On the Run

by Charlotte Greene

  He set his gun down on the right side of the keyboard, and she watched as he opened the “Beach House” file and entered a password. The gun was inches from his fingers, but it would still take him a second or two to grab it if she moved toward him. She’d have to move quickly. If he actually tipped over, she might have time to grab the gun before running into the hall. Luckily, he’d left the door open. She’d run back to the nearest bedroom and try to get outside that way. The drop wouldn’t kill her, and if she landed right, she might have enough time to run into the mountains and hide. The fence at the back of the yard was, if she remembered, low enough to the ground at one edge for her to try to jump.

  He reached for the phone, started to dial, and then cursed. “What the hell did you do to the phone?”

  “It’s not plugged in,” she said.

  Swearing again, he stood up, craning his head and shoulders over the far side of the desk. His back was to her, and she kicked out with one foot, connecting with his ass and pushing him forward. His head hit the wall with a heavy, hollow knock. He gave a startled cry of pain, and she turned around, groping for the gun. As her fingers found it, she saw him pushing himself up again and she kicked out, her boot connecting with the bottom of his jaw. His head snapped back and he screamed, the sound ending as he bit his tongue. She raced out the door, turned right, and ran.

  “You bitch!” he roared, and she was dimly aware of the sounds of him throwing things, beastlike in his fury. She picked up her pace, pumping her legs as hard as they’d go. She darted into the next room, a bedroom, almost lost her balance, caught it again, and jumped behind the far side of the bed. She landed painfully on one shoulder to avoid her cuffed hands and then began wriggling across the floor to attempt to sneak under the bed. Her nose hit the baseboard a second later. The mattress was on a solid platform.

  Just as she realized this, she heard the sound of his feet pounding down the hallway and had a second or two to prepare herself before the light turned on. He couldn’t see her from the doorway, but with a cursory check on this end of the bed, he would. She closed her mouth, trying to breathe quietly through her nose, and stilled her body.

  “Shit,” he said, slamming something. She heard him continue down the hallway, his heavy tread taking him farther and farther away as she waited. He would be back after checking each of the rooms on this floor, so she had minutes, at most. Contorting her body, she was able to slide her hands under her legs and up in front of her. This was painful to both her shoulder and the handcuffed wrists, but she fought through it until she was able to lie on her back and look at her hands, panting slightly. Even if he was back before she could get them off, she could shoot the gun this way. He’d left the light on, so she could see easily, and her heart rose in triumph. These cuffs were the easiest to unlock.

  In the upper right pocket of her denim coat, she found three small paperclips. She kept them there for exactly this kind of lock. She’d opened the lock on the storage shed this way the other day. With only one tumbler, it was simply a matter of making the pick to fit the lock. She eyed it for a moment and then straightened one length of a clip, bending the tip slightly with her teeth. She occasionally made the bend a little too short, and that’s what happened this time. She threw the clip away and grabbed the next, making it a little longer. She slid it into the lock felt around, exploring. The length was better—almost perfect. Now it was simply a matter of finding the right spot inside to trip the lock. Forcing herself to calm, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, stilling her shaking hands. It took seconds, and her wrists were finally free.

  The pain she’d been suppressing surged through her as blood rushed back into her hands. She rubbed the sore, chafed marks, cursing when she realized that the cuffs had broken through her skin. She wasn’t bleeding much, but the sting of the chafing made her suppress a hiss as she inspected her minor wounds. Her shoulder still ached from throwing herself on it, but she needed to work through all this and get moving. Now that she was free, the light wouldn’t benefit her in any way. She might have the gun, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a spare. It would be safer by far to get outside from this room.

  She’d dropped the gun several feet behind her on the carpet when she’d fallen down, and she grabbed it. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her shoulder, she sat up, slowly inching her head up and over the bed. She listened but couldn’t hear anything. Either Bill was somewhere far away in the house, or he was waiting, silently, for her to make a move. He’d managed to sneak up on her once, so this wasn’t beyond him.

  She paused there for a long while, staring into the hall from her position of safety, then finally made herself get up onto her knees, still worried about keeping herself low. Her shoulder shrieked in pain, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from calling out. It wasn’t dislocated because she could still move it with some effort, but she was fairly certain she’d done something to it, twisted or strained it. It was a wonder he hadn’t heard her hit the ground, but she supposed his rage and the thick carpet had helped her stay undetected.

  She made herself stand upright and walk over to the windows. This wasn’t the room with the balcony onto the backyard. By pushing her face against the window, she could see the balcony to the right, likely off the room beyond the office. With the balcony, she could dangle off the edge before dropping, taking something like ten feet off her fall. In this room, there was nothing out these windows, and all of them had screens.

  Still, going back into the hallway would be incredibly stupid. He was surely out there somewhere, waiting for her. He must have realized by now that she’d hidden somewhere near the office. He’d had enough time to calm down and was being cautious. Even if he had a gun of his own, he knew she had one now, too. All he had to do was wait out there until she showed her face, and he could shoot her on the spot. No, she thought. Going out there again would be a mistake. It was far safer to risk the long drop. She might break an ankle, but she would, at least, have a chance to get away.

