He inserts the knife into Dawn’s abdomen, making a perfect, vertical cut, then another horizontal cut in her uterus. As he suctions out the amniotic fluid, the infants become apparent. Two tiny heads, eight limbs, four feet. Identical twins born from soul mates.
After lifting the babies from Dawn’s body and snipping the umbilical cords, he rinses both of them quickly then sets them down in the nearby crib. To the tune of their melodious cries, he stitches his love’s body closed. An end and a beginning.
As he lifts one of the girls from the crib, they both cry louder. “Don’t cry, little ones. You’ll be together again...someday.”
He carries baby Jill upstairs and places her in the crib he’s arranged in his bedroom closet. A mild sedative will keep her silent for as long as he needs.
Malcolm snaps back to the present, his heart racing, his head clear. He did not go to such great efforts over the years to lose all he has left.
Energy surges inside him like a volcano, sending him fleeing toward the house over ice and snow. Like walking on water. A miracle worker, not of this Earth. No amount of ice, snow or pain can stop him.
“Find them, find me. Find them, find me,” he chants under his breath, running to the rhythm of his words, feeling young, powerful. Indomitable.
In far less time than he’d taken to journey outward, he makes it home. Outside the patio door, he observes red droplets on the snow. Blood. With his eyes, he follows the red trickle. They lead in the opposite of the direction he’d run.
Why would they have run that way? More difficult terrain, fewer cabins... He recalls a time he had similar thoughts. It was years ago, after Jill tried to run away. The cabin he and Bob found her in was so well hidden, he’d wondered how she had managed it. Could she have found the cabin again?
Could he?
Chapter Sixty
Still huddled under the blanket, Jill drops her head on Claire’s shoulder then lifts it back up. Though unaware of the time, it feels like the wee hours of the night.
“Why don’t you sleep for a bit?” Claire offers. Sleep is out of the question for herself, Claire knows. But she figures Jill can use it. “I can keep watch.”
“You can’t sleep when you’re stressed either, can you?”
Claire smiles. “Not without Nyquil.”
“Nyquil. Ninety-three calories…” She looks at Claire. “Sorry, force of habit.”
“Habits we’re breaking, I hope.” This gives Claire an idea. “Maybe there’s food in here. Hunters eat, right? We can definitely use the energy.” She reaches around in a small cabinet for any kind of sustenance, but finds none. Instead, her hand lands on a small tin filled with bullet shells. She retrieves it and dumps the shells out.
“What are you doing?” Jill asks.
“We can put snow in here and melt it by the lantern. We should at least drink something.” Dehydration won’t help matters, Claire thinks.
“Good idea. And yes, habits we’re breaking.”
Had Jill sensed Claire’s ED symptoms as she had hers?
Claire steps outside, the frigid air reminding her of the bitter chill of Malcolm. An image of Malcolm, naked and infuriated in the basement, fills her mind. She shivers, pushes it away.
She looks around, inhaling the wintery air, then watches as it puffs back out like smoke. The light of the moon illuminates the spaces between the pine trees, making for a doily-like appearance. As she lowers down to the snowy ground, she observes a rustling in the trees. She imagines Malcolm appearing soundlessly, jumping out from behind a thick tree. She gathers snow then rushes back inside with a loaded box.
Within minutes, the snow starts melting. She swallows a mouthful—like a winter-flavored slushy. “It could use some sugar.”
“So could I... I think.”
“It’s going to get easier,” Claire says. “Everything.”
“I know.” She pauses then looks back at Claire. “Was our mother’s death really an accident?”
Claire’s heart sinks. In an effort to avoid the painful topic, she says, “Shouldn’t we be...listening for him?”
“I am, trust me. It’s too dark now. We’d see his lights before we heard him.” Jill pauses. “It’s okay. Whatever happened, you can tell me.”
Claire takes a breath; she deserves to know. “I thought it was a random accident until recently. It happened on my—our—sixteenth birthday.”
“I knew it.”
“You did? How?”
“He’d been promising me he would bring a mother home, someone to care for me. He left to go get her and came back alone. He had blood on his clothes.”
