by Amy Faye
"Why's that?"
"Erin—I don't need you to be in danger here. We're going to go pick up Craig, and I know you said he has connections. We won't be able to pick them all up, and as much as I trust your gun-hand, I don't want you looking over your shoulder the rest of your life. We go get him, you stay in the hotel. We'll talk after, okay?"
"No, that's horse-shit. I'm coming with you, whether you like it or not."
"No you're not. That's not how this is going to happen. I'll make sure you're mentioned in the report. I'm not going to leave you high and dry here, but you're not going to be there when we pick him up."
Erin sucked in a breath and felt her nostrils flaring with anger, but she forced herself to still. "Fine."
She stepped off the plane and back into the real world, where things were nicer and warmer and happier and she couldn't breathe as well but that didn't matter because it was her place.
Erin enjoyed the few minutes of solitude she had on the way to the Jeep. She had expected that whoever was following her, they'd be back on it as soon as she touched down, but apparently it was going to take some time for word to cycle around that she was back in town.
She managed to make it to someplace to get a bite to eat. She resisted the desire to eat quickly. Sure, Craig could come find her. That would be fine, because then she'd be able to keep him busy until Roy showed up. Even if she had to use… peculiar methods to keep him busy.
But nothing happened. She finished her food and left. The trip back to the hotel was uneventful. Still cycling, she guessed.
Erin wondered dimly if they had picked up Craig yet. Sometimes they got lucky like that, even without a location they could get a guy quickly. But then, sometimes it took hours. Days. They could only do what they could do.
She opened the hotel room door. Her stuff was where she'd left it, which was just as well. She stripped down and slipped into bed. It had been a long day, and sleeping on the plane, with Roy there beside her, their shoulders pressed uncomfortably together, she wasn't going to get any sleeping done.
All she could think the whole flight was about how much she wasn't looking forward to the conversation that she knew they were going to have to have at some point. Because she'd been a bitch about it, sure, but in the end, she wasn't wrong. They'd go their separate ways and the odds of them reconnecting again were slim.
She shut her eyes and tried to tune out the chatter of thoughts about Roy Schafer and his stupid perfect face. Then she tried to slow her heart down, but between Roy and Craig she was too riled up and fretful to sleep. She sat up and looked into the bathroom. No windows in the whole room. There was a time when she thought that was unusual. Like they had to have windows somewhere, right?
As it turned out, no. They didn't. The place gave her a sick reminder of Dad's place. Erin didn't like the way that thought made her feel, but she couldn't get rid of it. Not completely, not like she wanted to. So instead she just sat there remembering what it had been like inside that house. Imagining what Becca's life must have been like.
There were certain little thumb-prints of a responsible member of society in the little house. A coffee maker by the sink. The sink was mostly empty. The pizza box next to it had been her father, no doubt. But there were heavy iron pans hanging on the wall beside the stove. Another sign of her sister's influence.
How had they managed to get along all those years? What did it mean that they had both managed to get by all those years, Becca separated from her sister? Dad separated from his daughter? What did it say about Erin that she hadn't felt the absence as anything other than a reason to feel hurt?
She slumped back in the bed and reached for the remote by the bed, flicked the TV on and flipped through the channels. There was nothing good. There never was. It was why she didn't watch TV much, if ever. Erin made a mental note to cancel what little cable service she had. There wasn't much point, but the salesman had assured her that it was so much cheaper to bundle her internet together with the cable service, and that she would definitely watch it once she had it.
That had turned out to be a crock of shit, just like it had been a crock of shit when Becca and her had both promised they would write. It hadn't even lasted a week before they lost interest in it.
That was probably her fault. Erin the bitch should've kept it up, but she was too much of a bitch. So it was probably mostly her fault that Becca had dealt with everything she'd dealt with.
That was fine. It was her fault that Mom couldn't handle it when Dad left, and it was her fault that Becca had to handle Dad alone. But that was fine.
It hurt now, and it had hurt before, but just like it had before, she would get over it. She turned the television to a dead station and turned the volume down low. She left it loud enough to drown out the sound of her thoughts, though, and let herself slip deeper into the bed. She needed to sleep, if she wanted to have any hopes of ever feeling normal again.
Sleep and work. Those were the two things that were going to get her healed right up. If they weren't going to let her work, they could at least let her sleep.
She settled into an uneasy dream. She was back in high school. Nobody particularly liked her, which was a fairly realistic portrayal, but the bell was ringing and the whole school had been demolished and moved to a new building, and her class schedule hadn't been updated with the new room numbers.
Erin woke up feeling as if she hadn't rested a bit. She stiffened as she felt the hand on the back of her neck. Left her eyes closed, as if they might think that she was still asleep. They'd done it the instant that she woke up—there was no way that they didn't know she had woken already.
