by Ellis, T. W.
I’m not after power tools or wax or even a hefty table leg. I’m not going to fight my way out of this mess. As well as being my workshop, the garage stores our mountain bikes. We have his and hers colours, blue and pink – not because we’re that pathetic but because we find a certain kind of childish humour in the thought that other people will assume that about us. I think it was Leo’s idea: let them think we’re that kind of couple. It’ll be hilarious.
I take my bike from its hook, place it carefully down so it doesn’t make any noise, then activate the bypass for the garage door’s motor and heave the door open. Doing so is loud, so loud, but it can’t be helped and Wilks and Messer should be far enough away around the back of the house not to hear it.
I’m a fast pedaller and the mountain bike is a lightweight engineering marvel, yet there’s no way on earth I’m going to outrun an Explorer even with a head start. Maybe I’d make it to the intersection, maybe further, but how long before they run me off the road? Town is at least a ten-minute drive away.
Instead of getting on the bike and pedalling for my life, I wheel it round the side of the garage to where the trash cans stand. I position the bike against the garage wall and move the trash cans to hide it. I can’t disguise it completely but I can make sure that no one can see it without getting close. Certainly, anyone at the front of the house looking back will have their line of sight blocked. That’s all I need. It’s a temporary distraction, not a solution to my predicament. With a little luck it could be enough.
Then, I wait.
I hunker down behind the trash cans and try to control my breathing. It won’t take long, I’m sure, and it doesn’t.
It’s Messer.
‘Oh shit,’ he calls from the driveway.
He’s seen the open garage door.
‘Oh shit,’ he shouts.
He’s seen Leo’s mountain bike and the empty space next to it where mine should be hanging.
‘Hey,’ he calls to Wilks, ‘get over here. Right now.’
Wilks’ rushing footsteps are obvious to me.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks as she draws closer to Messer.
‘A bike’s missing.’
‘Clever girl,’ Wilks says with a degree of respect. ‘She duked us. Stay here. She’s not going to have got far. I don’t care how fast she is.’
‘I should come too,’ Messer protests.
‘No, stay put. Maybe she gets down the road and hides in the trees. Waits for us to burn past and comes back for her car.’
Not a bad idea. Wish I had thought of it myself.
Messer must agree with the logic because he says, ‘Go.’
Seconds later the big SUV comes to life. Tyres screech as Wilks throws it into a fast three-point before the engine roars and I catch a glimpse of the vehicle as it speeds along the road. A wisp of rubber smoke swirls in the air.
Now I just need to get Messer away from the front of the house so I can get in and get those keys. Yes, I may run into Wilks in the Explorer, but I’ll deal with that possibility when it materialises.
One killer down, one to go.
8:46 a.m.
I’ve never paid a huge amount of attention to geography but I know my local area well enough. It’s maybe half a mile to the intersection, then right, or east, and another five miles until the outskirts of town. Which is a modest place named Cornwall with a population not much north of a thousand. I’m sure in ye olde days they would have called it a village. Realtors no doubt use terms like ‘unspoiled’ and ‘rustic’, ‘peaceful’ and ‘characterful’, when trying to sell properties here. Leo found it, way back, when we were first looking for a town outside of New York City. Neither of us needed to commute but we wanted to stay close enough that heading into Manhattan wasn’t a huge excursion. And Leo needed to have access to La Guardia and JFK.
There’s a lot of these kind of towns upstate. Young Jem would have found them insufferable. She would have torn her hair out with boredom, gone mad with frustration. This Jem, however – me – is exactly where she needs to be at this point in her life.
If only I had neighbours … I could run to the next house, bang on the door, scream for help. Maybe they’re not home but someone would be at one of the houses on the street. Someone would hear me. Someone would help.
