by B. J Daniels
“Down there.” He pointed toward the old root cellar door off the kitchen.
Gillian felt her heart drop like a stone. She couldn’t get her legs to move. Just as she couldn’t get her lungs to fill. “You left her down there all this time?”
“We would have been here sooner if it wasn’t for you.” Marc looked as if he wanted to hit her, as if it took everything in him not to break her as he had everything else in this cabin. “Are you coming?”
* * *
AUSTIN CLIMBED ACROSS the roof to the chimney. The snow silenced his footfalls, but also threatened to slide in an avalanche that would take him with it should he misstep. He knelt next to the chimney to listen just as he heard Gillian call out her sister’s name.
He waited for an answer.
He heard none.
“Can’t you bring her up here?” Austin heard the fear in Gillian’s voice. Bring her up? Was there a basement under the cabin? He didn’t think so. A root cellar possibly? Then he felt his skin crawl as he remembered a root cellar one of his friends had found at an old abandoned house. He was instantly reminded of the musky smell, the cobwebs, the dust-coated canning jars with unidentifiable contents and the scurry of the rats as they’d opened the door.
“I thought you understood that we were doing this my way,” Marc said, his tone as threatening as the smack that followed his words and Gillian’s small cry of pain. “Come on.”
Austin heard what sounded like the crunch of boot heels over gravel, then nothing for a few moments.
Chapter Eleven
Gillian peered down the steep wooden stairs into the dim darkness and felt her stomach roil. Only one small light burned in a black corner of the root cellar. The musty, damp smell hit her first.
“Rebecca?” she called and felt Marc shove her hard between her shoulder blades. She would have tumbled headlong down the stairs if she hadn’t grabbed the door frame.
“Move,” Marc snapped behind her.
Gillian thought she heard a muffled sound down in the blackness, but it could have been pack rats. What if Marc had lied? What if Rebecca was dead? Then the only reason Marc had come after her and brought her back here was to kill her, too.
She took one step, then another. There was no railing so she clung to the rough rock wall that ran down one side of the stairs. With each step, she expected Marc to push her again. All her instincts told her this was a trap. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him slam and lock the door at the top of the steps behind her. Leaving her to die down here would be the kind of cruel thing he would do.
To her surprise, she heard the steps behind her groan with his weight as he followed her down. It gave her little relief, though. The moment she reached the bottom, she turned on him. “Where is she? Marc, where is my sister?”
Gillian heard another moan and turned in the direction the sound had come from. Something moved deep in the darkest part of the root cellar. “Oh, God, what have you done to her?”
Marc pushed her aside. An instant later, a bare overhead bulb turned on blinding her. Gillian blinked, shielding her eyes from the glare as she tried to see—all the time terrified of what Marc had done to her sister.
In the far reaches of the root cellar, Gillian saw her. Rebecca was shackled to a chair. He’d left her water and a bucket along with at least a little food. But there was dried blood on her face and clothes. Her face was also bruised and raw, but her eyes were open.
What Gillian saw in her sister’s eyes, though, sent her heart plummeting. Regret when she saw her sister, but when her gaze turned to her husband, it was nothing but defiance. Gillian tried to swallow, but her mouth felt as if filled with cotton balls.
“You’re her last hope, big sister,” Marc said as he looked from his wife to her. “Get her to tell you what she did with my ledger, my money and my son...” He met her gaze. “Or I will kill her and then I will beat it out of you since I know she tells you everything.”
Not everything, Gillian thought. She swallowed again, her throat working. “I already told you that I don’t know.”
He nodded, his facial features distorted under the harsh glare of the single bulb hanging over his head. How could such a handsome man look so evil...?
“Either you get it out of her or I will beat her until her last scream.” He handed her a key to the lock on the shackles.
