High Risk

by Rick R. Reed

  And dangerous.

  Sooner or later, someone would track them down. And then where would he be?

  Abbott fingered the knife blade, sliding his thumb along its edge until it bled.

  He lifted his thumb to his mouth. The blood tasted coppery and warm. He didn’t like it.

  He spat blood on the floor and looked at the knife in his hand.

  Tonight was as good a time as any.

  * * * *

  Was it sex that had brought her here? Beth had fallen to ruminating in the dark room; too much time to think.

  Had sex brought her here? She remembered back to the first time she’d had sex and realized she’d never thought much about it after it had happened. Never questioned how much of what had taken place had anything to do with desire or will…

  She had been drunk.

  But that was an excuse for those who lie to themselves. With all that had happened, self-delusion was a luxury she could no longer afford.

  She had been during her high school years. The first memory that came back to her was the music. Disco. It had been a cold night during an eighties-theme party at a fraternity house on Northwestern’s campus. Beth hadn’t even wanted to go, but her friend Kelly had forced her…

  * * * *

  “Why are you sitting over here by yourself, Beth?”

  She looked up into the drunken eyes of her best friend, Kelly Dimitri. Beth felt miserably out of place in the frat house’s living room, wishing she could slip out, but Kelly would have a fit. “It’s just that I don’t know anybody here.”

  “And you won’t if you keep sitting in the corner, frowning.”

  Beth tried to smile.

  “Oh, pull-eeze!” Kelly laughed and took another gulp of beer from her plastic cup. “Aren’t you drinking?”

  “Do they have anything besides beer?”

  “This is a frat party. They have beer.”

  “But I don’t like it.”

  Kelly pulled Beth to her feet. She whispered, “Neither do I. But it does the trick. Just open your throat and pour it down. It tastes better as you go along.”

  Kelly led her to the kitchen, where two kegs rested in tubs of ice. She leaned over to pump the tap, then filled a glass for Beth and handed it to her. “Come on, down the hatch. No stopping.”

  The amber liquid, topped with foam, gave of a pungent hops smell, grainy. It was awful. Beth put the beer to her lips.

  “All the way down.”

  Beth knew Kelly wouldn’t let her slide. She never did. Beth wondered why Kelly was her best friend.

  Later, Beth found herself sitting in the same corner of the living room. Only this time, she couldn’t keep the room from spinning. “Manhunt” from Flashdance was playing, and the beat made her temples throb. When had the music gotten so loud?

  Kelly had disappeared into a bedroom with one of the brothers, a really cute guy with straight blond hair and blue eyes. What were they doing in there now? Fucking?

  The thought made Beth’s stomach hurt. A lot of saliva had gathered in her mouth and she feared she would become sick. Why had she let Kelly force her to drink so much? She had never felt so tired in all of her life. Sweat ran down her temples.

  Needing to get outside, she rushed out the door. The cold air shocked her. It had begun snowing. Her nausea reached a new peak, and she wanted to rip out her stomach.

  Beth collapsed to her knees and stained the thin cover of snow with brilliant yellow bile. She couldn’t seem to stop, going on and on until she gasped for air, tears running down her face.

  She lifted her eyes to see someone standing above her. One of the brothers. Was he laughing? Beth pictured how she must look, pale and sweaty, puke at the corner of her lips. Just as the guy reached out a hand toward her, everything went dark.

  She awakened to a pale blue light—a stereo receiver. Beth stared at the digital numbers, then turned over. She lay in a bed. Whose? Wood paneling lined the walls and she couldn’t make out the song. Something old…heavy metal.

  Where was she, anyway? Where was Kelly?

  Suddenly, she sat up, and the action made it feel like someone had driven an anvil into her forehead. She put a hand to her head.

  “You okay?”

  Beth tried to find the source of the voice in the darkness. Whoever had spoken moved across the room and turned on a desk lamp.