“Oh God... Now it makes sense.” Claire thinks aloud, tears stinging at her eyes. “I met with her counselor recently. She told me that Mom planned to meet someone that day, someone with something important to tell her. If that was the same day he promised to bring you a mother, it had to be him. He must’ve told her about you...or tried to convince her to leave with him.”
“So what happened?”
“From what I understand, he asked Mom to go alone. But she brought my dad.”
“Your...dad?” Jill turns to face her. “Claire, didn’t you know?”
Chapter Sixty-One
The moment Jill’s stated the question, a notion strikes Claire, affecting her insides like rotted food.
“He didn’t just deliver us and keep us apart, Claire. He’s—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “No!” She paces the cabin, walking fast, breathing as though she’ll hyperventilate. Don’t say it.
“Malcolm is our father.”
Claire feels her knees lock, a sense of vertigo. She withholds a sob, her breath growing heavier, staggered. “I...” She gasps. “But—he can’t be! I had a father.” Tears spill down her cheeks as she inhales a gasp of chilled air. She recalls what happened in the basement—the kissing, fondling him, the wretched taste he left in her mouth. The monster. Then the film strip. Her mother naked, with him. “He’s... You’re s-sure?”
“I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but it’s true.” Jill steps closer, rests a hand on her back.
It seems unfathomable to Claire, but so does having a twin. Yet here she is, standing beside her. Claire turns toward Jill and falls into her arms, now unable to withhold her tears. She cries for several minutes, noticing the sharpness of Jill’s emaciated shoulder. No wonder she’s tried so hard to control her body weight, disappear. She might have too, if Malcolm was the only father she’s ever known. Her father... Half of her DNA came from a hideous monster.
Once she’s regained composure, Jill guides her to a sitting position on the ground. They wrap themselves up in the blanket.
“It doesn’t change who you are.”
“I know,” Claire says, not sure if she believes it. “In a weird way, I’m not entirely shocked. I mean, I was. And it’s probably still sinking in. But, it...makes sense.”
“Tell me about your father,” Jill says. “Your real one.”
Her dad’s face, smiling warmly, flashes in Claire’s mind. “I had a wonderful one. He was smart and kind...loving. And he adored our mom. He died that night, too.” Claire recalls the newspaper article: ‘Drinking, drugged, driving...’ “Malcolm must have meant to kill him. They met somewhere that served alcohol. He slipped Valium into their drinks—lethal amounts in my dad’s, and just enough in Mom’s to keep her calm...and persuadable. They must have realized that Malcolm was—disturbed.”
“Crazy. It’s OK, you can say it.”
“They were driving home when they swerved off the road and crashed. Malcolm must have been following them. Either that or Dad’s drugs kicked in.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jill says. “If I hadn’t been so eager for a mother, that might never have happened.”
“It’s not your fault. None of this,” Claire says, sensing guilt. Abused children often feel responsible... “I’m lucky I had my father for as long as I did. I’m sorry you didn’t. Was Malcolm always cruel to you?”<
br />
“No...” She takes a small sip of water then pulls the blanket tighter. “He didn’t take me to bed until after that night. It was like he turned into someone else and made me...well, his wife, I guess.”
“This was shortly after our sixteenth birthday?”
Jill nods.
Claire recalls her nightmare. The pain. The man positioned over her. She hadn’t been raped; Jill had. But Claire felt it. “That’s why you dressed like this, seduced him in the basement.”
She nods. “And lightened my hair, to look more like our mother. She is his greatest weakness. Her and sex.”
“Was that when you started eating less?” Claire asks. “After the accident? Stop me if I’m prying too much.”
“You’re not. It started soon after that, then off and on for years. Each time I stopped eating, he found more ways to force food in me. For a while now, I haven’t been able to tell who is punishing me more—him or me.”
“Oh, Jill.” Claire reaches for her hand. Jill pulls it away, as though avoiding comfort.
“It’s okay. I’m better now.” She takes another sip of water.
