by Anne Baines
He was her daddy. As long as he was still alive, he had to protect her. And he’d failed. That bastard was going to win.
Anger pushed back the pain enough that Jake dared to open his eyes. He wasn’t dead yet.
It hurt to breathe, to move. So Jake gave up on breathing, not caring if the movement killed him. His left arm responded to his silently screamed commands and slowly he extracted his cellphone from his jean’s pocket.
9…1… Then he stopped. The police. They’d never get to the cabin in time, if they could even find it. Even Moose probably wouldn’t be able to get out there.
Besides, Jake didn’t want this horrible man scared away. Ted had to die. Moose wouldn’t kill for him, not readily enough.
Jake understood now what Delilah had been so afraid of. That man wasn’t human. Evil. Just evil. No reasoning or bargaining or driving away evil. Only one thing to do.
Stop it. Kill it. Destroy it.
And there was only one person in the world who would do that, without question, without reservation. The only other person who would kill to save his smiling little girl with a bright blue tongue.
Jake hauled himself across the floor to the desk on his elbows and one good knee. He didn’t even try to rise, just pulled open the drawer with his hand and found the black ledger with memory instead of sight.
He didn’t know where Delilah was or how far she’d run. But there was one place she might have gone.
Jake flipped open the ledger, smearing blood on the pages. His eyes didn’t want to focus and his heart was like a lead weight in his chest. He found the number he wanted and dialed his final hope.
Fifty
“Baby girl.” Colin’s voice floated in, interrupting a dream Delilah couldn’t quite grasp hold of.
She opened her eyes. One lamp was on, the soft yellow glow illuminating her room. The world outside the windows was dark. She braced herself for the return of the pain, but only a dull ache greeted her. She felt fuzzy, but alive.
Colin held a phone out to her. “It’s Jake,” he said. She couldn’t read his expression. Worried, perhaps.
“Jake?” She took the phone, wondering why Colin even had one in the first place. The rule he’d taught her was no personal phones, and definitely no business over the phone, except perhaps pizza.
“Lil. Get him.” The words came out in little gasps and Delilah barely understood. Teddy. It had to be something with that psycho.
“Where are you? What’s happened?”
“Bar. He cut me. He knows where Essy—” Then a rush of air and the sound of plastic hitting a hard surface.
“Where is he? Jake?”
There was no response, though she could hear harsh breathing.
“Jake, I’m coming to the bar. If you can hear me, just hang on.” She waited a moment, but got no response.
Ted had gotten to Jake, somehow. This could be a trap. She was aware but too angry, too scared to care. She’d warned him, she’d fucking told Jake that Ted was dangerous, that he wouldn’t be stopped. But Jake hadn’t listened. He never listened. Stupid Delilah, just trouble, never right.
“Dee? Are you all right?” Colin put a hand on her shoulder.
She threw off the comforter and swung her legs out of bed, testing her belly as she gripped onto Colin’s arm and stood up. Sore, but she’d manage. She felt a hell of a lot better than earlier at least.
Not that it mattered. She’d do what needed to be done.
“I think Teddy got to Jake, at the bar,” she said. She stepped away and opened her dresser. Her old shirts and pants where all still there, clean and folded neatly. She wiped at her eyes with one hand. No time to get maudlin.
“It could be a trap, be bait for you.” Colin shook his head. “Let me go instead.”
She laughed and regretted it as the ache got a little sharper. “Fuck no. This is my mess, my fault. I’ll take care of it, the way I should have before.” She pulled on a pair of jeans and turned to face him. “I’ve been an idiot, Colin. Playing around with fire, thinking I was too smart to get burned. And now everything I care about is burning down around me. I’ve got to deal with this.” No more running, she told herself silently.
“I’ll go get that car out of the pole barn for you. Drink some water and take another spoonful of that codeine. It won’t knock you out,” he added at her skeptical look. “Just keep the edge off the pain so you can do what you have to.”
