by Rick R. Reed
He cleared his own throat. “Excuse me?”
Both men turned.
“Yes, sir?” the one behind the counter said, smiling. Had he really not even seen Abbott?
“Yeah, I just need to know where the muriatic acid is.”
The main pointed. “Down that aisle and to your left.”
“Gee, thanks,” Abbott said, heading away, eager to get to the jugs.
* * * *
The door gave a little. Beth could see into the cottage just a bit more than when she had begun charging at the door, slamming her shoulder into it repeatedly, until it now throbbed with pain. She worried about broken bones, dislocation.
But a broken bone was better than this hell.
A mouse, furry and light, hurried over her foot. Beth shrieked and ran, once more, full force at the door.
* * * *
Abbott held the jug of muriatic acid in his hands. He grinned—so little money for so much acid! He read through the copy on the jug again, certain words and phrases jumping out: “20 Baume poison,” “Always make certain to dilute acid with water before use,” “31.45% hydrochloric acid,” “wear rubber gloves and protective clothing.” And his favorite: “Causes severe burns. Fatal if swallowed.”
Abbott headed for the checkout line.
* * * *
The door hung crookedly on its frame. There was enough space now for Beth to poke her head through and see into the long, narrow room where Abbott had shaved her head.
She had to get away. The damage to the door was too obvious to hide.
But the door didn’t want to give any more. It had come off some of its hinges, but not enough so she could squeeze through. The remaining hinges and padlock held fast.
Her breath turned ragged. She had no strength left. Her shoulder pulsed its message of white-hot pain every few seconds. If only she’d had some food or sleep somewhere along the way…
Frustrated and wailing, she ran toward the door, leaped, and kicked at it with both feet. She landed on her side, hip screaming in pain, her head connecting with the floor with a sickening thud.
Dizzy, she forced herself to sit up. The lock had broken away. The door hung open.
She was free.
* * * *
Abbott steered the Monte Carlo along the streets of Salem, Ohio, heading home. The tires hissed on the damp pavement. The little town stretched out before him, gray and dirty, trees bereft of leaves, houses in poor repair. Industry and prosperity had come and gone.
Abbott remembered when he was a little boy and his mother had brought him here, to spend two weeks at his aunt’s cottage on Myer’s Lake. The town was different then. It had a real downtown where people went on Sunday afternoon (Aunt Lucy would take him to Woolworths and buy him a Hot Wheels almost every week). Saturday nights, his mom and aunt would dress up and go out.
But he didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to think about the times left alone, locked up in the cottage, where he would lie awake until he heard his mother’s drunken laughter as she came home with yet another man, who might or might not still be around when he got up for his cereal in the morning.
Abbott reached over to pat the jug on the seat beside him. Somehow, its heft and smoothness gave him comfort.
Chapter 18
After she found an old tan hunting coat and rubber boots, Beth headed for the cottage’s back door.
Outside, the air smelled clean. A light drizzle had begun to fall and the smell of the wet earth rose, bringing up its mixture of mud, dried grass, and damp leaves. Behind her, the lake shimmered in the dull sunlight and she could detect a fishy tang in the water. The sensation of freedom nearly overwhelmed her and she forgot, for just a moment, her predicament. Freedom wiped out the hunger pangs and exhaustion that had been debilitating only moments before.
She turned, trying to find a way to the access road. Achieve that, she thought, she would have enough time to revel in her freedom. On both sides of her stretched tall stands of pines, dripping water from their branches on the rust-colored dead needles below.
Before her rose a hill, its incline steep enough to prevent her from viewing over the top. But she could see Abbott’s muddy boot prints and these would be enough to guide her. They had to be. At the top of the rise, Beth felt relief when she saw the muddy ruts where the car had been. The tracks leading away should also lead to a road. She began walking alongside the ruts from Abbott’s car, praying for just a little more time before he came back.
* * * *
Abbott flipped on his turn signal when he saw the white sign, in need of paint and almost hidden by weeds—Myers’ Lake. Private. Members Only.
