods. My ears pinpoint the sound off to my right, and I immediately turn that way. No longer concerned with being heard, I charge through the brush, ducking under branches, in the direction the yell came from.

  One wrong step and I trip, my artificial knee giving out on me as I crash to the ground. I disregard the pain, pulling myself up on a tree trunk, but my leg will barely hold my weight.

  A piercing scream freezes the blood in my veins before adrenaline kicks in. That was Reagan and she’s not far. My knee forgotten I stumble toward the sound.

  I see him first. His back is turned and he seems to be struggling with something. Or rather someone, as I see when he swings around, holding Reagan in front of him. At first I’m relieved to see her alive, but then I notice the large hunting knife at her throat.

  Immediately my hand goes to the small of my back for my gun, but it’s not there. Fuck. I must’ve lost it when I went down.

  It’s not Neil; that much is clear. Blood streams down his face from a gash at his temple but his eyes are sharp and focused on me.

  “Any closer and I’ll cut her.”

  Reagan, who’d been struggling in his hold, suddenly stills and her eyes find me. I lock in with mine, conveying as much as I can without speaking.

  They’re about twenty feet away, and I don’t have a gun. All I have is the knife still clutched in my hand. No way I can do much with that unless I get closer. I stealthily slip it in my pocket.

  “You won’t get out of here,” I call out, taking a cautious step forward. “In a few minutes these woods will be teeming with law enforcement.”

  “Bullshit!” he yells. “I ain’t falling for that.”

  I take another step. “That’s too bad, because you’ve got only one way out and that’s to let her go.”

  “Not gonna happen!”

  “Look…” I raise my hands, palms out, as I take another surreptitious step. “Whatever your beef, it’s not worth going to jail for,” I try. “You can still walk away from this.”

  The laugh he barks out chills me to the bone. It’s the sound of someone who’s already committed himself.

  “Yeah? And what about him?”

  He nudges his head to the ground beside him and that’s when I notice the prone body of a man by his feet, half hidden in the brush.

  “Hey,” I call out, desperate to keep him talking as I inch my way closer. “What’s your name? I’m Cal.”

  “What the fuck does it matter?”

  I hold my breath, as he seems to adjust his grip on Reagan, whose eyes never waver from me. The knife is pushed harder against the soft skin of her throat and I see the fear, but also determination, on her face. If there is any way I could get him to let up on his hold, even for a second, I know she’ll fight to get away.

  “It matters. It matters a lot. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

  I pick up the sound of a branch snapping to my right, and so does he, his eyes immediately scanning. I grab the opportunity.

  “Over here!” I yell loudly, hoping to disorient him.

  His head snaps back to me, but the hand holding the knife seems forgotten, the blade no longer cutting into Reagan’s neck. All it takes is a slight nod and she drops down.

  I’m already moving when I hear the sharp report of a gun and the man goes down, his torso pinning Reagan to the ground.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Detective Melville stepping out from behind a tree, but my focus is on my woman. I grab the man’s shoulder and roll him off her.

  “Slick, Sweetheart?”

  She’s covered in blood and I can’t tell if it’s hers or his, but her eyes are open and panicked.

  “She okay?” Melville asks from behind me.

  “Reagan, talk to me.” I rip my shirt over my head and start wiping at her face.

  “Holy fuck,” she finally says, her voice hoarse.

  Ignoring the two dead bodies on the ground beside her, I haul her up in my arms and bury my face in her dirty hair.

  “For a few seconds there I thought my heart stopped,” I mumble, feeling her hands on my chest.

  “It’s still beating.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cal

  Dammit.

  I glare at Mark’s back, and I just know the asshole is laughing his ass off.

  He and Dean showed up as I was looking Reagan over for injuries, while she relayed what happened to her and who the dead man next to Neil Tory was. I didn’t recognize the name, but Melville did. Apparently he’d been on the list Sally and Reagan had put together for him, but somewhere near the bottom. My focus had been on Tory and Walker; I hadn’t even paid attention to the rest of the list.

  The knife had sliced Reagan’s chin when she let her weight drop her to the ground, and I found a good-sized lump to the side of her head. Aside from that, she had some cuts on her feet from running through the swamp on bare feet. I wasn’t going to let her walk and I tried to lift her but my knee didn’t hold out under our combined weight.

  I had no choice but to let Mark carry her out, while Dean stayed behind with Melville until his reinforcements show.

  “I can walk now,” I hear Reagan say when we walk out of the tree line and onto her grass.

  “You put her down and we’re gonna have issues,” I call out to Mark, whose responding chuckle only worsens my mood.

  I follow him up on the porch where he carefully lowers Reagan in a chair. I s
hove him aside and pull a second chair in front of her, sitting down as I pull her feet on my lap.

  “Where can Mark find your first aid kit, Slick?”

  “Laundry room off the kitchen, up on the shelf.” Mark has barely disappeared inside when she turns to me. “You know, I actually think I should have a shower first.”

  I take in the state of her face and her hair.

  “I know you didn’t want us to call the EMTs, but you may need stitches, Sweetheart.”

  “All the more important I have a shower now,” she insists, a stubborn set to her bleeding chin.

  Before I can stop her, she swings her feet to the floor and pushes out of the chair.

  “Wait. Your feet.”

  “My floors are clean, Cal, and I’d rather walk.”

  She takes a step and I see her wince. I stand up and grab her arm, pulling it around my neck as I slip my own around her waist. I’m rewarded with the hint of a smile as I support her inside the house.

  “Where are you off to?” Mark asks, just coming out of the laundry room with a basket he drops on the island.

  “She’s having a shower,” I answer for her.

  Mark blocks our path. “Here, let me carry you.”

  “Fuck off, Phillips. I’ve got it.”

  Reagan snickers. “Now, now, boys. Thanks, Mark, but I think I’ll walk.”

  Like a ten-year-old I feel like sticking out my tongue, but instead I raise an eyebrow at Mark, who steps out of the way.

  “Why don’t you put some coffee on?” I throw over my shoulder as we pass him.

  We make it upstairs and into the bathroom.

  “I’ve got it from here,” she says, keeping her face averted.

  “You sure? I was going to hop in with you, wash some of this swamp dirt off me.”

  “I’m sure.”

  For all her earlier bravado and lighthearted joking, she sounds flat now. Drained all of a sudden. I gently manipulate her chin so I can look her in the eye. Her usual sparkle has dulled and the strain is suddenly visible on her face. I’m guessing the adrenaline is wearing off and it’s all going to hit her at once.