Gillian moved to her sister, falling on her knees in front of her. She worked to free her, her hands shaking so hard she had trouble with the lock. “She needs water and food and help out of this chair.” She turned to glare back at him. “It’s too cold and damp down here. I think she is already suffering from hypothermia. She’s going to die before you can kill her.”
He took a step toward her. “Who the hell do you think you are, telling me what I have to do?”
It took all of her courage to stand up to him knowing the kind of man he was. But if she and Rebecca had any chance, they had to get out of this root cellar.
“If she dies, then what she knows dies with her,” Gillian said quickly. “I told you. I don’t know. She didn’t tell me because she knows I’m not as strong as she is. I would tell you.”
He seemed to mull that over for a moment, his gaze going to his wife. Marc looked livid. He raised his hand and Gillian tried not to cower from his fist.
To her surprise, he didn’t strike her. “Fine,” he said with a curse.
Rebecca didn’t move, didn’t seem to breathe. If it weren’t for the movement of her eyes, Gillian would have sworn she was already dead.
“I hope you don’t think you’re going to get away again,” Marc said, meeting her gaze. “I have nothing to lose and I’m sick of both of you.”
* * *
AUSTIN HEARD THE sound of footfalls and murmured voices. He froze, listening, and was relieved when he heard Gillian’s voice. He hadn’t been able to hear anything for a while.
“We need to get her warm.” Her voice was louder. So were the footfalls. They’d come up from the root cellar. He also heard another sound, a slow shuffling, almost dragging, gait.
“Maybe you could build a fire or turn on the furnace.”
Marc swore at Gillian’s suggestion. The footfalls stopped abruptly. Gillian let out a small cry. Austin cringed in anger, knowing that Marc had hit her.
“Enough wasting time,” Marc snapped.
“You want her to talk? Then give me a chance. But first we need to warm her up. Can you get some quilts from the bedroom?”
Marc swore loudly, but Austin heard what sounded like him storming away into another room. “Move and I’ll—” he said over his shoulder.
“I’m not going to move,” Gillian snapped. “My sister can barely stand, let alone run away. I’m going to put her in the living room in front of the fireplace. Maybe you could build a fire?”
Austin didn’t catch what Marc said. He could guess, though. Marc was an abusive SOB. But Austin still had no idea why he’d brought Gillian and her sister here, nor where the child was. From what he had surmised, Marc thought Gillian could get her sister to talk, but talk about what?
Austin decided it didn’t matter. Marc had forced Gillian to come here against her will. He had abused her and her sister and had apparently held Rebecca captive here. It was time to put a stop to this.
Working his way back off the roof, he walked around to where Marc had left the snowmobile. All Austin’s instincts warned him not to go busting in. He couldn’t chance what Marc would do.
He moved carefully back the way he’d come until he was at the far side of the cabin complex. He found an old door with a single lock and waited until he heard the sound of several snowmobiles nearby. Hoping they would drown out the noise, he busted the lock and carefully shoved open the door.
* * *
GILLIAN HELPED HER SI
STER into a straight-backed chair from the dining room and gently wiped her sister’s face with the hem of her sweater. “Oh, Becky.”
Rebecca’s gaze locked with hers, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I thought I could do this without getting you involved.”
Marc returned with the quilts and dropped them next to the chair.
“We’re going to need a fire,” Gillian said, not looking at him as she rubbed life back into her sister’s hands and arms.
After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder to see what Marc was doing. He was busy building a fire in the rock fireplace using some of the furniture he’d destroyed. He struck a match to the wadded up newspaper under the stack of wood. The paper caught fire. The dried old wood of the furniture burst into flames and began to crackle warmly.
“She needs something to drink. Is there any water in the kitchen?”
“What do you think?” Marc snapped. “It’s winter. Everything is shut off.”
“Maybe you could melt some snow.” She motioned with her head for him to go as if the two of them were in collaboration. The thought made her sick.
He glanced from her to her sister and back again. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said as he walked into the kitchen and came back out with a pot in one hand.