They sit quietly together as time ticks on, Claire wondering if Jill’s nerves are peaking, too. Each passing moment brings his arrival closer. Unless something had stopped him. God, let that be the case...
Chapter Sixty-Two
Malcolm searches the exterior of the house, finding no additional signs of the women. He stares at the blood-spattered snow then heads inside to prepare for his journey. He pauses in the kitchen before flicking the light on. Listens. No sounds. Clearing a path through the glass shards, he wonders how much of the blood on the linoleum is his. Both girls were injured, but they’re alive. He feels it. No time to waste...
He opens the freezer door to retrieve ice then decides against it. He can use the pain. More so, the adrenaline. Medical bag in hand, he heads to the bathroom.
Standing before the mirror with a threaded needle, he stares at his reflection—past the bloody mess of the eye, straight into his good one. Grasping the sink with both hands, he leans in, nostrils flaring, anger seething.
You. Will. Find them.
He inhales a deep breath, plunges the needle into the raw flesh above his eye. Sharp pain sends shivers through his body as his throat prepares to vomit. Resisting the agony, he steadies his breath. Focus...
After several rounds of the needle moving in and out, the soreness shifts toward intoxication. Each bloody stitch adds to the thrill. Just look what he can bear, what he’s capable of. Once he’s finished, he steps back, admiring. He’s created a perfect row.
He snips the thread then walks to his bedroom, pleased by his clearer, if limited, vision. Changing into his warmest hunting clothes, he contemplates his course of action. Several cabins stand in the distance. None are easy to find or get to; each one is a long ways apart from the others.
In the dark and snow, he’ll need more than his ears and partial eyesight to find them… He thinks again of the cabin, Jill’s long ago hiding place. It hadn’t taken terribly long for him and Bob to locate her... because they weren’t alone! He closes his good eye, recalling the journey through the snow with the bloodhounds. One sniff of her windbreaker and the hounds were off, searching, hunting...finding.
Bob’s bloodhounds. Of course! He determines the time it would take to drive to his place and back, weighs it against the benefit of the dogs’ acute senses. Hunters. Search hounds. Relentless.
Yes, he decides. Any time lost would be made up for. The animals might save him from several futile searches and lead him straight to the prize. Yes... He should have thought of it earlier. But she threw him off. Not this time...
He admires his sutures in the mirror then analyzes his appearance. A wounded warrior, but strong. Maybe stronger than ever.
“Find them, find me...” Dawn!
He stands up taller, raises his fists in the air, contracting his muscles, noting their bulk. A roar escapes him; he even sounds like a warrior. Warriors fly, fight...win.
Find them, find me. Find them, find me.
He retrieves his gun from the garage then darts outside and into his SUV. So heated, he barely needs his coat. He flies over the ice-topped road toward the nearest property, confident of his plan.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Standing outside the large, wooden house, Hank exhales in relief. If he hadn’t gotten a clear picture from his phone, he may never have found the place. The roads aren’t marked and the entire area is thick with trees and covered in snow. Good thing he had the wherewithal to turn his headlights off and park in a nearby turnout. Minutes after he started walking toward the house, he tucked himself behind a clump of trees and watched as a man rushed outside and drove off...alone. From the distance, the man looked like the photo he found online, the man he saw at the funeral. Malcolm. But where is Claire?
He approaches the house, clutching his Swiss army knife in one hand, a flashlight in the other. The front door is locked; no surprise there. He tries the windows. No luck. He knocks on both.
“Claire?” His voice pierces the silence, triggering a faint echo. He listens. No response. He runs to the back of the house. The door at the back of the garage is open.
Stepping inside, he shines his flashlight into the parked black Porsche. The car Zola freaked out at? He spots something familiar on the floor near the passenger seat. Claire’s purse.
Hank runs to the door of the house. Locked. He pounds on the door then presses his ear against it, listening. “Claire?” He listens again. Pounds harder. “Claire! Open up!”
With a harsh kick, he tries to bust the door down. Damn it! It looks so easy in movies. Grabbing a heavy shovel from the garage, he runs around the house again, stopping at a glass patio door. Using the heft of the shovel, he smashes the glass. He’s in.