“Thank you, Colin.” She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “Oh, one other thing.” Her dark eyes grew hard and shiny as a beetle’s. “I need a gun.”
Fifty-one
She’d never driven so fast in her life as she did that night. The rental car’s speed topped out around one hundred and it took all Delilah’s skill and concentration to get around what little traffic there was.
She got into south-east Portland and ran every light, every stop sign. She didn’t care about traffic cameras or getting pulled over. Jake was in trouble. He could be dead by the time she arrived and every second was one for which she’d blame herself forever if she showed up too late.
And there was their daughter to consider. So tiny, so frail, and yet perfect. A little girl that Delilah didn’t even know, just a face in pictures until this afternoon. But she was Jake’s, a part of him, a part of what he and Delilah had shared. Before life and choices and stupid fights had torn them apart.
She’s a part of me, too.
She drove into the parking lot and slammed the brakes, barely taking time to turn off the car. The Glock 9mm Colin had given her rested in her lap, cold and heavy. Loaded. Delilah picked it up, unbuckled her seatbelt, and climbed out of the car.
The night air was cool, a light breeze lifted her hair and teased the back of her neck. The neighborhood looked to be asleep and she didn’t see movement in the businesses across the main street or the houses beyond.
There were no lights on in the bar that she could see and the parking lot was empty except for the Mustang. She walked around to the back door and tried it. Locked, of course. It took too many seconds for her to fumble out her ID card and jimmy the catch open.
She flicked the safety off the gun and yanked open the door.
No one in the hallway. The office door was slightly open and the sickly sweet smell of fresh blood swamped her.
Delilah rushed into the office, gun up, eyes darting around. Jake lay on the floor next to the desk in a messy smear of bright, wet blood. Biting back a shocked cry, Delilah moved past him, checking the door to the kitchen. The kitchen was empty, one light still on.
She grabbed a handful of napkins from one of the steel shelves and dashed back to Jake. For a horrible moment she couldn’t find a pulse or sign of life, but then he took a shuddering breath and his eyelids fluttered.
His shirt was slashed and the grey material darkened by blood. Shallow cuts lined his arms and hands. The worst wounds were in his neck and his leg. His jeans were soaked with blood, one leg extended, the cuff slashed open and she thought she could see bone inside the gaping wound. She pressed napkins to his neck first since it was still bleeding in slow, pulsing bubbles in time to his heartbeat. Frantic, she looked around for tape or anything to help her apply better pressure.
“Lil,” Jake managed, his eyes opening.
“Shh, I’m here. Don’t speak.” His dark skin was so pale, already looking blue-ish and taught over his bones. Masking tape. She saw a roll in the open desk drawer and leaned over him to grab it.
His fingers closed around her wrist with surprising strength.
“Cabin. At the cabin. Essy. He’s gonna—” Jake broke off with a spasm and shivers wracked his body.
Delilah pressed a folded napkin to his neck with one hand and put her thumb on the tape. Quickly she wrapped it tight around his shoulder, trying to build up pressure for the wound. He’d lost so damn much blood already. That bandage seemed to hold and she pressed gently on his head as he tried to raise it.
“Shhh, Jake.” There were
so many cuts, so much blood. She made another napkin pad and bound the deep, gaping cut in his leg as best she could.
“No,” he whispered and one injured hand pressed something into her leg. She took it. The keys to the Mustang. “Go. Kill him.”
“They’re at your dad’s cabin?” She laid her hand against his cheek, tears flowing down her face in cold streaks. She felt more than saw him nod.
His cell phone had fallen beside the desk. Delilah grabbed it but again Jake caught her arm. He still looked like death warmed over, but her triage seemed to have given him some strength. There were still too many cuts and wounds.
“I have to call,” she started to say.
He cut her off. “Go.”
She pressed the phone into his hand after typing 9-1-1 into it.
“I love you,” she whispered, picking up her gun.
“Drive,” Jake licked his lips, his head lifting slightly, “like hell.”