But even still, she played dead and hoped that not moving would make for a convincing sleeping imitation.
"Open your eyes." An unfamiliar voice, stern and gravelly. She opened her eyes without wanting to, and was faced with an unfamiliar face that looked startling like what she expected the murderer to look like. She gulped in as much air as her lungs would hold before she could stop herself.
Maybe this is what Becca felt like right before, Erin thought with a vague sense of detachment.
Erin certainly felt like she was going to die.
Thirty-Six
"Get up."
Erin did. There were times for fighting back, but Erin didn't feel as if this were one of them. Staring down a man twice her size who looked like he could wrestle a bear and do all right for himself, moments after she woke up, might not be the best time.
She tried to see without looking if her gun was still on the bedside table, with the hope that he might have overlooked it. If he had, which was unlikely, and she got a chance, which was equally unlikely, it would do more than even the odds.
But the table was empty. No miracles today, she thought. Sad, because things could have been going so well. She pushed herself all the way upright.
"Hands where I can see them."
She moved her hands on top of the blanket. She was extremely aware of how little clothing she was wearing, little more than a shirt over… well, nothing at all, really.
She had to hope that someone was going to come and check on her. Someone had to, right? Craig had spent so much damn time keeping check on her that it was absurd that he wouldn't look in on her. Then again, perhaps he'd sent this guy.
Erin tried to draw her breaths evenly, but they came in unsteady waves.
"Are you going to kill me?"
"What are your intentions with my brother?"
Erin blinked and screwed up her face.
"Intentions? Brother?"
He slapped her. It wasn't hot or fun. His hand came across her face like a club, and left her face feeling like someone had lit it on fire.
"What are your intentions with my brother?"
The question didn't make any more sense the second time. Erin tried to figure out what answer he wanted, but she couldn't answer a question she didn't understand.
"Who is your brother? I don't underst—"
&nbs
p; The second hit was somehow harder than the first, and sent her sprawling down onto the bed, folded in half like a barbie doll. It took her a second to figure out which way 'up' was before she managed to get herself back into a seated position.
"You goddamn bitches are all the same. You don't know the first thing about relationships, do you?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"You don't know one God damned thing about decency or respect for other people. Nothing about morality."
"What?"
Part of her knew that she should be trying to placate him. Every thing she was saying was just making him angrier, and it was only a matter of time before things started going very bad. She needed to figure out what he wanted to hear. Morality? Decency and respect? Intentions?
He sounded like he was straight out of the fifties, with this 'what are your intentions with my daughter' crap. But with my brother? She hadn't ever heard anyone even suggest it.
He raised his hand again. "Wait! Wait, okay, please. One second. I just woke up."
"Talk fast, girly."
"Give me a second, please. I just need a minute."
"You have ten seconds."
She used them to rub her eyes clear. The guy wore his hair very short. It might have been to hide the fact that he was thinning on top. She was confident that she'd recognize him if she saw the guy again, and she was doubly confident that she had never seen the man before in her life. If she knew his brother, then there wasn't an incredible amount of family resemblance.
"I'm sorry. Intentions, you said. Intentions. I mean—I don't know, do I? I've only been seeing him a couple of days."
"Don't you bull-shit me, bitch."
So much for decency and respect, Erin thought glumly.
"I'm not! I only met him a week ago or so. It's not exactly time to start talking about marriage, right? We're still…"
She trailed off when she saw exactly how little effect this argument was having on the man in front of her. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up out of bed. When he saw the clothes she was—or wasn't—wearing, he looked her up and down with increasing disgust.
"Get dressed."
He sat down in one of the hotel-room chairs watched her dress. Erin could feel his eyes on her every instant, as if he might see if she even thought about reaching for something. He didn't have to pay such close attention; she didn't have anything to reach for.
Erin dressed quickly and tried to do her best not to put anything on display for him. Something about the way that he looked at her, like she was human filth, told her that he wouldn't have gotten much enjoyment out of it if she'd put on a proper show. That didn't change how she felt about it.
"Let's go," he said. He tapped the blade of a knife against a chair. "And don't try anything, or you'll find out what happens."
Erin didn't put up a fight. She couldn't afford to show any sort of resistance, not when he was holding that knife. And she knew better than to assume that he was going to put it down.
They made their way side-by-side toward the elevator. Someone had to check on her, right? If the F.B.I. hadn't caught Craig by now, then things should have settled down enough to at least send someone by to make sure she was settled in alright. If they had, then Roy would come by any minute now. Roy, with his pistol.
She took a deep breath and tried not to think about it. She could only jinx her chances, if she gave it too much hope. Just look for an opportunity to make a break for it. The guy has a knife, that limits his range pretty badly. Erin took a breath.
