She gave me a little smirk back. I returned my attention to my driving. “Seat belt, by the way.”
“Oh, shit!” she muttered, and scrambled for the belt.
I reached to turn up the volume of the stereo. Truth be told, I wasn’t particularly fond of the Jeep’s color myself. But she didn’t need to know that. Nor did she need to know how I’d come to buy it, that I’d totaled my beloved Chevy Malibu four years earlier, and when the time came to buy another vehicle, the odd-colored Jeep was the only one that caught my eye—because of its color. I didn’t need a Jeep, it was completely impractical, and maybe that was also why I bought it. In my line of work, a vehicle with doors and a trunk that locked was much more suitable, perhaps lent a more professional air, but instead I’d opted for the Jeep. Early midlife crisis, maybe.
I’m a private security consultant. I work with women only, specifically women who have been assaulted, physically, sexually, and women who have been raped. I also work with women who wish to prevent this from happening to them, in their own homes at least.
I guess you could say I’m a contractor. I meet with my client, determine her needs, and then, along with a national security company that provides wireless home security systems, I work closely with her to achieve the level of safety and peace of mind required. The company I work with and recommend for my clients provides a wireless system that negates the need for strange male installers or technicians to access the women’s homes. It adds a level of personal security unrivaled by traditional home security installations; women who have been sexually assaulted don’t generally, in my experience, want strange men in such close proximity. At least not the women who hire me. Once I’ve scoped out the residence, I discuss my findings and recommendations, the client orders the relevant security package, and with the help of one of the company’s representatives over the phone, we install the system ourselves. I have found this, along with my being female and an ex-cop, sets my clients at ease, and builds a measure of trust they wouldn’t achieve otherwise. And it provides me with a level of job satisfaction and personal satisfaction I would be hard-pressed to find elsewhere. I couldn’t ask for much more than that.
Chapter Three
She has slept with the knife beneath her pillow ever since her stepfather’s last visit. During the day, it lies between the mattress and the box spring, well into the middle. Her mother has not noticed that the knife is missing. Her mother has not noticed many things.
She does not blame her mother. She has done nothing wrong. Neglect is a nonaction. She will not blame her for doing nothing. But blame herself for the same thing? Oh yes, she has done that. And no longer wishes to.
She will do this thing. She knows, on some level, that she will pay a price. Her twelve-year-old mind is incapable of fully grasping what the implications of her actions will be. But any price she must pay, she thinks, is better than the one she is currently paying.
He comes to her as she, against her will and intent, is starting to slide into sleep. He is, in his drunken state, as surreptitious as Gulliver in Lilliput. She wakes instantly. He reeks of beer and cigarette smoke. Her hand, burrowed beneath her pillow, spasmodically clenches the polished wooden handle of the Henckels kitchen knife. She grips it so tightly its contoured, smooth edges press painfully into her small palm.
She is cold, so cold, Antarctic cold. As he sits heavily on the mattress, his head hanging, she lies frozen beneath her comforter. Her mind is an iceberg; nine tenths of it submerged, out of touch, out of reach, the remaining fraction stark, glaring, resolute.
He speaks, slurred words she has long since ceased listening to. He cries as well, as he always does, which always astounds her; she has not cried in a very long time. She finds no sanctuary in tears, no relief, no release. Why he cries she does not know, and does not care to know.
He reaches for the comforter, drags it off her. She tenses, yet this time not for the usual reasons. She is fully dressed: jeans, T-shirt, sweatshirt, socks, Nikes. If he has ever seen her, actually seen her during these nighttime forays, this time will be her undoing. Yet he does not turn his head, does not even raise it. He continues to sob softly; his arm drops once more to his side.
And now she knows she must move, she must act, to ensure she is not undone. She cannot pretend to be asleep, curled up on her right side. It’s never saved her before. It surely will not do so now. She is, in a word, committed, a word she has looked up in her mother’s worn dictionary, and understood: To pledge or bind oneself to a certain course or policy. Of course, there is the other meaning as well: To be committed, as in to send a person to prison, or a mental hospital. She steadfastly shoves the thought from her mind.
