by DL Fowler
“Whoa, don’t jump to conclusions.”
She gives me the kind of look Xena—Warrior Princess has when she draws her sword on a band of evil dudes.
“Say, what’s the name of that old bag you lived with?” I reach for the book.
She hides the book behind her back. “Tess. Why?”
“Didn’t you say something about another girl?”
“Yeah, about a year or two younger than me. Didn’t have a chance to tell her I was running away. She was back at the shack, I was at your uncle’s ranch. Besides, I wasn’t even sure I could fend for myself out here.”
“It’s them.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Who’s them?”
“The woman who showed up last night. Name’s Tess. And she brought a girl—keeps her chained up in the barn.”
“That sadistic bitch.” Mercedes grabs both my hands. “Do you know the girl’s name?”
“Amy.”
She springs to her knees. “Damn. That’s her.”
“We’ve gotta help her.”
“Was there a man with them?”
“No. My uncle’s doing the old bitch. She was wearing his shirt this morning, and I don’t think she had on anything else." My cheeks burn. I used to hear my mom humping a different guy practically every night I lived with her.
Mercedes stands and sidles up to me with a frisky smile. “You’re putting thoughts in my head talking about that stuff.” She cups the back of my head and kisses me.
I jerk away. “I’d better get back. My uncle will kill me if I’m gone too long.”
“Yeah. Whatever. It’s always about you.”
“No way. I came to get your help rescuing that girl.”
“What, so you can get into her pants?”
“Jeez, not everything’s about sex.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“I swear—I—”
“You swear what? You only think about me? Is that what you wanna say? Hmph.”
“No girl’s going to make a fool out of me. I’ve seen enough of that shit.”
Mercedes grabs my face and kisses me again. Her mouth half open.
I push back. “Why do you always have to make things so complicated?”
Mercedes turns away. “So, what is it you wanna do … exactly?”
“I was thinking we could help her escape sometime when Uncle Eric and the bitch are screwing.”
“You said we?”
“I could keep lookout in the house while you sneak into the barn and get her out of those chains.”
She twists a loose curl hanging beside her cheek. “Wouldn’t be hard. But what’ll we do with her once she’s free? It’s not like she could make it on her own. That’s why I didn’t go back for her. She would’ve been dead weight.”
“She could stay here ….”
Mercedes rolls her eyes.
“Just for a couple days—‘til I get her into town. Maybe someone could help her find her folks.”
“But when Tess finds she’s gone, she’s gonna come hunting for her. No way I want people snooping around here. They’d spoil everything.”
“Okay. I’ll make it look like she took off on the mare and headed down to town. I can ride the old nag along the dirt shoulder for a ways. Leave tracks.”
“Guess it’s the least I can do—after leaving her behind.”
“Yeah. We better do it tonight. Tess said something about her old man coming to get them in a few days—after the coast is clear.”
“Just as soon get it over with. Never planned on going back there. Not after ....” The pain in her eyes reminds me of the stories she tells about being a prisoner at Uncle Eric's place. Still can't believe that's true. Uncle Eric wouldn’t do stuff like that. Just the same, I say, “I understand."
"It's tonight, then."
“Great. My room is next to Uncle Eric’s. I’ll signal you with my flashlight when I hear them getting it on. Then you can sneak down to the barn.”
“That'll work ... as long as Bryce doesn't show up. He can get nasty … and violent. He’d kill them both if he caught ’em at it.”
“That Tess woman is pretty nuts, too.”
“Only because Bryce bullies her. And she’s got a thing against Amy for some reason.”
“Don’t know. The girl seems pretty nice. She’s really afraid of the old witch.”
"This sure as the hell better not be about springing her just so the two of you can hook up. I'm not about to start being anybody’s damned matchmaker."
"I told you ...."
“I heard what you said."
I watch her walk over to a box in the corner and pull out a pair of black shoes, black pants and black hoodie. "So we’re on for tonight, right?” I ask.
"Yeah, I've got stuff to do.”
"See you tonight, then."
