by Matt Hilton
She felt the van decelerate, and take a sharp left turn. From what she could make out, Harry and Rory were following in another vehicle. It didn’t matter, she had made up her mind, she was going to go for broke, whatever that meant. If she was going to die, she was going to make it less than pleasurable for any of her abusers.
Her mom’s face flashed into her mind.
Hours earlier she’d been desperate to reach Clara’s bedside, horrified that she’d be too late to say goodbye. Was her mother still alive, or would Emilia be first to pass over? Absurdly, she wondered who of the two of them would be waiting to greet the other when they reached the afterlife. As a child she had been under the illusion that there was an order to mortality, that parents always went ahead of their offspring, but she had come to learn different. She bet Clara would be surprised if Emilia was the first to take her hand when she arrived at the Pearly Gates. Then again perhaps not. She had to consider that it was her mom who’d sent that mystery woman to the construction site to look for her, perhaps Clara feared more for her welfare than she’d ever been given credit for. Who else would have engaged the woman’s services: not her father. Darius had raised her, but had never exhibited any genuine affection for her, and the overriding emotion she’d experienced growing up when it came to him was aloofness. He probably had no clue that she had never reached the hospital or that she was even missing, and if he did wouldn’t bother to come looking. When she’d spoken to him from the convenience store in Lafayette he’d offered to send one of the boys to come collect her … if he was any kind of father he’d have jumped in his car and collected her himself, without the threat of dragging her back by her hair. But as usual he had proved more pre-occupied with himself – she’d sensed there was somebody else with him and she’d disturbed an important business deal – and the only emotion he’d exhibited was anger at what he’d perceived as her wrongdoing.
She couldn’t rely on dear old Papa. She doubted that even her older siblings Francis and Leon could be relied on to seek her out, because Darius wouldn’t permit her to get in the way of business. The mystery woman was an unknown quantity, but she had been chased off, and if she had any sense would have kept on running. So whom did that leave? Nobody. If she was going to get out of her predicament, it was down solely to her.
The van was driven down a rugged trail. Jostling and bouncing, Emilia rode the bumps in the road, flexing her fingers and her calf muscles, readying herself. It wouldn’t be long before they reached their final destination. Croft barely gave her much notice now as he leaned over the front seats, in rapid conversation with Tyson – it sounded as if he were trying to convince his friend that as soon as things were done out here they should disappear. They knew the Menons were out of control, and anyone associated with them would crash and burn alongside them. Croft suggested that Mr Corbin – the big shot who Zeke served – wouldn’t put up with their activities for much longer and would most likely order a hit on the Menons and anyone involved in the mess they’d caused of what should have been an easy task. If Tyson agreed with his pal he didn’t let on, but his reflection in the rear-view mirror showed he was equally worried by the prospect.
The interior of the van was flooded with spectral light. She hoped a police helicopter was hovering overhead, aiming its searchlights on it, but it was false hope. The light was because they’d come out from under the forest canopy into a clearing. Beneath her the tires picked their way across the scarred earth, and she watched as Croft turned to observe her, biting his bottom lip.
‘Don’t give us any trouble,’ he warned, as the van came to a halt, ‘or else.’
Emilia couldn’t answer if she tried. She remained meek, subdued, frightened into compliance, all false manifestations of her true intention. She waited for Croft to reach for the interior handle and slide open the door – then she’d be up and barging him out of her way. Sadly he didn’t. Tyson got out first and opened the door, sliding it wide. Even as Croft turned and urged her up, Tyson blocked her escape route, and two other figures moved into view. One of them was a fat redneck she didn’t know, the other a scrawny asshole she dimly recognized from their high-school days: Harry Theriault. Harry was a low-level punk back then, and had sunk lower in the pond muck since, but he’d never struck her as a person to get involved in abduction and murder. He was another reluctant party in all this, and as fearful as Croft. As she clambered down from the van, aided by the tug on her elbow by Croft, she caught a glimpse of Harry’s face as he blinked at her in astonishment. His lips were swollen and bruised, and there was a nick in one nostril that had leaked blood, now black and scabrous. She wondered if he’d been forced into helping, but again he was another she felt no pity for. Given the chance she’d make both his nostrils bleed.