She uncurls, twisting her body around and then up, slipping the knife from beneath the pillow. She is fine-boned, lightweight, the mattress barely registers her movement. Yet in the second it takes to place herself at his back, the mattress proves to be a traitorous surface. It sags slightly, causing her to falter. In an effort to maintain her balance, she unwittingly, and unwillingly, drops her left hand to his shoulder. His head rears back in surprise. He starts to make a sound. Her reaction is purely instinctive. The muscles in her shoulders and back, in her biceps and forearm, stretch as she brings the knife up and around smoothly, so smoothly. Those same muscles contract, as she shoves against his shoulder, pushing him into the blade as she forcefully strokes it across his throat. Having pushed him into it, she meets little resistance. The edge of the blade is wicked sharp, her placement unerring.
Whatever sound he is about to make is silenced. Her shove unbalances them both. He pitches forward, she falls backward. She tumbles off one side of the bed, while he drops off the other. She loses her grip on the knife as she hits the floor.
Most of what happens next, and for days afterward, is a blur. She vaguely remembers finding it hard to breathe. She remembers blood, a lot of it. She remembers running, endless running, until she cannot run anymore. She remembers stumbling on pavement, blinding headlights, a hushed, shocked voice, gentle hands.
All that remains clear is one thought, a thought that runs an endless loop through her mind: I am twelve, and he is dead. I am twelve, and he is dead.
Chapter Four
Two hours later I pulled off the highway into a rest stop. It was large as such places went, with a spacious paved parking lot, the requisite cinderblock building housing the washrooms, and numerous picnic tables with accompanying grill pits spread out beneath towering pines, stately oaks and aromatic cedars.
“I need to stretch my legs,” I said as I brought the Jeep to a stop at one end of the parking lot.
“Yeah, I need to…” Kael jerked a thumb at the cinderblock building.
I nodded in understanding as I shifted into neutral and killed the engine. She grabbed her knapsack as I did so, threw open the passenger door, and leapt out to the pavement.
“Be right back,” she called over her shoulder, slamming the door behind her.
“Sure.” I watched her walk away for a few seconds. Her stride was casual and loose, her back and shoulders straight, knapsack carried in one hand, while the other hand swung easily at her side. I admired the gentle sway of her hips as she walked, perhaps for a moment longer than I should, before I deliberately looked away. She was an attractive girl, and she had piqued my interest and even stirred my hormones, but she was a hitchhiker whom I knew nothing about, and I wanted to keep it that way.
I’d enjoyed the occasional fling in my time, but something warned me off this girl who carried a gun she’d felt compelled to lie about, and who was certainly enigmatic, but in a way that did not invite any questions. Not that she’d said so in so many words. It was just a feeling I got, but I trusted that feeling. I probably could have asked her anything, and she probably would have answered, but the overwhelming feeling I’d gotten was that she would prefer I not ask, so she wouldn’t have to answer. I respected that.
I stepped out of the Jeep and stretched, lacing my fingers together
behind my head as I arched my spine. I groaned with pleasure as I completed the stretch with arms raised; I felt and heard cartilage pop and grind in my back and shoulders.
I glanced into the Jeep where the backseat should have been, but where now sat a 3’x3’x3’ diamond plate metal compartment that held all I’d decided to bring with me. Two heavy-duty Master Lock padlocks were at either end of the compartment; a combination lock was built into the frame. The box itself was bolted to the floor of the Jeep, so it wouldn’t become a killing juggernaut if I were to get into an accident. I’d had it custom designed and was confident it was secure, so my glance was purely habitual.