  The windows were fastened on the inside, but the first one she tried opened easily and slid up with very little sound. Still, she paused, listening. If he was anywhere within range, he would have noticed that sound, but after a few seconds, she heard no indication that he planned to do anything about it. She struggled with the screen, almost dropping it when it slid out on its runners, and pulled it inside the room with her. She stuck her head outside, peering down at the ground, which, in the dark, was difficult to see. Still, there were no obstructions as far as she could tell—just the hard concrete that surrounded the pool.

  She paused again, listening. This was the dangerous part. Even beyond the high likelihood that she would hurt herself in the fall, she would be vulnerable before she let go of the windowsill. All he had to do was march in here and push her down, and she’d bash her brains out on the ground. But she had no choice.

  She checked the safety and tucked the gun inside the back of her jeans. It was too big for her pocket. Hopefully she wouldn’t land on it, or it wouldn’t go flying with the impact. She lifted one leg and then her head and shoulders outside and sat there astride the sill, looking down. She’d never been afraid of heights, but staring into the darkness, not knowing what she’d hit or how she’d feel when she did, she couldn’t help her fear.

  Knowing the next part would hurt like hell because of her shoulder, she took a deep breath and held it to keep from groaning or crying out. She put her hands on the sill and slowly raised her second leg up and out, spinning around so she almost crouched on the sill. She grabbed it with both hands and started walking her legs down the wall, trying to keep her full weight off her shoulder as long as possible.

  Finally, she had to let her legs drop, and she was dangling, the pain in her shoulder so glaring and almost hot she could hardly stand it. She tried to make herself relax. That would help her absorb the shock from the fall better, but the pain in her shoulder was drowning out common sense. All she could do was push off the wall
a little with her feet and let go.

  She almost managed to land well, but the shock of the impact rippled through her too quickly and threw her off balance. She remembered to wrench her body to the right, away from her painful shoulder, and hit the ground a second later, landing on her hand. She heard a small snapping sound as her wrist absorbed her weight, and then she was rolling on the ground, clutching it to her chest and trying not to scream. This blaze of agony made her forget the pain in her shoulder.

  The piercing agony was monumental, but as she gradually returned to herself through the haze of pain, she had no idea how long she’d been lying there. That idea finally cut through some of the fog, and she made herself focus again. Her mouth was bloody from biting her tongue, and she felt like she had whiplash all over. She heard herself whimpering—a sound she’d never made in her entire life—and made herself stop. She sat up, almost screaming again from her various injuries, and managed to climb awkwardly to her feet without using her hands. Both of her arms were injured in some way now, but, she realized, her feet and legs were, miraculously, unscathed. That meant she could run.

  She began in a kind of hobble, parts of her body reacting slowly and shouting out their various pains. She’d pulled some kind of muscle in her back, so that while her legs and ankles were reasonably uninjured, she couldn’t move them very fast. The jarring of the ground also shot pains through her arms, and she clutched her broken wrist to her chest to keep from moving it or her upper body too much.

  She had made it perhaps fifteen feet when he called out. “Stop right there.”

  She almost didn’t listen. Gun or no gun, she’d been through too much to stop now. She hobbled a few more feet, tears of frustration and pain coursing down her cheeks.

  “Stop, or I’ll shoot you in the back. I got no problem doing that.”

  Something about the tone of his voice finally broke through her determination. He spoke with authority and a clear sense of certainty. He wasn’t lying.

  Sighing, she stopped, still cradling her broken wrist. She began to turn toward him, but he stopped her.

  “Freeze right there. I know you have my gun—I can see it in your pants. Don’t turn around, and don’t make any sudden movements, or you’ll be dead before you even try to reach for it.”

  He was silent for a while, apparently waiting for her to absorb this command, and she stood there trying to think of some way to get out of this situation. Nothing came to mind. Part of her failure was because of her pain and terror but the other part was the hard truth: there was nothing she could do. She could try for the gun, but with her broken wrist and twisted shoulder, she would never be fast enough. Hell, she wouldn’t have been fast enough if she’d been sound. He had complete control now. She had to try to survive whatever he had planned for her.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “Stay right there, and don’t move.”

  “You already said that, genius.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

  “Shut up!” His voice was much closer.

  A grin pulled at the corners of her mouth, and she was suddenly glad he couldn’t see her face. Maybe it was better to goad him. If she was going to die, she wanted to go out on her own terms, under her own power. Who knew what would happen if he cuffed her again and took her somewhere? No, better to die now than let that happen. She didn’t fear for herself, alone, after all. If he captured her, he would have the power to hurt and manipulate Annie, too. At this thought, some of her courage returned, and she squared her shoulders. She could hear him coming closer. He probably planned to take the gun from her, and that would be her chance.