  She squinted. The light’s intensity caused new pain to shoot into the area just behind her eyes. But the guy was handsome, with hazel eyes and dark hair, and she realized they must be in his room. He sat on the bed beside her and put his hand on her hair. She moved her head so the hand would fall away. The guy stood tall, well over six feet, and even though he wore a blue button-down shirt, he looked powerfully built.

  Great. What a way to meet my first college guy.

  He was holding a beer in his hand. “You want to drink some of this?”

  Her stomach lurched. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

  The guy leaned close. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. A little hair of the dog, y’know? Come on, take a sip. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Beth couldn’t refuse, not when viewing the concern in his eyes. She took a sip.

  And it came right back up. She leaned over the side of the bed, wondering how anything remained in her stomach. The guy held her head as she stained the carpet.

  She tried to sit back up, but the pounding in her head grew so intense, she feared blacking out again. What must this guy think of her? In spite of everything, she managed to swing her legs over the side of the bed and stand, gripping the wall for support. “Gotta get out of here,” she mumbled. “Home.”

  The guy stood behind her and massaged her shoulders. He leaned close and whispered, “You can’t go anywhere yet.”

  All at once, she started crying. What was this? It usually took a lot to make her cry, and here she was, bawling like a baby. And for what?

  She turned into the guy’s welcoming embrace. He stroked her, rubbing her back in lazy circles. It felt good, quelled her churning stomach. She swallowed, trying to get her breathing to slow down. His hands moved up and down her back, kneading the taut muscles.

  “Relax. It’s okay. This happens to a bunch of people at the house almost every week.”

  Beth didn’t want to look at him, certain her face would be a mess after all she’d been through. She had to look hideous, frightening.

  She pushed away, ran her hand over her face, and finally glanced at him. “I should be getting home.”

  “Dorm?”

  “No, I—” She didn’t want to say anymore. This was just what she’d been afraid of happening when Kelly first suggested coming to the party.

  He didn’t wait for her to say anything more. He wrapped his arms around her and started kissing her. Beth felt reluctant at first, wondering how he could kiss her when she must appear (and taste!) so awful. But he continued, and Beth opened her eyes to take in his face, the straight nose, the unblemished olive skin. As he explored her mouth with his tongue, his stubble rubbed against her, a pleasant roughness compared to the boys she’d made out with.

  He ran his hands through her hair and stopped kissing her long enough to tell her she was beautiful. When he pushed her back against the bed, bringing his weight down on her, Beth didn’t resist. And when he groped for the button on her jeans, she brushed away his hand so she could wriggle out of them herself.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered once more, and Beth closed her eyes.

  When she awakened, the wan light of dawn seeped underneath a window shade, making the room gray. She tried to ignore the dull ache in her head. Clothes littered the floor, while CD cases and books covered the two desks in the room. A jock strap hung from the doorknob. The stereo, tuned to nothing, broadcast static, and the entire room smelled of beer.

  Beth sat up, naked. She found a crusty stain on her stomach, and what looked like dried blood darkening her pubic hair. Panic rising, she turned and felt some
one in bed beside her. A red-haired boy with pimples on his back snored and curled away from her.

  “Who?” Beth whispered, trying to pull the sheet out from under the boy to cover herself. He grunted and turned on his stomach, allowing her to free the sheet and pull it over her front.

  Where was the dark-haired guy, the handsome one?

  Beth stood. She hadn’t realized it last night, but the bed was a bunk bed. On top lay another guy, also naked, also asleep, exhaling alcohol fumes into the air. He had dirty blond hair, long, and a goatee.

  She felt sick again, chilled, but this time it wasn’t alcohol bringing on the queasiness.

  Oh God, where were her clothes? What had she done?

  She squatted, groping among the dust bunnies under the bed for her jeans and sweatshirt, knowing all too well what had happened, but not wanting to believe—she had lost her virginity as part of a fraternity gang bang.

  * * * *

  That’s how it had begun. Why had such an unpleasant experience led to so much? Beth couldn’t recall how many men she had slept with since; the number had to be in the hundreds.

