by Blake Pierce
Part of a lesson came back to her. She was taught to do anything, say anything, to keep the caller talking. It didn’t matter how meaningless or irrelevant it might be. What mattered was that the caller kept hearing a concerned human voice.
“Marie, there’s something you need to do for me,” Riley said.
“What’s that?”
Riley’s brain was rushing frantically, making up what to say as she went along.
“I need for you to go to your kitchen,” she said. “I want you to tell me exactly what herbs and spices you’ve got in your rack.”
Marie didn’t answer for a moment. Riley worried. Was Marie in the right state of mind to go along with such an irrelevant distraction?
“Okay,” Marie said. “I’m going there now.”
Riley breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps this would buy her some time. She could hear the clinking of spice jars over the phone. Marie’s voice sounded truly strange now—hysterical and robotic at the same time.
“I’ve got dried oregano. And crushed red pepper. And nutmeg.”
“Excellent,” Riley said. “What else?”
“Dried thyme. And ground ginger. And black peppercorns.”
Marie paused. How could Riley keep this going?
“Have you got curry powder?” Riley asked.
After a clink of bottles, Marie said, “No.”
Riley spoke slowly, as if giving life-and-death instructions—because really, she was doing exactly that.
“Well, get a pad of paper and a pencil,” Riley said. “Write that down. You’ll need to get it when you buy groceries.”
Riley heard the sound of scribbling.
“What else have you got?” Riley asked.
Then came a deathly pause.
“This is no good, Riley,” Marie said in a tone of numb despair.
Riley stammered helplessly. “Just—just humor me, okay?”
Another pause fell.
“He’s here, Riley.”
Riley felt a rock-hard knot in her throat.
“He’s where?” she asked.
“He’s in the house. I get it now. He’s been here all along. There’s nothing you can do.”
Riley’s thoughts churned as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Marie might be slipping into paranoid delusions. Riley understood this all too well from her own struggles with PTSD.
On the other hand, Marie might be telling the truth.
“How do you know that, Marie?” Riley asked, looking for an opportunity to pass a slow-moving truck.
“I hear him,” Marie said. “I hear his footsteps. He’s upstairs. No, he’s in the front hallway. No, he’s in the basement.”
Is she hallucinating? Riley wondered.
It was entirely possible. Riley had heard more than her share of nonexistent noises in the days after her abduction. Even recently she sometimes couldn’t trust her five senses. Trauma played awful tricks on the imagination.
“He’s everywhere in the house,” Marie said.
“No,” Riley replied firmly. “He can’t be everywhere.”
Riley managed to pass a sluggish delivery truck. A sense of futility was rolling over her in what felt like tidal waves. It was a terrible feeling, almost like drowning.
When Marie spoke again, she was no longer sobbing. She sounded resigned now, even mysteriously tranquil.
“Maybe he’s like a ghost, Riley. Maybe that’s what happened when you blew him up. You killed his body but you didn’t kill his evil. Now he can be in a whole lot of places at once. Now there’s no stopping him, ever. You can’t fight a ghost. Give it up, Riley. You can’t do anything. I can’t either. All I can do is not let the same thing happen to me again.”
“Don’t hang up! I need you to do something else for me.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Marie said, “What? What now, Riley?”
“I need you to stay on this line, but I need you to call 911 on your landline.”
Marie’s voice turned into a slight growl. “Jesus, Riley. How many times do I have to tell you that I cut off my landline?”
In her confusion, Riley had forgotten. Marie actually sounded a little irritated. That was good. Anger was better than panic.
“Besides,” Marie continued, “what good’s it going to do to call 911? What can they do to help me? Nobody can help. He’s everywhere. He’ll get me sooner or later. He’ll get you too. We both might as well give up.”
Riley felt stymied. Marie’s delusions were taking on an intractable logic of their own. And she didn’t have time to persuade Marie that Peterson was not a ghost.
“We’re friends, aren’t we, Marie?” Riley finally said. “You once told me that you’d do anything for me. Was that true?”
Marie started crying again.
“Of course it’s true.”
“Then hang up and call 911. There doesn’t have to be a reason. It doesn’t have to do any good. Just do it because I want you too.”
A long pause fell. Riley couldn’t even hear Marie breathing.
“I know you want to give up, Marie. I understand. That’s your choice. But I don’t want to give up. Maybe it’s stupid, but I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you to call 911. Because you said you’d do anything for me. And I want you to do it. I need you to do it. For me.”
The silence continued. Was Marie even still on the line?
“Do you promise?” she asked.
The call ended with a click. Whether Marie would call for help or not, Riley couldn’t leave anything to chance. She picked up her cell phone and punched in 911.
“This is Special Agent Riley Paige, FBI,” she said when the operator answered. “I’m calling about a possible intruder. Someone extremely dangerous.”
Riley gave the operator Marie’s address.
“We’ll have a team there right away,” the operator said.
“Good,” Riley said, and ended the call.
Riley then tried Marie’s number again, but got no response.
Someone has to get there in time, she thought. Someone has to get there right now.
Meanwhile, she struggled against a renewed flood of dark memories. She had to get control of herself. Whatever was about to happen next, she needed to keep her wits about her.
When Marie’s red brick townhouse came into view, Riley felt a surge of alarm. No emergency vehicles had yet arrived. She heard police sirens wailing in the distance. They were on their way.
Riley double-parked her car and dashed for the front door, realizing she was the first responder. When she tried the doorknob, the door swung open. But why was it unlocked?
She stepped inside and drew her gun.
“Marie!” Riley called out. “Marie!”
No answer came.
Riley knew for certain that something awful had happened here—or was happening right now. She stepped further into the front hallway.
“Marie!” she called again. The house remained silent.
The police sirens were louder now, but no help had yet arrived.
Riley was starting to believe the worst now—that Peterson had been here, and perhaps still was here.
She made her way along the dimly lit hallway. She kept calling Marie’s name as she studied every door. Might he be in the closet to the left? What about the bathroom door over to the right?
If she encountered Peterson, she wouldn’t be taken by him again.
She would kill the bastard once and for all.