Vision blurred with tears, Delilah fled the bar. She took only a moment to adjust the seat in the Mustang, not bothering with her mirrors. She knew the way to the cabin. Jake had taken her out there multiple times. It was where they’d first made love, and the secret place they’d met after she’d tried to come back, after he’d met Nancy.
It was where she’d conceived Esther.
She didn’t know how much of a head start psycho Teddy had on her. A half an hour, perhaps, given how much Jake had bled. Some of the blood had been sticky, already starting to turn brownish. She didn’t know whether there was any way to make it out there in time. But she could try. And she could drive like hell.
The six-cylinder engine roared as the muscle car in its fully restored and upgraded glory shot down the road. Jake had taken care of her baby. The thought brought on another rush of tears and she wiped angrily at her face. There would be time to cry later, to be afraid. Her hands were bloodstained and she scrubbed them into her dirty jeans.
No more crying. No more running. This night wasn’t going to turn into one more thing she’d feel sorry about later.
The flicker of resolve she’d felt back in Atlanta, the inner strength that had gotten her onto the plane, came to life again, hardening inside her until she felt invulnerable and utterly focused.
Teddy had stabbed her, hunted her down, attacked her love, and was now trying to destroy the vestiges of family that Delilah had. She’d never killed anyone before, but she doubted she’d lose much sleep. Theodore Whitechapel deserved to die.
“Should have let me go, Teddy,” she said to his phantom as she turned onto highway 26 and floored the engine, shifting up. “Should have fucking let me go.”
Jake watched Delilah leave and then closed his eyes. He hadn’t gotten a chance to warn her about the gun that Ted had taken, but at least Delilah had her own gun. She’d do what she had to, his Lil always did. If he could trust her for anything, it was that she’d survive.
He lifted the phone but the screen had gone dark. It was difficult to think, though the pain had become familiar and no longer so awful. It lay on him like a blanket. He wished he weren’t so damn cold.
9-1-1, that was what he was supposed to call. He shivered, his vision blurring into little red dots. Too cold.
The phone slipped from his fingers. “Good night, moon.” His lips moved but no sound came out. The shivering and pain subsided and he fell into a warm, unending dark.
Fifty-two
Ted followed the directions, heading toward the river. He regretted not staying around to watch Jake’s final moments, but he had quite the drive ahead of him according to the map. It was satisfying enough to know that the stupid pathetic black man’s last thoughts would all be of Ted and what he was going to do. Fear, power. Heady stuff.
Ted was free. Truly free. All those years of careful planning, all the times he’s taken extra precautions, extra care to never be detected. God, he’d put up with Cora and her plastic, bitchy ways only so that he could keep track of the DA’s office and get wind if anyone realized a serial killer was hunting in Daytona Beach.
Of course, no one ever had. He’d fucked that stupid bitch, bought her stupid gifts, and promised her that he’d think about leaving Emily, all the usual bullshit that so-called normal men put up with from the women who tried to control them. And it had been for nothing. No point. He could have killed her a year ago and put her beneath his garden for all the good she’d done him. At least then she’d be fertilizing and helping create beauty in the world.
He tuned the radio to the AM dial and searched for a news station. He’d watched all the local news in the hotel that day, but seen nothing at all about a manhunt or any bulletins out of Florida. There’d been a five minute segment about the intersection stabbing in Tualitin, but they’d gotten what little facts they had pretty much wrong. The focus had mostly been on his car, which he didn’t have to worry about. As far as he could tell, no one had any idea what he’d been up to or who he really was.
It was so… easy. Pathetic. All that care, all the lies and the carefully manicured and developed façade had been for nothing. He could have been having so much more fun.
But he was free now. And once he’d settled into whatever place lay at the end of his map with dead Jake’s plump wife and sickly daughter, he’d do what he could to make up for lost time, at least until Delilah showed up. Perhaps he should have left her another clue. But he had a feeling she’d guess where Jake would squirrel away his family. If she wasn’t there with them already. She’d been with them in the car that day, it seemed likely she’d have stuck around to help protect her kid.