It won’t be long now, won’t be long at all until I can give her a little more education, show her just how unimportant her looks are. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.
He turned from the main road and jostled along on a dirt one, hitting potholes that splashed muddy water on the car.
Almost home.
“We’re almost there, Abbott,” his mother used to say when he was a boy and they would pull their Comet onto this very road. More often than not, the day would be sunny and warm, the dirt road dappled by the sunlight dancing in and out between the leaves. She’d have the windows rolled down and the hot air always got a little cooler when they turned onto this shaded stretch. As they made their way, he would listen to the cries of birds until they finally passed onto gravel, then grass, to park above his Aunt Lucy’s cottage.
Abbott could almost feel what it was like to be seven again, how his excitement would rise when he first saw the little white-painted cottage and the shimmering lake behind it.
But the promise of the bright water and summer air always failed him.
He realized he was grinding his teeth as he thought of how his mother, Candy, ignored him on these trips, how after the first day, she would snap at him to leave her alone—that it was her vacation, too.
* * * *
Finally, the tracks came to a dirt road, a muddy gash scarred into the woods. Beth’s spirits rose as she thought of how it had to lead somewhere and—even better—to someone.
She allowed herself a moment to savor the experience of reaching someone else, of spilling out her story, of finding her way back to Chicago, where the comfort of her mother’s arms awaited her. She couldn’t think—not right now—of the horrors that would also be waiting for her there.
But she had little time to think. This road led Abbott out of here and would just as surely lead him back.
In fact, Beth froze in her tracks, then backed away involuntarily as she heard the sound of an engine coming close. She couldn’t see anything because of the curve in the road. It had to be him. Her adrenaline rose, making her heart beat faster, her breath coming in gulps. She had to stay calm, to think. Otherwise, she would simply turn and run into the woods, an animal operating on flight instinct.
But before she had much of a chance to do anything, the vehicle rounded the bend.
It wasn’t Abbott. Beth’s spirits soared as she started toward the road; the vehicle bumping along the dirt lane was a mail truck. Beth wildly waved her arms. Unbidden, tears rolled down her cheeks and she found she could hardly breathe, could hardly summon the air she needed to cry for help.
The truck advanced toward her, slowing. Sunlight glinted off the windshield, making it impossible to see the driver. Beth’s arms sagged for a brief panicked moment as she imagined running up to the vehicle, only to find Abbott grinning inside.
* * * *
Almost home. Just ahead of him lay the familiar curve in the road, and after that, it would be only minutes before he would pull up in back of the cottage.
“Causes severe burns, “he whispered. “Flush with cool water for twenty minutes or more.” He pressed down on the accelerator. “Treat for shock…”
* * * *
The truck’s brakes squeaked as it came to a halt. Beth hurried to reach the open side of the vehicle. Inside sat a middle-aged wo
man, wearing a US Postal Service blue winter coat, and a bright red woolen muffler knotted around her throat. She had dyed blonde hair that looked like a ball of cotton around her small face. “Honey, what’s the matter?” Her eyebrows came together in concern and Beth couldn’t imagine how odd she must look to the woman, with her shaved head, hunter’s jacket, and rubber boots.
“I need help.” She swallowed hard, wondering how credible she would sound when she added, “I’ve been kidnapped and I’m being held. Back in Chicago, my husband was murdered. Please, you have to get me out of here!”
The woman stared, slack-jawed, eyebrows rising. “Well, honey, just hop on in.”
They both stopped to listen as the bass hum of an engine drew near. All too soon, the sound was almost upon them and Beth turned her head to look.
“Abbott,” she whispered. The rusted-out Monte Carlo slowed to a stop behind the postal truck. Beth realized she was whimpering like a trapped animal.
The car door behind them squeaked open and Beth, whispering “please” over and over again, tried to scramble behind the woman and get into the truck.
