The Kill Box

by Nichole Christoff

  “What did Snake want with Charlotte?” I asked Rittenhaus as a paramedic butterflied the wound in my shoulder. Snake’s final shot had taken a bite out of my flesh, but the bullet had passed clean through. A nick, some would call it, but the EMTs who’d responded alongside Rittenhaus’s deputies wanted me to go to the hospital anyway.

  I put them off, preferring to sit in the sunshine, on the ambulance’s tailgate, outside the old dilapidated factory and keep busy chatting with Rittenhaus and Marc instead.

  Rittenhaus said, “He says this Llewellyn sent him out here to see if he couldn’t forge a few business contacts. Seems the drug business in Fallowfield has been small-time up to now.”

  “It’s tough living in an underserved area,” Marc said, leaning against the ambulance’s open door and looking like one tough customer in his motorcycle jacket and Kevlar vest.

  “Yeah, well, this creep got lonely. Thought Char looked like she could use his company.”

  Rittenhaus’s lantern jaw tightened.

  But I didn’t quite buy his story. The day I’d walked into the diner, Snake and Charlotte had been in a standoff, all right. It had even looked like a shakedown to me. Guys like that, however, didn’t negotiate when a woman told them no. And unless I’d missed my guess, there’d been some definite negotiation going on.

  Oblivious to my thoughts, Marc said, “Squeeze him about the rape and murder of your local girl, Kayley Miller. I’ll go after him for racketeering. Faced with multiple felonies, he may just roll over on his boss.”

  For a DEA agent like Marc, that would make his day.

  But Snake hadn’t killed Dawkins. He hadn’t set the deputy on fire, either. And he certainly hadn’t gone out to Vance’s mother’s house and torched the glider.

  “Vance had a drug problem,” I said out loud. “And he wanted to skip town. Maybe he was buying from a competitor and Llewellyn wanted to make an example of him. So maybe Snake killed him. Maybe Snake killed Eric over drugs, too.”

  “Drugs?” Rittenhaus snorted. “Eric Wentz was no more involved in drugs than I am.”

  “That’s not what Charlotte told me. She said Eric’s dependence was ruining his business, his relationship with his dad, everything.”

  I’d surprised Rittenhaus again. That muscle in his cheek began to jump. But anything else I could’ve said got swallowed up in my gasp when the EMT pushed a gauze pad against my shoulder and began to wrap my wound. My neck, chest, and shoulder blade were already beginning to ache. As a result, I hoped the sheriff would throw the book at Snake for shooting me in addition to the rest of his crimes.

  “Jamie, you should go to the hospital,” Marc said.

  But I knew a good doctor.

  She was staying at the orchard.

  As if Rittenhaus had read my mind, he said, “At least go back to the Barretts’. I’m…Well, I’m releasing Adam as soon as I finish up here.”

  Relief washed over me—but I knew Rittenhaus still had a lot to do. The Dodge Charger was a crime scene in and of itself. And so was the entire lower level of the factory building. Rittenhaus had gotten smart and called in the State Police’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation to help bag and tag and process evidence. Marc, I knew, had a keen interest in witnessing all of it. And I wanted to, too. Soon, however, thanks to the pain growing in my arm, back, chest, and neck, I knew I’d be useless—and above all, I didn’t want these two to see me like that.

  “I’ll take off,” I said, “if you’re done with my Jag.”

  But that was wishful thinking.

  A crime scene tech would be digging lead out of its interior for some time yet.

  “Take my car,” Marc said, helping me on with my blazer and offering me his keys. “If you can even drive.”

  Glad I could get away and still preserve my dignity, I shot Marc my didn’t-you-know-I’m-Wonder-Woman smile. “I can and I will, thank you very much.”

  Fortunately, his car was an automatic. Otherwise, I’d have been sunk. Especially since struggling into the seatbelt proved to be a challenge all its own. Even my cellphone, pressing into my side, was enough to make me squirm. I yanked it from my pocket, tossed it on the passenger seat.