  Who would have believed it of her? Would her mother believe it if she had known her daughter had suffered through three abortions in college? Would the people she worked with when she volunteered at Children’s Hospital have been surprised to know she had contracted venereal warts, Chlamydia, and crabs?

  What was it that kept her and illicit sex linked?

  Look where it had led her.

  Of course, she couldn’t blame herself. Abbott was insane, and even if she had come on to him in a department store, she didn’t deserve to have her husband murdered, to be kidnapped and tortured.

  And yet, she couldn’t help but think…if she’d been the person most people supposed her to be, none of this would be happening.

  And where did such thinking get her?

  She rolled on her side once more, facing the teetering shelving that held the Ball jars.

  They had been there all along.

  Beth stopped breathing. She felt as if she were suddenly seeing with new eyes.

  The Ball jars.

  The rickety wooden shelving.

  Glass…the jars were made of glass! Why had she never thought of it before?

  She lifted herself up on an elbow, being careful not to put any weight on her hand, and scooted nearer the shelves.

  Salvation?

  Chapter 27

  The remains of a frozen dinner sat before him on the table. Abbott was barely aware of the food he had just consumed, was scarcely conscious of the way his muscles bunched and contracted as he fantasized, conjuring up masterful images of gore, of Beth’s frenzied pleading as he led her patiently down the road toward death. He imagined how the knife would feel entering her, the blood he would release. The pleading would give him satisfaction, but would be coming much too late to do her any good.

  He pictured her, curled into a defenseless ball in a corner of the storage room.

  Then heard a crash. His head jerked up. For a moment, he became disoriented, removed from his fantasy world where he played the star, a messenger of death and agony. His surroundings had faded as he honed in on images of murder and blood, of Beth receiving the punishment she deserved.

  He had a hard-on.

  But he wouldn’t think about that.

  No. The crash and the tinkling of broken glass hung suspended in the air, almost as if the sounds waited for him to make his move.

  The crash had come from the storage room.

  Beth. Had she hurt herself?

  He stood, hoping to God the dumb bitch hadn’t injured herself.

  He wanted to do that.

  * * * *

  Beth groped among the shadows. On her hands and knees, breathing in gasps, she knew she had only moments before Abbott unlocked the door. She heard his chair sliding across the hardwood floor, his footsteps getting closer.

  Her hands connected with the shards of green-blue glass, feeling and rejecting, searching for just the right one, the one that would be sharp enough to cut her when she found it, one with a tip like a dagger.

  But she found nothing like that!

  And now…the jingle of keys. Soon, he would be opening the lock.

  So many of the pieces she picked up, here in the dizzying smell of vinegar, seemed too small, or had broken into rounded-edge pieces, as threatening as the fingernails on a baby.

  The door creaked open, and as it did, her hand closed around something that felt hot, felt, in fact, as if something small had bitten her. The pain came from the razor edge of the glass as it sliced into her palm.

  Beth didn’t care about the pain. She clutched the piece of glass and scrambled to her feet.

  * * * *

  Abbott could see little in the darkness. When he opened the door, the smell of vinegar and rotting vegetables hit him with almost palpable force.

  His eyes quickly focused, and he saw the dark shape of her on her knees, almost supplicant. She was struggling to get up, though, and heading toward him.

  What was going on?

  * * * *

  Beth couldn’t give him time to react. He was stronger, had all of his fingers. He was a man. Oh God!

  She would have only one chance, and had to make that opportunity fast and sure. Fuck this up, she thought, and you’ll never draw breath again. She scrambled to her feet. Adrenaline suffused her, and she felt a burst of energy.

  A cry, primal and savage, issued from her as she ran toward him, the shard of glass upraised. Her loud and guttural cry caused him to freeze, to stand there for just one moment, staring, almost as if he saw a different person from the one he had imprisoned.

  Beth didn’t let the strength her panic had given her ebb with hesitation. She gave herself over to instinct, charging at Abbott and not stopping until she brushed against him in a way that seemed almost intimate.

  And she plunged the cold shard of glass into his eye.