“Sure, tonight." Mercedes looks at me, her eyes misty. "Must’ve been a lot worse for her after I split.”
Mercedes
After RJ leaves, I dig out my lock picking tools and practice on several different types of padlocks. Bryce taught me how to use them before I was ten. He made me help him rob folks in town. He’d sit in the pickup until I signaled the coast was clear. That way, he could take off if I got caught. He claimed the cops would go easy on a 10-year-old girl. I wonder if Amy inherited the job once I bailed.
Chapter Seven
Jacob
It’s been dark for an hour and a half. Longer, if you count from when the first stars were visible on the horizon. I walk over to the fridge—for the twelfth time—open it, and stare at the six bottles of Irish Death. A pint has as much alcohol as a double shot of eighty proof whiskey.
Robert Dugoni’s legal thrillers always keep me glued to the page, but tonight, not even his latest bestseller holds my attention. Not his fault I can’t concentrate. I find myself out on the deck staring across the lake, waiting for that sound. Can’t shake the image of that girl cowering under the bastard’s belt.
I storm into the cabin for my Beretta twelve-gauge, but it’s not by the nightstand where I keep it. I retrace my steps for the past few hours, but there are too many holes in my memory. Then it hits me—must have left it in the underground bunker when I checked the expiration dates on medical supplies earlier in the day. Back in my office, I activate the hidden doorways into the bunker. After turning on the lights, I stand at the top of a half-flight of stairs and scan the ‘safe room’—a row of file cabinets near the back, shelves and glass-front storage cabinets on the walls. In the middle of the tiled floor, my Beretta is laying on an 8-foot long table. I pick up the gun, grab my night-vision goggles, and return to my Irish Death.
Nearly an hour later, I crouch in the shadows near the neighbor’s shack, shotgun locked and loaded, with a clear line-of-sight through the front window. If the girl is in there, hopefully, I’ll see her.
I let Celine down a dozen years ago. That sucked the life out of Ellen and our son. For this girl, maybe I can get it right. My jaw tightens. Deputy Baker probably never stepped inside the place when he “checked things out.” It was easier for him to buy the story about me harassing my neighbor into selling his property cheap. No doubt the bastard is still gloating over how he conned the law.
A half-hour later, there’s no sign of her or anyone else. I plunk down at the base of a large tree and lean back against the trunk. Another uneventful half-hour passes before someone appears in the window. I scramble to my feet to get a better view. My legs wobble—the left one stinging from a thousand pin pricks.
Before my legs are steady, the neighbor opens the front door and shuffles down the steps, cradling a shotgun in his arms. Without hesitating, he walks around to the back of the shack and follows the firebreak that cuts through the woods.
After a couple of minutes, I sneak up to the window and peek in. Appears that nobody else is home. My heart races as I turn the knob, check over my shoulder, and push th
e door open a crack. I listen for any sounds … then step across the threshold.
There isn’t much to the place. A living area, wood stove, washstand with a bucket and towels, and one bedroom with two mattresses—one on top of the other—a dresser and some boxes. No sign of a girl here. A ladder leads to a loft. I climb up and glance around. The space is hardly bigger than a closet, completely bare. Hell of a place for a kid. The bastard’s treating her like an animal. But, where is she?
I climb down the ladder, slip out the door, and steal around back, stopping short a few yards from the firebreak. I click off the safety and step lightly, my eyes darting right and left, half-expecting the neighbor to pop out from behind cover. After a few steps, I kneel to study the grass—it’s been mashed down. Probably the pickup I saw parked here the other night. After I threatened to report the bastard for child abuse, he must have driven her back into the woods to hide her from CPS. That’s why Baker didn’t find any trace of her. I prop the Beretta on my shoulder, and follow the tire tracks.
Bryce
Sheriff said the neighbor’s some big shot banker. Must think he runs the whole damn country. Maybe so, but it sure didn’t take much for me to get the law on my side. Guess most folks find it easy to root for the little guy when some rich jerk tries to horn in on what doesn’t belong to him. Bet Tess’ll be surprised to see me so soon. Not expecting me for another couple of days—or longer. Just hope this Eric clown hasn’t blown it again and lost another one of my girls.