  Then, keeping a stiff upper lip, I rolled out of the rail yard—and turned away from town. In my current weak and weary state, the idea of driving through Fallowfield’s stop-and-go business district was daunting. So I set the navigation system to get me to the orchard via the back roads where I could drive at my own pace.

  Turns out, a late afternoon cruise through the countryside did me good. I cracked the windows to breathe in the fresh fall breeze, spiced by the scent of turning leaves, and took my time. Along the way, I recognized bits and pieces of the route, but not a lot of it. Still, I could say I passed a mobile home where a McCabe cousin lived, and a split-rail fence marking a lane that looked remarkably like the one where Barrett had taken me stargazing.

  Barrett would be out of Rittenhaus’s holding cell soon, and truth be told, I was eager to see him. At the same time, though, I dreaded it. Barrett was a compassionate man and he’d hate to see me stiff and sore with a gunshot wound to my shoulder.

  That’s when it occurred to me that, in a way, such compassion was Barrett’s particular brand of weakness. After all, it had been Barrett’s deep sense of compassion that had made him feel liable for Eric Wentz’s well-being over all these years. And Vance had preyed on Barrett’s compassion to get him to come to New York last week.

  But what did I know? I’d been prepared to mow down Pat “Snake” Hennessey like he was a noxious weed. So maybe I was a few scoops shy of the full compassion quotient.

  The notion made me feel irritable—and just a little sorry for myself. Or maybe that was the trauma to my body taking hold of my emotions. That could happen after a serious injury, and I was no stranger to the experience. In any case, I willfully turned my attention to the scenery outside the car. And there, in the distance, past the passenger-side window of the Chrysler, rose the magnificent ancient apple tree that marked the edge of the Barrett family land, clinging to its craggy outcrop at the crest of the hill. I looked to my left. And the lilac bushes denoting the entrance to the old Wentz place came into view, too.

  On a whim, I stopped in their shade.

  I left Marc’s car alongside the ditch at the mouth of the Wentz’s drive, picked my way down the grassy lane. The sun had slipped behind the ruined farmhouse. Its rays crowned the roof’s peak with a tarnished halo. Vance McCabe had forced his way into my own house a week ago. But standing between the house where Pamela Wentz had lived and the barn where the girl had died, I came up with the unsettling suspicion that the events of the last seven days had gotten their start long before that.

  Somehow, everything that had gone wrong in the past week had begun years before, with Pamela.

  I peered up at the house’s blank and dirty windows. Which room behind them had been hers? Had she been a secret wild child, regularly sneaking out at night despite Mrs. Wentz’s assertion to the contrary? I didn’t think so—but she’d certainly snuck out to pursue Barrett once.

  Through no fault of his own, Barrett had been at the heart of Pamela’s choices that night. And I couldn’t help but wonder: Was he somehow at the heart of the crimes that had happened since? Had Pamela been raped and maybe murdered in anger because she’d bestowed her affections on Barrett? Did Kayley meet the same fate because I’d come to Fallowfield for Barrett’s sake? The killing of Deputy Dawkins on Mrs. Barrett’s front lawn and two questionable suicides involving Barrett’s boyhood friends made me think the theory wasn’t all that far-fetched.

  Once I entertained that conclusion, I should’ve gone back to the car. I should’ve driven to the orchard, taken some Tylenol, and gone to bed. Instead, curiosity and a reluctance to let my sore shoulder tell me what to do had me picking my way up the house’s front steps.

  Termites had had a field day with the treads, and the planks of the porch creaked and groaned as I stepped gingerly ac
ross them. The front door must’ve been beautiful at one time. The elements had ruined its patina, dulled it down to a weathered gray, but carefully crafted dentils still framed a beveled glass pane. The heavy hardware had been quality brass, too. Now even that was green with age.

  The door was unlocked. The front hall floorboards were waxy and dull. Prints from petite feet had shuffled through the dust and I remembered that the deluded Mrs. Wentz returned here regularly.

  I wondered what would become of her now that she had no son to find her here.

  Or to fetch her back to her nursing home.