I’m listening hard in an attempt to decipher what Messer is doing. Since Wilks left in the Explorer, I haven’t heard Messer at all. I don’t know if he’s still on the driveway or if he’s gone back into the house. I realise I can’t just wait it out to be certain because at some point Wilks is going to come back, having failed to catch up with me. They won’t have to hunt too hard to find the pink mountain bike hidden behind the trash cans and understand I’m still here, playing the most intense game of hide and seek imaginable. I never liked it as a kid.
I’m liking it a whole lot less as an adult.
I creep alongside the garage, down the side of the house, heading to the back of the property. I just can’t risk sticking my head around the front, not if there’s even a slim chance Messer is still there.
I take my time, staying quiet, and reach my rows of tall tomato plants on the patio, standing proud for their mamma.
The back door is open. In their hurry, Wilks and Messer didn’t close it. Good. That’s one less thing I have to worry about. I duck low under the kitchen window and approach the door, listening hard for Messer, but I hear no heavy footsteps, no signs he’s close.
Maybe he’s there, maybe he’s lying in wait for me.
Could be a trap, couldn’t it? He’s hiding, waiting for me to make a mistake and reveal myself.
No choice. Got to risk it.
I peer through the open doorway, seeing glimpses of the living area and the kitchen, but no Messer. He must still be out front, waiting by my Prius in case I had indeed escaped by bike only to double back as Wilks suggested.
Not good. Not good at all.
With his attention elsewhere, I feel reasonably confident I can get to my keys but they’re no use to me with Messer on guard duty next to my only means of escape.
I remember something: my phone is on the kitchen table and the kitchen is close.
Yes.
I can call the cops, the local police department’s office. I know the chief, Rusty. She’ll be here in a heartbeat, backup in tow. As far as I know there are only a handful of troopers, but they’re close, and in such a quiet, boring town the chances of them being busy on an important callout are minimal. I feel a rush of relief with a potential end to this nightmare mere feet away.
I can’t wait to hear the beautiful sound of screeching sirens.
I take a few fast steps on the balls of my feet into the kitchen – and that brief moment of relief is dashed because my phone isn’t on the table where I left it. Wilks or Messer must have taken it.
I should have expected that and yet I’m still devastated.
Hopelessness begins to suffocate me. I can’t see a way out of this. All I’m doing is delaying the inevitable. I’m destined to lose this game of hide and seek whatever I do.
I feel like holding my hands up and walking out front to give myself up to Messer and whatever fate awaits me. I’m not strong enough for this. I’ve been fooling myself since I hung up the phone on Carlson. My eyes moisten. I just want to stop, to breathe, to lie down. I’d give anything to be able to sleep.
Why can’t this be over?
A phone rings. Not the house phone or my generic default ringtone or the cute one I’ve set to Leo’s number. Must be Messer’s ringer. It’s coming from the front of the house.
The sound ends as he answers it.
I hear him say, ‘Yeah?’
He’s coming closer. He steps into the house to take the call.
‘What?’
I see his shadow on the hallway wall. Dark and looming.
‘You’re kidding me?’
Wilks is telling him she hasn’t found me, that I couldn’t have made it as far as she’s driv
en in the short time I had for a head start, that it’s another trick.
‘If she’s still here, I’ll find her,’ Messer says with such determination, such resolve, I have no doubt he will.
I have no other option.
I run.
8:50 a.m.
The back lawn is cold underfoot, still damp with dew. But soft against my bare soles. It feels heavenly to sprint across but I don’t appreciate it in the moment. Only when I reach the edge of the lawn and cross into the woodland and my toes find rough earth and rock and plants and debris do I realise how good I had it. And isn’t that always the way? We only truly appreciate something when it’s no more.
I’m not sure at what point Messer saw me but I’m in the treeline before I dare look back. The lawn is maybe one hundred feet in length so I’m hoping for at least that much of a head start.
Messer is already at the midpoint of the lawn.
Our gazes meet.
‘Stop,’ he yells.
I do the exact opposite. I power forward, away from Messer, away from my home. In seconds I’m grimacing, my feet already cut and scraped. Messer’s wearing his good shoes. He won’t have the same problem. If I thought I could outrun him, I’m realising that with every step I’m reducing my chances as I increase the likelihood of making myself lame.