Marc had both women in an old cabin in the woods, far enough from the rest of the world that they would never be found if he killed them and buried them in the root cellar. So what was the stupid thing he thought she might do?
He gave her a warning look anyway and left, going out the back door where he’d left the snowmobile. She let go of her sister’s arms and to her surprise Rebecca fell over in the chair, catching herself before she fell on the littered floor.
Gillian helped her sit up straighter, shocked at how weak her sister was and terrified she wasn’t going to survive this.
Marc came back in, shot them a look, but said nothing as he headed for the kitchen with the cooking pot full of fresh snow. She heard him turn on the stove. She could feel time slipping through her fingers.
“Becky, what’s going on?” she whispered. “What is this about some ledger of Marc’s? And where is Andy?”
Her sister shook her head in answer as she glanced toward the kitchen, where Marc was cussing and banging around.
“Tell him what he wants to know—otherwise he is going to kill you,” Gillian pleaded.
“So sorry to get you—” her sister said from between cracked and cut lips.
“Becky—”
“Remember when we were kids and that big old tree blew over?”
Gillian stared at her. Had her brain been injured as a result of Marc’s beating? Gillian’s heartbreak rose in a sob from her throat as she looked at what that bastard had done to her sister.
Rebecca suddenly gripped her arm, digging in her fingernails. “Tell me you remember,” her sister said.
“I remember.”
Her sister’s eyes filled with tears. “Love you.” She licked her lips, her words coming out hoarse and hurried. “Save Andy. Make Marc pay.” Pain filled her sister’s eyes. “Can’t save me.”
“Stop talking like that. I’m not leaving here without you.”
Her sister smiled, even though her lips were cut and bleeding, and then shook her head. “Get away. Run. He’ll hurt you.” She stopped talking at the sound of heavy footfalls headed back in their direction.
Gillian stared at her sister. “What are you going to do?” she whispered frantically. She could feel Marc closing the distance.
“Get ready to run,” her sister said under her breath as Marc’s shadow fell over them.
“What’s all the whispering about?” Marc demanded as he handed Gillian a cup of melted snow.
She held it up to her sister’s swollen lips. Her gaze met Rebecca’s in a pleading gesture. Her sister was talking crazy. Worse, she seemed about to do something that could get them both killed.
Without warning, her sister knocked the cup out of her hand. It hit the floor, spilling the water as it rolled across the floor.
“You stupid—” Marc shoved Gillian out of the way. She fell backward and hit the floor hard. From where she was sprawled, she saw him pull his gun and crouch down in front of Rebecca. He put the end of the barrel against his wife’s forehead. “Last chance, Rebecca.”
With horror, Gillian saw Becky’s expression—and what she had picked up from the floor and hidden in her hand. “No!” she screamed as her sister swung her arm toward Marc’s face. The shard of sharp broken glass clutched in her fingers momentarily flashed as it caught the dim light.
Blood sprouted across Marc’s cheek and neck as Rebecca raked the glass down his face. He bucked back and then shoved the barrel of the gun toward Rebecca’s head as Gillian scrambled to her feet and launched herself at him.
The sound of the gunshot boomed, drowning out Gillian’s scream as she careened into him, knocking them both to the floor.
* * *
THE DOORKNOB TURNED in Austin’s hand as he heard the scream. He charged into the cabin, running toward the echoing sound of the scream and the gunshot, his heart hammering in his chest.
His lungs ached with the freezing-cold musty smell of the cabin. He had his gun drawn, his senses on alert, as he burst into the room and tried to take in everything at once. He saw it all in those few crucial seconds. The large wrecked living room; the small glowing fire crackling in the huge stone fireplace; snowy, melting footprints on the worn wood floor; and three people—all on the floor.
“Drop the gun!” Austin ordered as he saw Gillian and Marc struggling for the weapon. The other figure— Rebecca Stewart, he assumed—lay in a pool of blood next to them.