First she must hurt Croft.
She angled herself so that she could ram a knee into his groin.
Before the opportunity came, Tyson’s cellphone rang. ‘Hold her!’ he snapped at Croft, and her captor pulled her tightly in against his side, one hand now on her collar, the other cupping her elbow as before. The moment for kneeing him where it hurt had been missed.
‘Yeah, Zeke, we’re here.’ Tyson said. He glanced at his confederates, lifted his eyebrows and then nodded at the near distance to the north, conveying a silent message.
Emilia followed the gesture, and spotted distant headlights.
A knot formed in her gut and she was on the verge of vomiting.
Tyson listened to his phone, and this time looked up at the nearest towering structure of some kind of oil-pumping plant. The structure was clad in sheet metal, not yet painted with any identifying decal, only bearing a dull grey undercoat. It was the same colour as the lowest of the threatening clouds.
‘If you do her in there, it’ll mean more clean-up,’ Tyson said. ‘We don’t want to leave evidence like we did at the Thibodaux place.’
Emilia heard a bark from Zeke that made Tyson hold the phone away from him, and though she couldn’t make out the words knew that Zeke didn’t expect his commands to be questioned. Tyson was quick to respond. ‘I’m sorry, Zeke. Yeah, sorry, man. You’re the boss. I’ll have her taken inside.’
‘This is nuts,’ Croft said, but he ensured his voice didn’t carry to Zeke, waiting until Tyson had hung up before speaking.
Emilia couldn’t agree with him more. She looked up at him, gave him her most beseeching look in the distant hope he’d come to his senses and allow her to run. Croft purposefully ignored her. Instead he beckoned the fat man over. ‘Rory, take her inside.’
‘Fuck you, man,’ said the big redneck.
‘Harry,’ Croft said.
Harry made out he hadn’t heard, pretending to be watching the approaching vehicle.
‘If we take her in there we become complicit in her murder,’ Croft told Tyson.
Even Emilia was stunned by his naivety. All four of them were already complicit; it made no difference which one of them dragged her to her doom. What did he expect, that if he handed her over, he could wipe the dust from his hands, and with it any involvement? A sudden spurt of anger shot through her, and again it was as if her stomach was about to purge itself. If she were sick while gagged, she’d choke to death. Her anger at his ignorance manifested in a more violent manner. She was held, but not fully immobilized. She swung round and before Croft could react she had a grip on his face. Her fingernails dug into his forehead, her thumb deep in the socket of his right eye. Her hand made a tight fist, but it wasn’t in an effort to pluck out an eye, to blind him. She wrenched away, ripping out the metal piercing from his brow and a chunk of flesh with it.
Croft’s reaction outweighed any pain he suffered. It was shock at the sudden and dramatic attack that made him rear back, throwing his hands over his abused face, while letting out a strangled cry. Emilia drove a kick between his legs and got him square with her shin. Croft now buckled and his torn eyebrow was forgotten as both hands transferred to his groin. Emilia took no pleasure in his punishm
ent; she raced away, no direction or destination in mind other than away from the approaching headlights.
Behind her the trio of standing men hollered at her, and at each other. Croft only moaned in agony as he rolled on the floor. Emilia ignored them, instead rushing across the open ground for the road they’d entered by. She knew she’d never escape them on foot, not while running up the trail, but that wasn’t a consideration, she hoped to lose herself in the forest on the far side of it.
Another trio of silhouetted figures shambled towards her.
She had no idea who they were, only that they were bad news and that they blocked her escape route. She almost went down on her side in the mud as she skidded to make a turn and flee again, this time to where the fleet of excavators and bulldozers was lined up in rows like a herd of colossal alien creatures, part-biological part-mechanical monsters.