He calls out nothing further behind me. Nothing he can say is going to make me comply and it’s hard to run and shout at the same time, if not impossible. He’s saving his energy for running, for chasing.
I don’t know where to go beyond directly away from Messer. I seem to recall there’s a road that cuts through this wood. Whether it’s in the direction I’m running or not, I have no idea. I can’t stop to think, to orientate myself.
I’m trying to look at the ground as I run, trying to see where I can run, where I need to avoid. It’s perilous to do so. My balance falters when I’m not looking ahead, which is hard enough to maintain anyway at speed on an uneven surface. I use tree trunks to brace against, their overhanging branches for support.
Between looking ahead and looking down, I daren’t glance back as well. I can’t. I’m running so fast I know I’ll fall if I do. I know Messer is not far. I feel him closing like a relentless bull, tearing up chunks of earth, smashing through undergrowth, knocking down trees.
I’m half his size, though. I’m more agile. That’s got to count for something. I need to make it count.
I try to use the woods to my advantage, heading for where the trees are denser, the gaps between them narrow, the undergrowth thicker. I seek out protruding roots to hop over. Inclines to scramble up. Low branches to duck under.
I ran the New York City marathon once, many years back. I did it in a pretty good time too, yet now it feels a lifetime ago. I’m tiring fast covering this woodland obstacle course. I’m slowing. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pushing myself. I’m starting to stumble more than run.
My lungs are on fire. I’m gasping for air, for relief.
Ahead, the trees start to thin. Is that asphalt I can see?
Yes, the road. A road. Any road.
Yellow paintwork flashes past.
‘Help,’ I shout, loud and clear, but only a wheezing croak emerges from my mouth.
Even had I been able to make enough noise, the car is moving too fast and I’m too far away. It’s gone in seconds, from yellow flash to pale speck in the distance.
I keep going, slowing almost to a walk now, almost rebounding off the trees I reach out to put a palm on to because I have no strength.
The trees open up before me and I’m at the edge of the road surface. It’s set higher than the ground, as any decent road should be, and it feels like a giant’s step to climb in my fatigue. I glance both ways into the distance, hoping to see another car, but I’m terrified a black SUV will be heading this way.
No cars.
I peer into the trees. I can’t see Messer. I don’t know if I’ve lost him or if he’s still coming.
I’m exhausted yet the last thing I want to do is remain stationary and give my pursuer more time to close the distance.
I look both ways along the road again. The asphalt is a straight line flanked by trees stretching off into the distance. I’m pacing about, unable to keep still with my pulse sky high from all the running. Sweat soaks my clothes and drips from my face.
‘Come on,’ I say to the empty road, ‘come on.’
Each second I wait here I’m wasting my lead on Messer, I’m giving Wilks more time to head me off. But what alternative do I really have? I’m spent. My feet are shredded. I’ve no phone. No money. Nowhere to go.
I hear an engine, an exhaust.
There’s a rush of relief that makes me feel lightheaded as I picture rescue, salvation. Then that relief becomes dread as I realise the sound is coming from the direction of the town, of my house. It could be the big SUV. It could be Wilks.
No, no, no, no …
I dash off the road, back into the treeline. I duck down into the undergrowth and hide, wait.
I don’t want to look. I don’t want to risk Wilks spotting me. With Messer behind me, I’ll be trapped. But I need to look because maybe, just maybe, it’s not Wilks. This could be my one chance to escape, because if I let this vehicle pass without trying to flag it down then the next one could indeed be driven by Wilks.
What should I do?
I picture Messer in the trees behind me. Determined. Relentless.
The noise of the vehicle grows louder, nearer.
Decision time.
I rise out of the undergrowth and step into the road, whatever my fate.
8:54 a.m.