I surveyed the rest stop. At the opposite end of the parking lot sat a red compact car, its hatch open. A man, a woman, and a young girl, perhaps five years old, were unloading a cooler from the rear of the car. Well, at least the man and woman were. The girl had her own hands full with a boisterous, fluffy white and brown dog attached to a pink leash. Her stance reminded me of fishermen I’d seen who were trying to land a big fish. The little dog careened off in every direction and the small girl twisted and turned to follow it, leash gripped tightly with grim determination. Even from where I stood, I could see her frustration and concentration, and I felt bemused and sympathetic as I turned away and headed to the nearest picnic table.
I removed my sunglasses and placed them on the table. I seated myself on the tabletop proper, feet propped on the bench seat, with my back to the washrooms. I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees, and enjoyed the silence and the cooler air, and the exotic cologne of spruce, pine and cedar that mingled around me.
I tried to keep my mind blank; I didn’t want to think. I wasn’t going to make my destination this day, I already knew that. I had at least another two hours of driving until I reached the next city where I planned to spend the night. Kael had yet to indicate where she planned to part company with me, and I found that curious. I hadn’t asked any questions, though, other than the initial one about where she was headed, so I couldn’t very well feel that the lack of information was surprising. If she was just along for the ride, that was all well and good, since she wasn’t a bother. My mind returned to the issue of the gun in her knapsack, and if my brain wouldn’t let something go, it usually meant that it was likely in my best interests to bring the topic up.
But did I truly want to know the answer to the question? Not really. And further, if I was going to be honest with myself, I should at least address the strange reaction that had led me to stopping and picking her up in the first place. And that was something else I was completely unwilling to do.
I sighed, lowered my head, and ran my fingers through my hair. If I couldn’t even decide what the hell I wanted to do, it was probably best I do nothing at all. I pushed myself off the table, landed on the ground with a soft thump, and brushed off the seat of my shorts. I craned my head around to look back at the washrooms.
Kael was just exiting the building, knapsack hiked up on her shoulder. She turned in my direction, looked up, and our eyes met. I felt that strange jolt pass through me again. This time I did more than just blink, however; this time my body actually jerked. It was hugely disconcerting and I frowned. Her own face remained expressionless, but she cocked her head to the right, as if querying my reaction. She was still a good thirty yards from me; how she could even discern such a slight change to my features, I didn’t know. But she had, and now she was wondering about it, and all I could do was berate myself while I deliberately schooled my expression back to blandness.
It occurred to me that I should look away, but instead I did the exact opposite: I turned to face her and simply watched her approach. I felt that surge of energy stir inside me again as my eyes took her in. She was graceful and slender and attractive, and even as I noted these things, I also noted that underlying tension was still present. Yet the slight sway of her hips and the way she angled her head just a little bit more as she drew closer were enough to convince me that that tension was playing a definite part in her attractiveness.
I put my hands in my back pockets and straightened my shoulders. She came to a halt on the other side of the picnic table and regarded me with a cool look.
“How was the leg stretching?” she asked.
“It hasn’t started yet,” I replied.
“Oh?” She paused a beat, eyes steady on mine. “And why is that?” she asked.
Feeling bold, I said, “I was waiting for you. I thought I’d take a walk. I was wondering if you’d join me.”
She blinked once as she considered my words. “Yes, I’d like that.”
I allowed myself a small smile. “All right then.” I grabbed my sunglasses and slipped them on as I stepped away from the picnic table. “Let’s stretch our legs, shall we?”
Chapter Five
The vehicle that almost runs her down comes around a blind curve. She has tried to dash across the road. Instead she stumbles. Tires shriek on pavement as the driver slams on the brakes. She is far too tired to feel more than a resigned fear.
She wants to get to her feet, to keep running. But she is exhausted and doesn’t even lift her head as a figure crouches beside her. The hushed, shocked, but definitely in-control voice of a woman asks if she is all right. Asks what she is doing out here, at this hour, all alone. She hasn’t the energy to answer the questions, and wouldn’t even if she did.
She is helped to her feet and sways slightly while the woman checks her over in the glare of the headlights. Her jeans are torn, dirt and sand and other debris embedded in her badly scraped knees and palms. She’s certain she is bleeding, and the hiss of a sharply indrawn breath confirms this. The woman gently pulls her hands into the light. What she doesn’t expect are the words, in a shocked tone, My Lord, why so much blood?