More voices joined those of her original captors, but her pulse was hammering inside her skull, and her breathing – confined by the balled socks and gag – roared in and out like a steam train climbing a mountainside. She bent at the waist, stamping through mud, and again her feet almost skidded out from beneath her. Fighting for balance, she grabbed at the heavy caterpillar tracks of the nearest machine. She slapped her way along, using the track for stability, and rounded the front of the huge excavator, and ducked to avoid the lowered backhoe boom. She fled into the shadows between the mechanical behemoths.
As she ran she tugged at the gag, but couldn’t free it, and was in danger of losing her balance. She let it be, concentrating instead on putting as much distance between her and the – how many now? – seven men trying to catch her. In her haste she clipped an ankle on a piece of machinery and went down. She barely felt the pain that flared up her leg, and swarmed up, but as she ran on it was with a noticeable limp. She swerved, cutting between large trucks and diggers, and swerved again, so there was no direct path for anyone to chase her down. From behind her there came a sharp crack!. The noise echoed off the silent machines that surrounded her. Before it had stopped reverberating a second crack! followed and a third shot, this one a boom!. Gunfire. They were shooting at her, trying to bring her down. A vehicle roared to life, she could hear it distantly, but had no idea where the noise came from. She ran harder, cutting left, and then took shelter in the huge bucket of a bulldozer. She smelled wet iron and turned earth. She wasn’t sure if the smell was from the bulldozer or her. Gasping for breath, she tugged and twisted at the duct tape around her mouth, got it yanked down beneath her chin, and wrenched free the sodden socks. As the soaked material was finally extricated her relief was huge, but it was as if the unblocking of her throat also encouraged the purging of her stomach contents she’d been fighting so hard to contain. She was sick between her feet, her stomach convulsing painfully. Dizziness assailed her and she staggered to one side, a shoulder the only thing supporting her against the steel wall of the huge bucket. Bleary-eyed, and spitting a string of foul-tasting saliva, she knew she must get moving again. She scrabbled through her own vomit, without a care, and started a wobbling run for a brighter spot between the towering machines. Beyond the row of diggers she saw wet ground, and beyond that the rearing bulwark of the recently erected levee. It blocked her passage, but not entirely. From experience, she expected that culverts would have been inserted at regular intervals to allow for the rising and falling water table, and for the native wildlife to pass from one ancient stomping ground to another. She’d happily slither like a snake through any pipe wide enough to lead to freedom.
She bounded forward, her equilibrium back, eyesight clear of tears now that there was a hope of sanctuary beyond the levee …
And ran full tilt into the arms of one of her hunters, who grappled her close, and fell with her in the dirt.
THIRTY-NINE
Tess was no sooner seated in the immense Dodge Ram pickup than she was almost compelled to leap out again and run into the fray. The pickup sat just within the perimeter of the forest above the still stretch of water, but from the cab she could see all the way across the barren ground to the pumping station. The panel van and truck blocked most of her view of what was going on but the sudden jerky movements of the small group of figures told her something was happening. The smallest figure abruptly pelted around the back of the van, heading directly for her. Unfortunately, because of the undulations of the landscape, she couldn’t spot the Chatards, but they were somewhere between the Dodge and the running figure. Hope swelled in her that Emilia would rush into the arms of her family within seconds, but alas it was fleeting. Emilia could have no way of recognizing her kin in the dark as they broached the small incline between them, and she made the mistake of thinking them more enemies. She dodged so sharply she almost went down on her side, but regained balance and sprinted away, this time towards the rows of excavation equipment.
Hoping that the young woman would recognize one of the voices calling out to her, Tess pushed open the door, about to jump out and join the chase, but Emilia kept running. The Chatards’ voices were mingled with those of Emilia’s hunters, three of whom were rushing laterally to cut her off.