I pat the stock on my twelve-gauge. If he has, it’ll be his last screw up. Something snaps behind me. I’m being followed. I crouch and peer into the shadows all around me. Stay still … keep my eyes peeled for a couple minutes.
Nothing. Guess it was my imagination … either that or a deer. Sneaky bastards. Ya hear ’em, and the next second they’re gone. I get up and head to Eric’s place, listening for sounds that don’t belong.
Jacob
Almost an hour later, the firebreak opens up into a decent sized pasture—pretty well grazed from what I can little tell in the pale moonlight. At the end of the pasture there’s a ranch house—a couple of lights on—also a barn and corral. Someone’s walking up onto the porch, toting a shotgun. Must be the bastard I’ve been following.
I sneak up to some woods at the base of a ridge that borders the ranch to find a good vantage point—someplace where I can watch the front and back of the house as well as the barn. The pickup parked out back is the one from my neighbor’s shack. He must have left it here when he brought the girl. Didn’t want the sheriff to trace his license plate. Probably has a criminal history he’s hiding.
Mercedes
Never thought anything could get me back here again. Just seeing the ranch house down below makes my skin crawl. There's just one light on inside. The moon is little more than a sliver. I rub dirt on my forehead and cheeks. Should do the trick. That, and the black hoody, pants and shoes. Even if Tess and her fella come outside for some fresh air, they won’t see me. Not even RJ could pick me out of the shadows, and he knows I’m out here.
The mental picture of Tess and RJ’s uncle going at it—grunting and moaning on a squeaky bed frame—turns my stomach. Back when I escaped from under Bryce’s thumb, I made up my mind that from then on sex was going to be on my terms. Of course, it’s not as if I’ve been able to prove my theory yet. RJ’s the only prospect I have, and he won’t let me get close. And I’m not doing this for him. I owe it to Amy. I was a bitch to leave her behind with that bastard. We were like sisters. She’d never have done that to me. About time I did the right thing by her.
Finally. Three blinks from RJ’s flashlight. Coming, Amy. I slip down to the barn where one side of the double door is propped open, waiting for me—just like RJ promised. Heavy wooden door. It creaks as I pull it out wide enough to pass through. As I slide inside, a chain rattles at the far end. I move quickly past the stalls, toward the far end of the barn. Step lightly so I don’t startle her, hoping I don’t have to raise her from a dead sleep—that wouldn’t be good.
A blast of gunfire sends me darting into the open stall where RJ said I’d find her. She’s cowering—hands covering her head. I reach for the padlock hanging from the chain on her neck and fumble for my lock-picking tools.
She jerks away, whimpering.
“Shh… it’s me—Mercedes. We’re getting you out of here.”
Amy lurches back. “No. Mercedes is dead.”
“I’m not dead.”
Amy peeks up.
“See, it’s me.”
“Can’t be. You got eaten by coyotes or …. Bryce said so.”
I stick the pick in the padlock. “Almost. But I’ve got a place. An old hut a couple miles from here. It’s safe.”
She pulls away. “Can’t leave.”
Another loud kapow shakes the barn. I flinch. The horses paw the ground, snorting. I look at her. “What do you mean?” The pick slips out of my fingers.
“Just can’t.”
I fumble for the pick on the stable floor. “Once I pick this lock, you can go anywhere you want.”
“No.”
I find the homemade pick and start working it around inside the keyhole.
A third shotgun blast sends the horses bucking against their stall gates. That one was right outside the barn door. I keep my head down, maneuvering the pick until the lock springs open. I jerk Amy to her feet and drag her toward the rear door of the barn. “You can’t stay here. We gotta go.”
After a few steps, Amy drops to one knee and grabs her right foot.
“Damn. You’re not wearing shoes.”
She shakes her head.
I scan the barn … gnawing on my lower lip. The horses … snorting and squealing. Reminds me of when I met RJ. His horse had thrown him. He was lying on the ground half conscious. Right then I swore I’d never climb up on one of those beasts.