She looks down stupidly and sees the dry, caked blood covering her arms, and the blood on her T-shirt. It pretty much covers the lower front half of it. It hadn’t occurred to her that his blood would get on her, and in her desperate running, she never thought to check. Now she is appalled at the sight of it. Yet still she doesn’t speak, not even to answer the urgent query put to her: Honey, why is there so much blood?
In the face of her silence, the woman says nothing more, only guides her by the elbow to the vehicle. When they reach the passenger side of the white SUV, she can read what is emblazoned on the side of the door: Orange County Sheriff’s Department. She sags suddenly, filled with despair, knowing she hasn’t the strength to run. When the woman lifts her in her arms, she doesn’t fight, doesn’t even struggle. When she is safely strapped into the passenger seat, and the woman swiftly comes around to the driver’s side and jumps in, she asks the woman who she is.
Grace Tanner, she is told. Investigator with the sheriff’s department. I’m taking you to the hospital, honey.
If she had the energy to cry, she would, but she cannot summon even that. And while she is only vaguely familiar with the word irony, she at least understands the concept. The feelings of defeat and dismay are as overwhelming as her exhaustion and fear. The SUV begins to move, and within five minutes, she falls dead asleep.
Chapter Six
We walked along in a companionable silence for several minutes. Our strides matched for the most part: even, unhurried, relaxed. Well, at least I was relaxed. She still seemed in possession of that ever-present tension, wearing it like a familiar, comfortable garment. In the periphery of my vision I could see she looked neither left nor right, but kept her gaze directed straight ahead, focused on something I could not perceive. That unwavering focus was intriguing, but I hadn’t the slightest interest in breaking or deciphering it.
I, on the other hand, let my eyes travel appreciatively around as we walked. We were surrounded by old growth forest, the beginning proper of a national park, and it was beautiful. Our footfalls were muffled by a heavy carpeting of pine needles. Somewhere up ahead I could hear the distant but distinct sound of rushing water. A river, I suspected, and fast running by th
e sound of it. I guessed we’d come upon it before too much longer.
Kael broke into my thoughts when she asked, with casual interest, “So, what do you do for a living, Amy?”
I considered the question, then answered truthfully, “Nothing much, currently. I’m between jobs.”
She’d asked the question without turning her head. I’d replied in kind, and from the corner of my eye, I noted her slight nod. I allowed perhaps ten seconds to pass, before mentally shrugging. No harm in expressing some interest. “What about you, Kael? What do you do for a living?”
Three seconds passed, six steps beneath the silent, vigilant trees, and then she said, in a thoughtful, conversational tone, “I guess you could say…I kill people.”
My brain stumbled momentarily as I processed what she’d said and the way she’d said it. My thoughts went two ways at once, a fork in the road of consideration: the first, to head back to the Jeep, to just pivot and turn, leave her behind, just leave; the second, to continue as we were, to not react, to wait and see. She could be joking, or speaking metaphorically, or maybe she was a gamer. Her response definitely piqued my curiosity.
My mind regained its footing between one step and the next, and I glanced sidelong at her as I asked, “And does that pay well?”
I saw the corner of her mouth lift into a smile, the corner of her eye wrinkled with that smile, and she lowered her chin. She then raised her head and seemed to take a breath. Her gaze focused forward once more, and she lengthened her stride and moved purposefully beyond me.
I paused momentarily to watch her go, narrowing my eyes. And so we choose our path. I took one long step, and followed it with several more as I strove to catch up to her.
* * *
We reached the river less than ten minutes later. Not because it was that close, but because we were walking that fast. It had been my idea to stretch our legs, but I’d had something of a more leisurely pace in mind. Kael hadn’t slowed after she’d stepped away, and though I had no problem keeping up with her, I considered asking her where the fire was.
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