* * * *
Abbott threw the Monte Carlo into park before it had come to a stop and the car issued a grinding complaint. His head began to hurt again, a stabbing pain behind his eyes. Bees hummed in his ears.
How had she gotten out? He had taken such care confining her.
He wanted to pound his knuckles against his temples, beat out the pain in his head, pain that made him nauseous. He grabbed the jug of muriatic acid, hopped out of the car, and ran the few feet to the postal truck.
Beth had already managed to scramble inside the vehicle. As he approached, the delivery woman stepped down from the truck. She stopped, firmly planting both legs, an aggressive posture if he’ ever seen one. She put her hands on her hips. “Now you just hold on a minute, buster. I think you need to—”
Abbott had already loosened the jug lid. It took less than a second for him to pull the cap off and fling a good splash of the stuff into the woman’s stunned face.
A moment of silence followed when neither Abbott nor the woman moved. It seemed even the wind in the trees paused for just a second.
Then the woman fell to the ground, thrashing and shrieking. Abbott watched as she clawed at her face with blood-red painted nails, trying, he supposed, to rip off her face, to rip away the pain and burning.
Her wailing punctuated the cold air as the disfiguring acid ate into her skin, already turning colors.
A smile played about Abbott’s lips. “That’s what you get for meddling.”
* * * *
For several seconds, Beth could only stare. What had he thrown on her? Acid? The woman’s screams filled Beth with panic and uncertainty? What should she do? Try to help?
Adrenaline caused her to act on instinct—and instinct told her to flee.
While Abbott stood calmly watching the woman scream, Beth slid into the driver’s seat, pressed down the clutch, and ground the truck into first gear. It bucked and complained, but started to roll. She could hear the woman’s terrified wails behind her, and they filled her with guilt, but she kept moving.
She looked in the rearview mirror to see Abbott running behind the truck. In her mind, she watched him catch up, sprint alongside the open door, and hop inside with her. The vision caused her to stomp hard on the accelerator, no matter how much the dips and potholes made the truck lurch, squeaking on its suspension. The engine whined as she tried to go faster, frantically attempting to figure out how to shift gears.
The road ahead curved, and Beth took it much too fast, the truck tipping up on two wheels before slamming back down, boxes, letters, and parcels in the back scattering.
But she was getting away! She was getting away! She rounded another curve and abruptly slammed on the brakes. The road continued for a few feet sharply downhill and ended at a fishing pier and the lake’s edge.
“No,” she moaned, throwing herself back against the seat for leverage as she pushed the brake pedal to the floor. The truck slammed to a halt, sending up a spray of mud. Beth, shaking, stared down at the gearshift as if it could tell her what to do. She threw the truck into reverse and began backing, the tail of the vehicle swinging wildly toward a stand of pines. She needed to get turned around before he caught up to her.
When she saw him running, she laughed out loud, giddy at the pleasure of gunning the truck and running him down.
But already her spirits flagged because the truck’s back tires threw up more mud, spinning, and going nowhere.
She pushed down hard on the accelerator, even though she knew that, by doing so, she would only dig herself in deeper. She put her head on the steering wheel, letting her brow blow the horn’s alarm into the woods.
Would anyone hear?
She was about to bolt from the truck when she felt his hands on her shoulders, ripping her from the interior. She made a quick descent from the driver’s seat to the muddy earth.
The air rushed out of her as he issued a savage kick to her stomach.
“What are you trying to do? Spoil everything?”
She curled into a protective ball, trying desperately to draw in a breath.
He lifted her by the back of her coat. “Stand up!”
She did as she was told, all the fight rushing out of her just as the air had done a moment ago.
“You see this acid?” He menacingly shook the jug in her face. She heard liquid sloshing around inside. “You want some of this? Right now?” He glared at her. “Just try running away again.”
Beth stared at the jug.
“You just do what I tell you and don’t give me any trouble.”
She plodded along beside him, certain she’d never get another chance for escape. Death seemed welcome.