  Upstairs, four rooms opened off the landing. One occupied each corner of the house. One was a bath, with mini black-and-white hexagonal tiles straight out of another era. One must’ve been for the parents. It boasted a bigger closet from a time when people owned far fewer clothes. And one must’ve been for Eric. Forgotten posters of race cars and hot rods were still thumbtacked to the walls. That left the fourth room for Pamela. And except for a scrim of dust and cobwebs, it appeared now much like it probably had when she’d done her homework and dreamed of Adam Barrett.

  Frothy lace and dotted swiss swagged the dingy white bedframe, the dingy white dressing table, and the tall window. Faded with time, the material might’ve been pink. Now it was colorless and dirty and wispy tendrils stirred from it when I walked by.

  I opened the drawers of the bureau, found only moldering clothes inside. I tried the dressing table. The shelves in the closet yielded moth-eaten sweaters and spare blankets, but no secrets. And I hadn’t supposed they would. Still, I felt a pang of disappointment. Since walking down the lane, I’d held on to the half-baked hope that something—a diary, a scribbled note from study hall, anything—might’ve revealed the identity of a boy who’d stalked Pamela, a man who’d watched her walk home, anyone who’d made her uncomfortable and set off that sixth sense of self-preservation most human beings have. But it was not to be.

  At a loss, I crossed to the window, gazed down on the corroded tin roof that overhung the porch. Pamela’s room overlooked the patchy yard at the front of the house. And in the distance, I could see the dark smudge that was the hill behind the Barrett orchard. Had Pamela stood in this very spot, daydreaming in that direction? I didn’t know, but I’d bet she had.

  Too late, a footfall behind me jerked me from my thoughts. Too quickly, everything went dark. Fabric, dusty and musty, covered my head, my nose, my mouth.

  Pillowcase, I thought.

  My hands instinctively clawed at the hem cutting into my throat. My assailant shoved me against the windowpane. The sill caught me painfully mid-thigh as his body pressed mine flat to the chilly glass.

  “Why are you looking for him?” he ground out. “Do you want him so bad?”

  His voice was a grainy whisper. He twisted the pillowcase tighter. And the darkness began to spin.

  “You should’ve gone back to Washington,” he accused. “But you stayed here for him. What’s he got that I don’t have? Tell me!”

  I opened my mouth. I tried to speak. But the pillowcase pinched my larynx. All I could do was squeak. And my attacker’s fury left no room for words.

  He shoved his hand between me and the windowpane, forced his rude fingers between my legs. Every muscle in my body clenched in rebellion. Panic scrabbled up my insides—because I knew what would happen if I didn’t make him stop.

  My right arm was weak, but I clawed at his wrist. I tore at the pillowcase. Bucking against the window, I tried to force him back. I was pinned like a butterfly in a collector’s box and I couldn’t negotiate a kick. I couldn’t draw an elbow for a strike.

  While I struggled, he whispered things into my ear. Filthy things. Things he swore to do to me.

  Things he boasted of doing to Kayley.

  And things he’d proudly done to Pamela.

  Bright lights began to dance before my closed eyes. I couldn’t breathe. He’d made sure of it. Desperate, I groped behind me for his face. My bandaged shoulder screamed with pain.

  My knees buckled under me. My head dropped forward. With a smart smack, my forehead knocked into the pane.

  “You wanted it from Adam? Well, you’re going to get it,” he told me, and fumbled with my clothes. “Only I’m going to give it to you.”

  Over my dead body, I thought.

  I threw my good arm across my face.

  And smashed through the window’s glass.

  Chapter 34

  Headfirst, I fell from the window of Pamela Wentz’s old bedroom.

  But I didn’t fall far.

  Like a ton of bricks, I slammed onto what had to be the porch’s tin roof. And like a log, I rolled down its sloping surface. All too soon, I met the gutter—and toppled from the edge of it to slam into the unforgiving earth.

  I shot to my feet in an adrenaline-fueled daze, whipped the pillowcase from my head, righted my glasses on my nose. I spun this way and that, looking for my attacker. His form darkened the window frame above. When he disappeared, I knew he was running down the stairs. And I knew I’d have to stay ahead of him to stay alive.

  Dusk had fallen. The moon had yet to rise. Yet, thanks to the half-light, I could see the way up the lane. I took off at a stumbling run, pain stabbing my shoulder with every step.