An angry voice roars from just outside the barn door. A fourth blast sends the horses into full panic.
I kick off my shoes. “Here. Put these on.”
Amy hesitates.
I glare at her. “Do it.”
As soon as Amy’s feet are in the shoes, I yank her up and pull her through the back doorway and scour the area for someplace to hide. When the next shotgun blast rattles the barn, our only hope is to outrun the bastard. I shove Amy toward the woods and we race uphill.
Jacob
The first clap of gunfire stuns me as I crouch at the edge of the woods, watching the backside of the ranch house. A second blast sets the world around me spinning. My heart is still in my throat a few moments later when two people explode out the backdoor—one a few seconds ahead of the other. The first one activates motion sensor floodlights. He’s a lanky, redhead kid who limps for cover behind the pickup. The second guy is the creep from across the lake. He swaggers out toward the barn, waving a shotgun and yelling. I rattle my brain—what’s going down? Is the girl inside the house, shot dead or dying? Should I slip into the house to save her? Or rush the man headed for the barn?
Two more explosions from the creep’s shotgun rip the night, and a couple of small figures catapult from behind the barn. A girl screams. Another loud boom. The redhead kid behind the pickup takes off for the woods to my right, dragging one leg.
Screams fill my head. Echoes of Celine sobbing years ago when she reached out for help. My head throbs—a rapid fire string of stabbing pains arcs from behind my ear to the top of my head. A wave of nausea hits me. My lips quiver. I tuck my head between my knees. Celine—cell phone—she’s gone. I collapse.
Mercedes
My chest aches as I sit cross-legged on the floor of the hut cleaning sores on my feet. That finishes the night’s ration of drinking water. The chest pains aren’t from sprinting through the woods, halfway up the ridge, with Amy in tow—jerking her to her feet every time she stumbled. I’m still shaking from those shotgun blasts back at the ranch. Can hear them ringing in my ears.
He probably killed RJ—my only friend in the world. That would make Amy hate me more than ever, and I wouldn’t blame her.
Since leaving his shack, I’ve tried to forget everything about him, but his voice won’t go away. It makes my skin crawl. Somehow my skin remembers things my mind wants to forget. Bryce had to be the one who sprayed the barn with buckshot as we escaped out the back door. And it was probably that damned shotgun I swiped from the men building the cabin across the lake. Bryce laid off me for a few weeks after I gave it to him.
He must’ve lost our trail after chasing us through the woods for about a quarter-mile. That’s when I pushed Amy across a rockslide and up the side of the ridge. After the rocks, there was the fall-down from recent windstorms. My feet got all cut up. We hid behind boulders and watched him fume when he lost us. He had no idea which way we’d gone.
God. It must have been terrible for Amy. Look at her, curled up in the corner, asleep. Sleep’s probably the only relief she gets from the torture of remembering the two years I left her behind. I wipe a tear from my cheek and dip a hand in a jar of honey I swiped from the fancy cabin on the lake. Honey’s supposed to help the cuts heal, keep them from getting infected—at least that’s what Bryce always said.
Amy used to nurse everybody. Started when she was little. Her touch was like being brushed with a feather. When she patched us up, you could see her eyes reflecting your pain. She worked on Bryce with the same tender care.
When my feet are all lathered up, I wrap them in strips torn from a ragged T-shirt and dig out a pair of one-size-too-large running shoes from a box in the corner. Even with the honey, I wince when I pull the shoes onto my raw, swollen feet. They sting worse when I stand. Each step sends the throbbing deeper into my bones. To discourage Amy from taking off if she wakes up before I get back, I slip off the shoes she’s wearing and hide them.
Pain or no pain, this has to get done. The nightmare’s not over ’til someone takes out Bryce.
On my way to the lake, an owl screeches. I shudder. It reminds me of Tess’s shrill voice and how bitchy she always was to Amy. The night shadows play tricks on me, too. I see Bryce lurking behind every tree. That confirms my mission. It all ends tonight.