Glass particles are everywhere, but not just from the door. Using his flashlight, he pans the kitchen. Broken dishes coat the linoleum. He pauses, listening. What if Malcolm doesn’t live alone? Anyone could be here...not just Claire. If that’s the case, they must already know he’s here.
With caution, he makes his way through the kitchen. The flashlight beam hits a pool of red. Blood.
There’s no phone in sight. He pulls his cell from his pocket. No signal. Fuck! Isn’t 9-11 supposed to work from anywhere?
The glass shards stop at an open door. He shines his light—a staircase. “Hello? Anyone down there?”
No response. He flips the lights on then makes his way down.
“Jesus Christ...” He’s nauseous, not because of the blood itself, but its context. Blood in a hospital he can handle. It’s not Claire’s, he tells himself, no idea if he’s right.
Dim lights remain on in a large room like nothing he’d ever seen. Two hospital beds, one tousled, stand at the center surrounded by medical equipment—a hospital room without walls. A desk and file cabinets make for a free-standing den. A projector and screen are set up. And photos of a pretty blond woman are everywhere.
She looks familiar... Claire’s mother?
Heart pounding he rushes around the room, searching for clues, any indication as to what happened to Claire, her whereabouts. He analyzes the medical equipment. Sterile scalpels, syringes, needles, gloves, sutures. Prescription drugs.
He lifts the bottles. Cyclosporin and prednisone... Steroids like prednisone serve various purposes, Hank knows. But cyclosporin? He knows only one use for the immune repressor: to prevent organ rejection. What the hell?
He feels sicker, dizziness adding to his unease. What has he done to Claire?
His eyes are drawn to a refrigerator/freezer. “Holy shit.” With trepidation, he moves toward it, forcing thoughts of serial killers like Jeffrey Dahmer away.
Like ripping the world’s largest Band-aid off, he yanks it open.Thank God... It holds only ice and bottles of thick fluid.
Hank runs up the stairs and searches the house—no sign of Claire or disruption anywhere else. “Claire!”
he calls out then heads back to the basement, hoping for more clues, wondering if Elle had any luck with the police. He searches spots he’s already searched, feeling increasingly frustrated and helpless. If he can’t find anything useful soon, he’ll head for the woods out back.
He visualizes Malcolm leaving in his truck. He’d entered the vehicle alone, but had he already placed something in the back? Or someone?
Hank’s throat tightens. Damn it, Claire. Where are you?
A sound stops him in his tracks. A door? He listens. Footsteps upstairs. Coming down the stairs.
He rushes toward the darkest corner of the room, but it’s too late.
“A visitor. How quaint.” The voice sent chills down Hank’s spine.
He turns to see the man he presumes to be Dr. Malcolm Campbell. The tall, broad-shouldered man stands before him, his thick white hair a mismatch for his red, bulging stitched-shut eye. He’s dressed in a camouflage coat and pants—a hunter.
“Where is she?” Hank demands.
Malcolm forms a maniacal smile.
“Where is she!”
“Ah, the boyfriend. I remember you... Here to rescue your precious Claire, are you? Well I’m afraid you’re too late.”
Hank glares at him. Don’t let him get to you... Think. The surgical equipment hasn’t been used. The back door is open. Did Claire escape? “I don’t believe you.”
Malcolm laughs. “Fine, don’t. But I have some work to do, so if you’ll excuse me.” He pulls a gun from his belt and points it at Hank.
“Please don’t. I can h-help you. I’m a doctor What do you need? Her liver? Her kidneys? I saw the drugs... Seriously, we can be a team.”
“I’ll show you what I need.” A click sounds as Malcolm cocks the gun.
“Please! Don’t shoot.” He braces himself to duck.
A shot rings through the air. Hank’s body hits the floor.
Chapter Sixty-Four
The night passes like a long, wakeful dream. Or nightmare. At least they are alive and together...so far. Jill’s increasing chill worries Claire, more so than her own. Daylight will soon break, bringing the warmth of sun. But even more than the sunrise, they expect him.
In Her Shadow Page 19