  She felt him begin to tug it out of the back of her pants and turned, fast, before ducking slightly. Using the momentum of her entire body, she brought her hands together in a kind of club and swung them up and out as she launched herself upright. She saw his startled reaction before she connected with his chin, snapping his head back. She turned to run but wasn’t fast enough. He grabbed her jacket and pulled her back, almost off her feet. She struggled, pain forgotten, and he snarled behind her. She could feel him losing his grip—he had only one hand to use, after all—and thought she might be able to slip away and run again. But then, an instant before he hit the back of her head, she heard something whistling through the air. It connected with a blinding flash of pain, and the world went dark.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gwen was in and out of consciousness for hours. The world would begin to come back into focus, she would stir to life, and then the pain hit again. They were in some kind of car, driving through the night. If Bill noticed her waking up, he hit her again, smacking her head against the window, or he punched the side of her face. Eventually she learned not to move so much when she roused, as it meant that more pain would follow.

  He’d put some kind of white cloth bag over her head, so she had no idea where they were, but she could see that it was still dark out for much of the ride. She might have dozed or possibly simply passed out, but still they drove on. Eventually, more sunlight began to filter through the bag over her head, and he cursed. Finally, the car slowed and stopped, and he shook her shoulder, roughly.

  “Wake up, bitch.”

  Shooting pain raced through her, and she had to bite down on her tongue to keep from screaming. She moaned and cringed away from him, waiting for him to punch her again.

  “It’s getting light, and I’m running out of gas,” he said. “You got two choices here. I can take that thing off your head, and you can act like a good little girl for a few minutes, or you can go in the trunk. Which one do you want?”

  Gwen’s mouth was parched and her tongue swollen from various abuses. She had to work up some moisture to do more than croak her response. “Not the trunk.”

  The cloth was ripped off her head, pulling her hair for a second, and the light was suddenly blinding. She blinked, her vision still foggy for several more seconds. With the cloth off her head, she could smell him now, the dank, animal reek wafting from him and filling the car. His shirt was plastered to his body, drenched in his sweat.

  “I’m giving you one chance, here,” Bill said. “You fuck it up, and you’re riding the rest of the way in the dark.” He glowered at her, and she realized with a shock of pleasure that his face showed some damage. His lip was cut, and he sported two huge bruises—one on his chin and a knobby lump on his forehead. She almost laughed in his face.

  “I’ll be good,” she said, trying to sound frightened, cowed.

  “You better be.”

  He pulled back onto the road and starting driving again. Gwen took the opportunity to try to get her bearings. There were on a small, one-lane highway, somewhere in the desert prairie. It looked very much like the area around Roswell, but the highway she and Annie had used had been bigger and busier than this road. Given the amount of time that had passed, she and Bill should also be farther than that—already out of New Mexico, perhaps in Oklahoma. She watched for road signs, hoping for some indication of the area they were driving through, but saw nothing, not even mile markers. It was as if they’d driven into nowhere. Could be a farm road, she thought, but dismissed the idea almost at once. Even a farm road, if it was paved like this one, would have some kind of road markers, for authorities if nothing else.

  The light and the effort to make sense of what she was seeing made her head ache worse than before. Her other pains were getting harder to ignore. Her broken wrist was duct-taped to her other hand behind her back, and her ankles were likewise trussed together. He’d belted her into the seat so that she had to sit at a strange angle to avoid crushing her aching hands. This position made the seat belt dig into her sore shoulder. The temptation to close her eyes and let all this pain fade away began to drag her eyelids closed. The hazy lure of sleep or unconsciousness promised an escape. She shook her head, hard, to rouse herself, and the movement must have caught the corner of his eye.

  “What the hell are you doing over there? You look like a wet dog.
”

  “Sleepy,” she said, or tried to say. Her mouth wasn’t cooperating.

  “Well, wake up and sit up straighter. We’re just coming to the highway now, and a gas station’s here. Don’t do anything but sit there.”

  She saw the station a few minutes later. The side and back windows of the store were darkly tinted, so she had no hope that someone would see her and do something about it—not unless she tried to yell or bang on the door, and Bill would quickly put a stop to that. Still, she might have an opportunity to get someone’s attention when he was at the pump, or she might be able to open the door and get outside. It would make sense to try only if someone was there to see her and help her right away.

  He was smart, pulling to the tanks farthest from the service station, her side of the car pointing toward the road and not the station. More cars were driving by on the highway that ran perpendicular to the road they’d been on, but she couldn’t be sure they would see her in time. If anything, the attendant inside might spot her hopping around if she got out, but by then it could be too late. Bill might shoot her on the spot and take off, or he might wrestle her back inside and take his vengeance later. Either way, her odds weren’t great. She did, however, learn one thing right away—they were in Texas again, according to the state lottery signs in the station.

  “Back in goddamn Texas,” she muttered.

  “What was that?” Bill asked. “You giving me lip again?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good. See that it stays that way. I’ve got some dirty clothes in the trunk that would love to make your acquaintance.” He peered outside at the pumps and then cursed. “Motherfucker. I have to go inside to pay.”