  The ease with which it went in surprised her, along with the slurping sound as if the glass penetrated liquid jelly.

  He screamed. It sounded almost feminine. He brought up his hand to where the glass stayed embedded deep in his left eye. His quaking hands struggled to grip the shard.

  Beth didn’t wait to watch any more.

  Abbott doubled over, and for good measure, Beth kneed him in the balls.

  He grunted.

  She dashed from the room, then heard a gasp and, softly, glass hitting the floor. She ran for the back door, the one through which she had escaped before he’d tried to drown her.

  Since she expected it, she could almost feel his grip on her shoulder, pulling her back. She could actually perceive the roughness of his fingers, digging into her shoulders. But the grip never came, and she fumbled with the dead bolt and the lock, finally thrusting herself into the cold air outside.

  It hit her like a shock. Not the cold air. Freedom.

  She finally realized she was alone, making little noises, small panting grunts as she sought to escape. The path to the road lay before her, and she clambered up the hill with briars, bits of stone and cold earth cutting into her bare feet.

  Would this last? She pushed a pine bough away from her face. Would this really last?

  She neared the road, the dirt ribbon in the moonlight, just feet away. She allowed herself a glance behind her, but Abbott was not there.

  But how long would it be before his powerful legs brought him up the hill? How long would it be before he, furious, hoisted her like a parcel and carried her back to the cottage to inflict God-knew-what horrors upon her?

  She dashed into the road, her feet sinking in the mud. Her lungs burned, ached with exertion.

  But she couldn’t stop. She mustn’t stop.

  This would be her only chance.

  Chapter 28

  He’s a small boy, stubby fingers wrapped around a fishing pole. He has all the trappings of a small boy: a mass of sun freckles across the bridge of his nose, a
missing tooth, cutoff denim shorts, and a White Sox T-shirt. Behind him stands a whitewashed pier and sun-dappled water. But certain elements jar this Huck Finn picture of innocence. The boy should be grinning, but he’s not. The slackness of his mouth indicates that a boyish grin is a foreign concept. His eyes stare back at the photographer with a pointed lack of mirth.

  McGrew set the photograph on the seat of the rented Ford Taurus as the light changed. He sped forward on Route 45, on the outskirts of Salem, Ohio. Earlier, he had passed through the town, asking for directions to Myers Lake.

  “Just follow 45 all the way out,” the woman at the 7-11 had told him, pushing a gray ringlet from her forehead. “You’ll pass the country western park and a whole lot of farms, but pretty soon, you’ll see the white sign on the left that’ll take you back. There’s a bunch of pine trees there, and a Dairy Barn just before you get to the lake.”

  McGrew had thanked her and started out. Now, he crested a hill and, once over the top, saw the sign. Big flakes of white paint had peeled away to reveal dark, rotting wood beneath.

  He made a left and started back, the car’s suspension complaining as it bounced through unavoidable potholes.

  Ila Perkins’ eyes had brightened with shame and fear when he’d visited her the previous afternoon. “Are you sure I won’t get in trouble for this?”

  Her admission of perjury all these years later probably would not get her into much trouble, but he said, “It’s been a long time, Mrs. Perkins. But you’re doing the right thing.”

  She had spilled out her story while smoking one unfiltered Camel after another. A pall of blue gray smoke hung near the ceiling, and McGrew found himself almost gasping for air.

  “I didn’t know what to do, y’see, Mr. McGrew. The way I was brought up, family comes before anything else.” She paused. “Of course, except God.” She rubbed her forehead, then her thin, dry lips. “Gene was kind of like a little brother to me. Maybe even a son. I helped raise him.” McGrew recalled how she kept looking at him, almost as if she expected him to absolve her. “I just couldn’t stand to sit by and watch him go to jail. I bought into his bullshit about Candy getting what she was asking for. People always talked about her. In spite of what happened, the fact is, she was a wild thing.” She shook her head. “I know it makes no difference.” The floor suddenly caught Ila’s eye. “I’m so ashamed.”