Tyres squeal. Burnt rubber clouds. I don’t have the energy to move out of the way and in that instant I realise I don’t care. I’m too scared and too tired.
A bumper kisses my thighs, but no more. I almost collapse on to the hood. It’s not the black SUV driven by Wilks but a dull red pickup.
The driver thumps the horn, hard.
‘What in the holy hell are you doing, lady?’
‘Please …’
I can barely speak. I stumble around the wheel arch to the passenger’s side, grab the door handle and pull. Nothing. At first I think I’m too weak to open the door, but it’s locked.
The driver is a white-bearded man with a deep tan and deeper frown lines. ‘Get away from my truck. What is this?’
I must look a state. I must look crazy.
‘Please,’ I say again. ‘Help me.’
The driver is still in mild shock at almost running me down, still perplexed, but he recognises the desperation before him. He can hear the terror in my voice. He hesitates for a moment only before he leans across and unlocks the door. I heave it open, clamber up on to the seat and pull the door shut behind me with the last of my energy.
‘What is going on?’ the driver asks me. ‘Who are you?’
‘Drive,’ is all I can say in response.
He’s shaking his head. ‘That’s what I was doing before you tried to kill yourself with my here vehicle.’
‘Please,’ I beg. ‘Please.’
He frowns but says nothing and puts the truck back in drive.
We’re in motion by the time Messer has made it out of the trees and on to the road behind us.
I turn in the seat to peer at him, to see what he’s doing, if he’s drawing his gun, but in seconds he’s a dark spot in the distance, indiscernible.
I slump in the seat, panting, overwhelmed, but safe. Only now do I realise that there is a small dog in the footwell. A scruffy mutt with skinny legs and a pot belly. Teeth are bared at me and it’s growling.
‘Don’t pay any mind to Merlin,’ the driver says. ‘He doesn’t like nobody.’
I have a mild phobia of dogs after being bitten by one as a child yet right now it seems that phobia is cured. Merlin’s angry growls, his bared teeth, bounce off me without effect. Perspective, my dad would have said, changes everything.
There’s a
silence. I suppose it’s uneasy for the driver but it’s perfect for me, calming. My heart rate is now slowing. The heightened state of stress I’ve been in for what seems like for ever is finally dissipating.
The driver keeps glancing at me, his furry white eyebrows narrowing. I don’t blame him for his unease, for his curiosity. So far he doesn’t have any idea who I am or why I’m in his truck.
Eventually, he says, ‘Why don’t you try telling me what’s happened to you, yeah? Let’s see if together we can’t make it all right. How’s that sound to you?’
It sounds like a great idea.
I try to tell him, to explain, but I can only answer with tears.
8:57 a.m.
The old man introduces himself as Trevor and waits with kindly patience while I release the build-up of so much stress and fear. Even at my very low points – of which there have been many – I’ve never been much of a crier out of worry of being seen as too emotional, too unstable, but I’m making up for it now. My eyes spill a constant flow of tears and my nose leaks an endless stream of mucus. At some point Trevor digs out a handkerchief from one of the pockets of his jeans and hands it over. At any other point in my life I would have curled up my lip at the mere suggestion of using someone else’s handkerchief and here I am taking it without a second’s consideration to stem what the sleeves of my yoga top cannot hope to slow.
It seems a long time before my sobs subside enough and I can finally speak. I tell him all about Wilks and Messer knocking at my door, Carlson’s phone call, and running for my life. Trevor is a responsible driver and keeps his gaze on the road ahead for the most part. When he does glance my way, his expression is pinched with disbelief. I can’t blame him for that. It sounds crazy just speaking the words out loud. Had I not been through it myself I doubt I would believe it.
But I don’t tell him everything. I don’t tell him that my husband seems to have been laundering money for a cartel. He doesn’t need to know that, and until I’ve seen proof I refuse to believe it. Besides, Trevor’s saved my life and he’s helping me. I don’t want to put him in danger by telling him something that could come back to haunt him at a later point. It’s the least I can do for him.