He laughed aloud at that idea. She’d gotten away from him again, so she probably felt safe, cocky even. Stupid little bitch. He’d teach her, show her how to beg for him, how to beg for death. She’d crumpled readily enough in his arms once.
There wasn’t much traffic, though a few cars were on the road, especially as he neared the bridge. One car seemed to stay behind him, even when Ted experimented and slowed down, giving the guy room enough to get into the other lane and pass.
He wasn’t sure if he was being paranoid, but decided to take a quick detour and drive around the next block, just in case. He signaled and turned right. The car did the same.
Ted signaled again and turned right again. Again the car followed.
Not paranoia. The other car’s headlights were too bright, blocking any view of the driver. Ted wondered if it were Delilah. How long ago had this car been following him? Since the bar? He hadn’t gone far, yet.
He thought about stopping and just shooting the driver. But it might be the cops, though he doubted it. The make of the car looked all wrong for police. Ted took a hard right and the car struggled to keep up, swinging wide into the intersection.
Definitely following. He thought he could make out only one person in the car and the silhouette looked too tall and bulky to be his tiny, deceitful Delilah.
“Time to play, asshole.” Ted muttered. He didn’t want to start shooting here, the prudent side of him whispered. Gunshots would bring out police and there might be witnesses. He had a full tank of gas; he could lose a few minutes running this jerk around in circles.
He’d let the other guy make the first move. If the guy just wanted to follow him, oh well. He’d have a nice little drive around town. If the other car proved too persistent, Ted figured he could find a quieter, lonelier place on his little drive and take care of the idiot.
He glanced in the rearview mirror again. The car was still on his tail, hanging back. He wondered if the man inside knew he’d been made. Ted had no idea who it could be.
Jake was dead. His silly, wounded Delilah was probably hiding in a cabin, thinking she’d won, thinking she was safe. It seemed unlikely anyone had followed him from the bar. He’d seen no one there.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter. He could afford to play around with this unknown factor for a little while. No hasty decisions yet. He was still a hunter and this new prey would learn soon enough it had chosen th
e wrong target.
Fifty-three
The first hard right worried Sam. Then the dark blue car turned right again, basically going around the block, and Sam knew he’d been made.
He cursed softly and decided to ditch all pretense of hanging back or being uninterested in the car in front of him. He got close enough to read the license plate, guessing it was a rental.
Whitechapel knew he had a tail, but he couldn’t know who Sam was or why he was following. And on the plus side, Sam doubted Whitechapel would go start killing people while someone was watching. He figured a guy who liked to hurt women would be a giant coward.
He expected Whitechapel would try to lose him, but the man just reversed their course, driving away from the river, staying the speed limit and moseying along as though driving to a friend’s house or home from a movie. Sam grit his teeth, tension making his arms ache as he clutched the wheel. He expected the calm to break any moment, for Whitechapel to pull a u-turn or something crazy, maybe even try to assault Sam’s vehicle.
He wished he had his gun. He’d never really considered how wrong and weak it felt to be without it. A good detective shouldn’t need a gun, he told himself. Whitechapel would have to do something eventually. Sam just had to stick on him, keep watch.
Minutes and miles slipped past and the relative silence inside the car grew oppressive. Sick of the sound of his own heavy breathing, Sam turned the radio on low, leaving it on the first station. It was NPR with the BBC morning news. There had to be some sort of cosmic lesson in that, but damned if he knew what it was.
The clouds broke up, revealing dim stars and a heavy, almost full moon just about at zenith. The moon bathed the buildings in eerie blue light and cast weird shadows that shifted and merged in the headlights.
After a few more seemingly random turns, Whitechapel appeared to be leading him out of the city. The businesses turned to neighborhoods and the lots grew larger, the homes more spread out. It was dead quiet out here, barely even any counter traffic, just the two of them on the road, driving to nowhere.