  I’d get in Marc’s car. I’d lock the doors. I’d snatch up my phone and call 911. Then I’d race away. At least, that was my plan.

  However, when I pushed past the lilacs at last, Eric’s Mercury sat where Marc’s Chrysler should’ve been. The Mercury’s grill was smashed. And it was little wonder why.

  Like a bulldozer, it must’ve slammed into Marc’s car. Because there was the Chrysler, at a steep angle, nose down, in the ditch. Its tail end had been crushed with the force of the blow—and its windows had been shattered as well.

  There’d be no climbing into it. No locking my assailant out. My heart sank. Still, I slid down the bank. I peered into the gloomy passenger side for my phone.

  I didn’t see it.

  Scrambling to the Mercury, I tugged on the driver-side door. Locked tight. And behind me, in the lane, the rustling of the weeds said my attacker was coming for me.

  From what I’d seen, traffic rarely rolled down this remote road at the height of day. I certainly couldn’t count on passersby to help me at the edge of night. But the Barrett family orchard—and light and safety and Barrett himself—was past the field and over the ridge.

  So I made a break for it.

  Crossing the road and climbing the cattle gate, I tore across the Wentz family’s field in the twilight. When the cattle gate rattled again, I knew my adversary wasn’t far behind. I shot a furtive glance over my shoulder, but the growing dark hid him from me.

  The dark hid obstacles, too, like groundhog holes and roots ready to throw me to the ground. It hid the curve of the creek bed and the trailhead that switchbacked up the hill. Those were the landmarks that would save my life, but I’d never see them in the night. Pushing forward, I kept my eye on the old apple tree on the ridge above. It was nothing more than black hash marks against the deepening charcoal sky—but it was enough to navigate by.

  Sloshing through the stream, I managed to find the path on the other side. The hill was steep and I lost my footing as I climbed. As I fell on all fours, waves of pain undulated through my injured shoulder and down my side. But I could hear the thumping of footsteps behind me. And that was more than enough to make me jump up and plow on.

  With the breath sawing in and out of my lungs, I crested the ridge, ran past the graceful apple tree, toward the shallow bowl that cupped the ruins of the first Barrett homestead. I told myself I didn’t have far to go. But I tripped again, fell hard enough to rattle the teeth in my head.

  And then he was on me.

  Fighting, grappling, he pinned me to the dirt. Terrified, I wedged a foot against his hip. And gathering all my strength, I thrust him off of me.

  He spat indecipherable curses, but I was already on the run. The first s
tars had appeared. They poured their weak light onto the broken-down trees dotting the slope, the old stone foundations in the valley, and, just past the far rise, my goal: the peak of Miranda Barrett’s Victorian farmhouse.

  My legs burned. My heart hammered. And just when I thought I could make it, the ground fell away from under me. I fell down, down, down through the darkness. And when I stopped, everything went black.

  I must’ve lain unconscious for a while. I couldn’t be sure how long. But at some point, I awoke to a whimpering sound—and realized the whimpering was me.

  My eyes fluttered open. Like a spotlight, a shaft of moonlight cut a circle around me. I was lying on my side like a forgotten ragdoll. My glasses were gone and my cheek was cushioned in cool, moist mud. A plank of rotten wood lay in front of my face. I squinted, saw another caught between my feet. I tried to sit up.

  And thought my body might break in half.

  Pain pierced my ribcage. I broke out in a cold sweat. My breathing became short and shallow.

  I wasn’t a field medic, but I was pretty sure about one thing.

  I had broken ribs.

  A shadow passed over me. I craned my neck to look up. I could make out a hole far above. Someone or something paced past the opening like a jackal waiting for the gazelle to die.

  That provoked me to move. I forced myself to sit up. Gritting my teeth, I scooched on my rear, found my glasses, and slid out of the reach of the treacherous moonbeam.

  I was in a cavern of some sort. A trickle of water ran through the mud on the floor. I scooted again and, in the ambient light, saw a brick wall nearby. It curved to the hole overhead. Four walls in all met at that aperture.