There was no way he could get a clear shot. He rushed forward an instant before the sound of the second gunshot ripped through the room. The bullet whistled past him. Marc wrestled the gun from Gillian and scrambled to his feet, dragging her up with him as a shield, the barrel of his gun against her temple.
“You drop your gun or so help me I will put a bullet in her head,” Marc said, sounding in pain. Austin saw that he was bleeding from a cut down his cheek and neck.
“You can’t get away,” Austin said his weapon aimed at Marc’s head.
Marc chuckled at that as he lifted Gillian off her feet and backed toward the door where he’d left his snowmobile. “Drop your gun or I swear I will kill her!” Marc bellowed. His eyes were wide, blood streaming down his face, but the gun in his hand was steady and sure.
“The police are on their way. Let her go!” Austin doubted the bluff would work and it was too risky to try a shot since Marc was making himself as small a target as possible behind Gillian.
Marc kept backing toward the door. His snowmobile was just outside. If he could manage to get to it... Austin couldn’t stand the thought of the man getting away, but his first priority had to be the safety of the women. Austin knew Marc wouldn’t try to take Gillian with him. He needed to get away quickly. If he could make him let her go... He wouldn’t be surprised, though, if at the last moment Marc put a bullet in her head.
Gillian was crying, the look on her face one of horror more than terror. She was looking at her sister crumpled on the floor in front of the fireplace. Rebecca wasn’t moving.
Marc dragged Gillian another step back. He would have to let Gillian go to open the door. Austin waited as the seconds ticked by.
As Marc reached behind him to open the door, Austin knew he would have only an instant to take his shot. Moving fast, Marc shoved Gillian away, turned the gun and fired as Austin dove to the side for cover—and took his own shot.
He heard a howl of pain and then a loud crash, looking in time to see Marc grab a large old wooden hutch by the door and pull it down after him. The hutch crashed down on its side, blocking the door as Marc made his escape.
Austin raced toward the door but couldn’t see Marc or the snowmobile to get off a shot. As he started to scramble over the downed hutch, he heard the engine, smelled the smoke as the man roared away.
Behind him, Gillian, sobbing hysterically, pushed herself up from the littered floor and rushed to her sister.
His need to go after Marc blinded him for a moment. He’d wounded Marc, but it hadn’t been enough to stop him. He couldn’t bear the thought of Marc getting away after what he’d done. He swore under his breath. But as badly as he wanted the man, he couldn’t leave Gillian and her sister to chase after him.
“Help her,” she pleaded from where she was kneeling on the floor. “My sister—”
He holstered his gun and knelt down next to Rebecca to feel for a pulse. “She’s alive.” Just barely. He checked his phone. Still no service.
“Go for help. I’ll stay here with her,” Gillian said. “Go.”
Chapter Twelve
Marc couldn’t believe this. He was bleeding like a stuck pig. Reaching the road and his Suburban, he stumbled off the snowmobile and lurched toward his vehicle. He couldn’t tell how badly he was wounded, but his movements felt too slow, which he figured indicated that he was losing blood fast.
He thumbed the key fob, opened the Suburban’s door and pulled himself inside. The last thing he wanted to do was take the time to check his wounds for fear the cowboy would be coming after him, but something told him if he didn’t stop the bleeding, he was a dead man either way.
The Texas deputy had said he’d already called the cops. Marc couldn’t risk that the man was telling the truth. His hand shook as he turned the rearview mirror toward him and first inspected the cut.
“Son of a bitch!” He couldn’t believe what Rebecca had done to him. The cut ran from just under his eye, down his cheek to under his chin and into his throat. He took off his gloves and pressed one to the spot that seemed to be bleeding the most.
After a few moments, the bleeding slowed—at least on his face. He could feel blood running down his side, chilling him as it soaked into his clothing. He became aware of the pain. His shoulder felt as if it were on fire. Unzipping his coat, then unbuttoning his shirt, he inspected the damage.