When they reached the woman, she was still curled into a ball. She had managed to claw some of the skin away from her face and now bled horribly, the crimson blood mixing with the weed-choked mud of the road beneath her. Her screams had dwindled to low and fast gasps, full of pain.
Beth could do nothing but stare.
“You just behave yourself,” Abbott whispered, his breath coming faster, and Beth wondered if the woman on the ground sexually excited him. “I gotta put this bitch out of her misery.”
Beth bit her lower lip, chewing on the tender flesh until it hurt. Abbott sunk to his knees beside the woman. He took opposite sides of the woman’s red muffler in each hand and lifted her with it. Tortured, red-veined eyes stared up at him, their color no longer discernible in the mass of broken and burned blood vessels. Abbott pulled the ends of the muffler in opposite directions. Her red nails came up at once, pulling, grasping at the material squeezing tighter and tighter around her throat. Her eyes bulged, her tongue lolled out as she tried to rip away the muffler.
Beth turned away, listening to the woman choke. She felt helpless and wished she had the courage to stand up to him, to try and fight for the woman’s life. But she knew the outcome of such a battle. All she could do was stare at the ground and wish that murder was quick and easy, like it always was in the movies.
She had to do something. She turned back, but Abbott was already letting the limp body fall back into the mud. Beth couldn’t bear the sight of the woman’s burned and disfigured face, the bulging eyes. She felt dizzy, afraid she would pass out.
And she knew Abbott would have none of that. He had other plans. “You dumb bitch. Look what you made me do. And now we’re going to have get rid of her. And then—” His breathing came heavier now. “And then I don’t know what we’ll do. You’ve spoiled everything.”
She closed her eyes to shield herself from the fury of his face, the woman’s disfigured corpse, the mail truck, everything. It seemed her salvation lay in none of these things.
Chapter 19
Beth lay shivering, no blanket now, only the wet canvas coat to warm her. Her cheek pressed against the damp and rotting floorboards of the storage room. She could watch everything
from this perspective, the bugs and spiders scurrying across the floor. She was mesmerized, briefly, by how the dust motes danced in the sunlight. Beth bent toward the sunlight, like a pine in the forest, hungry for the nourishment its warmth would provide. And then there the mice; she watched as one of the tiny creatures made a tour of the room, its nose wriggling as it sniffed in corners, searching for crumbs. Beth trembled, biting her lip as it came close to her, right up to her face, in fact. She blew out a big puff of air and the little animal scurried away, diving for cover behind of piece of mildewed baseboard.
She couldn’t move. When they had returned to the cottage, Abbott had brought her to this room and bound her wrists and ankles with rope so tightly that it cut into her skin, and even the tiniest movement caused the pain to soar.
So now she simply stared, waiting for a change in the quality of light that would signal the end of another day. Rather than think about what tomorrow would bring, she thought back to what had happened just a few hours ago.
Abbott had dragged the post woman, like a cumbersome burden, through the mud. Her head lolled as he pulled her by her coat. Beth couldn’t bear to look at the woman’s face, mottled, purple, and twisted. But Abbott’s face wasn’t much better. He had just murdered a woman, and yet his face bore no emotion, save for strain as he dragged the body. When their eyes met, he stared at Beth until she looked away.
She had a sudden flash of looking at those eyes for the first time in Nordstrom, thinking how blue they were, almost too pale to be real.
How had something so sexy and appealing morphed to a source of absolute terror and disgust in such a short time? How could any of this be real?
Watching Abbott hoist the woman into the mail truck, she’d felt a sense of unreality wash over her. This was something you heard about on the ten o’clock news or being reported on Dateline or one of those reality shows on CrimeTV. This couldn’t be her life.
She had been tempted to try to make a break for it as Abbott struggled, grunting, to position the woman in the driver’s seat and fasten the seat belt around her. Maybe she could make it to the woods, sinking into the long shadows of pines and maples. She had started backing toward those woods when she froze. His blue-eyed stare caught her and it seemed he knew everything she was thinking.