Emilia disappeared among the massive machines, and then Tess was unsure which of the running figures was friend or foe. Except for one. She could make out the stockier figure of Darius, who had been left behind by his fleeter-footed son and nephew. He had turned to limp towards the panel van. One of the bad guys still remained behind it, hidden from view, and a quick check showed her that the approaching truck was now barely a minute out. Darius had decided to forgo chasing after his daughter in favour of settling a score with one of her abusers.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ The question could have been aimed at any of them, not to mention her.
This was insane. She was an investigator, not a member of a FBI Hostage Rescue Team. This was a job for specially trained law-enforcement officers, not a bunch of gun-happy Cajuns on a revenge trip. Beating herself up about it wasn’t helping, but she experienced a moment of panic concerning the future. They could all go to prison for their actions. She should call the police and try to salvage what was left of all their lives. Prior to this there was no proof that Emilia had been taken, let alone by Zeke Menon, but now the confirmation was right there in front of her. Call the police. Get backup.
Instead she started the engine and the pickup roared to life.
This wasn’t her case. Never had been. It was all about Po finding resolution for past mistakes and misfortunes. When she said she was coming with him to Louisiana she knew what she was buying into. She’d made her decision to accompany him, so just had to suck it up and take the consequences. It would have been better if Po were actually here, but somehow he was going to miss the end game. So if there was ever a chance of a happy ending to any of this, she must get moving and do something about it. Back home she drove a tiny Prius, but when she was with the Cumberland County Sheriff’s Office she had gained experience with various departmental vehicles, so the huge pickup didn’t intimidate her. She sent it rolling down the slope, picking up speed, still without lights. She had a suspicion where Emilia’s flight might take her, and she hoped to be in position to grab her and get her out of there before everything went south.
Muzzle flash signified the abrupt deadly turn to the proceedings. She had no idea who was first to shoot, but then bullets were traded, the flashes coming from different points. A deep-throated boom told her that Jean had joined in with the sawn-off. Tess hauled down on the steering wheel, taking a sharp right turn, and the chunky tires of the Dodge tore through a soft mound of dirt, then lost traction as it bounded down the decline of a dip in the earth. Swamp water curtained either side of the truck, momentarily blinding her as the deluge washed over the windshield. She didn’t bother with the wipers, in the next second the truck was powering out of the low point and up the other side. The truck ramped off the crest of the next mound, and then it was downhill from there.
She intended driving around the fleet of
immobile excavators, ready to assist Emilia if she made a mad dash for freedom. Emilia couldn’t continue to evade her pursuers by playing cat and mouse among the bulldozers and dumper trucks and would have to traverse open ground at some point. She snapped a glance to the left. The lights from the pickup were now sharp flares against the dimness as it powered towards the pumping station. The Menons, inside it, would have to be blind to miss the muzzle flashes. They hadn’t stopped, or tried to make off. They were coming faster, eager to join the fight. She swung the Dodge to the left, and clods of mud rained from the sharp grooves her tires dug from the ground. Gearing down, she hit the gas and the Dodge lurched forward again, this time not for the bare ground between the site and the levee but back towards the service road. She didn’t have a gun but somebody had to slow down the Menon brothers.
FORTY
Kicking and flailing in the dirt, Emilia fought against her assailant. Since losing the gag she had found her voice again, and she screamed like a demon released fresh from hell as she punched, kicked, and clawed. She was like a small child in the big man’s embrace, and if anything, all of her efforts were wasted and only served to tire her out. If she could bust loose, she wouldn’t have the energy left to run to the levee, let alone squirm through one of the culvert pipes to freedom. Finally she arched back, crying out in futility, her palms pressing at the man’s chest for leverage, as she begged him to release her. But he wasn’t letting go. In desperation she tried to headbutt him. The move was sloppy, and her forehead bounced uselessly off the soft flesh of his shoulder. One of his arms was around her lower back. It surprised her when his other cupped her head, pulling her tighter into his embrace as he stood and lifted her with him.