The elevator doors opened on a cleaning lady who smiled at them in the way that service employees smile at someone who they won't remember the face of in ten minutes. There went another hope for getting out of here. She got into the elevator next to the guy because he told her to.
The trip down was in silence. She was too afraid to break it, and he didn't seem that interested in talking. She didn't know where they were going, but she knew she wasn't going to like it.
"We'll take your car," he said softly.
"My keys—I mean, I didn't bring them. You didn't tell me to—"
"Don't lie to me."
She zipped her lips. She could feel her keys, suddenly heavier in her pocket, as if the weight of his knowing about them had just been added.
"I'm sorry," she said. Soft, de-escalating. Demure, even. It was a struggle, with this asshole. On her home turf, in her city, and she was playing the mewling kitten with a guy who would normally have her pumps ankle-deep in his ass for treating her like this.
Erin took a breath and started out across the lot. She looked around for a government car, looked for a motorcycle, looked for anything that was going to help her get out of this god damned situation unscathed. She couldn't take a good look without being conspicuous, but she didn't see anything.
She slipped into the driver's seat of the Jeep, he slipped into the passenger side. He took the knife back out of his pocket, pressed the blade edge against her.
"Drive real careful, now." He dug it a little into the thin fabric of her shirt, enough to let her feel the razor-edge burr on the blade. "And don't forget to wear your seatbelt."
Thirty-Seven
The thug beside her noticed the tail a few seconds after Erin did. She had tried not to notice, but that didn't change anything when he muttered, "We got someone following us. God damnit. Turn left here."
She turned left, still unsure where in the hell they were going, except that she didn't want to go there with this guy no matter where it was.
"Step on it."
She put the power down in the car after her momentary hesitation led to another sharp poke in the belly that reminded her exactly what was at stake here. It was all fun and games, all playful pokes, until that knife slipped hilt-deep into her stomach. Because at that point, if she didn't make a hospital in a matter of minutes, the game would be over. It would be a slow death, but even the first stab would do it, if he gave it a good effort.
The Jeep made the sort of unhappy roar that cars with their mufflers only-half-attached made, and sped off. She lifted when they hit the speed limit. He jabbed her again, and she broke it.
The car behind them—that is, the truck behind them—sped up to match. Whoever was responsible for this tail, if they knew how to hide, they also knew when they were made. They came up hard and fast, but didn't try to overtake. Instead, they just slotted in behind her and waited.
Why couldn't they get their god damned acts together and figure out what was happening here? Couldn't someone deal with this psychopath?
She took a breath in that pressed her belly against the blade again, and her breath hitched in her lungs, not wanting to go in and not wanting to breathe out.
She forced the air out of her lungs. With that knife there, she couldn't afford to take any risks with the car, not even if she wanted to. Not this far from a hospital. Not if she couldn't be absolutely certain that the guy was going to eat it.
The truck was close enough now that when she looked into it she could see. Roy was sitting in the driver's seat, his expression almost bored. Someone was behind him in the extended cab, but she couldn't make him out besides that he was big. She had her guesses, though.
"Faster," the man with the knife growled, pushing hard enough to draw blood and stain her white shirt.
"I can't go any faster. I'm already going as fast as it goes."
He cursed and pulled the knife back a moment. Erin looked in the mirror at Roy, hoping that he would somehow pick up on her body language.
"A right here." She jerked the wheel right. She could feel the car threatening to tip and roll over on its lid. This driving was a hundred times too aggressive for the already-ruined suspension on this Jeep, but if she really wanted to, she could have made damn sure it flipped. The truck blew past at seventy miles an hour.
Erin's eyes dropped to the big man's waist, and she held back a curse. Wearing his seatbelt? What kind of psycho did that? She had been hoping
that she could flip it and send him head-first into the concrete. But that wasn't going to happen now.
Erin slowed the car, and noted that the guy didn't tell her to speed up.
"Pull over here."
She did what she was told. Not much else choice, after all. They weren't in the slums like her sister had been, or the other women. By itself, that helped, but somehow Erin didn't get the feeling that it mattered all that much to this guy.
"Let's go."
She slid out of the car. An industrial district, though. Nowhere to run, and nobody to run to. She could hope that she could outrun the guy, of course. She'd always been fit. But looking the guy up and down one more time told her that she would do well not to rely on his being in poor fitness.
She did what she was told, followed where he directed.
He fished a key out of his pocket and pushed it into a keyhole until it clicked home, and then unlocked the door. He grabbed her arm and pushed her in hard enough that Erin nearly stumbled over her own feet.
"You should have stayed away," he growled.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"No, you didn't. They raise you like this. Sluts and whores. They tell you that it's fine to fuck around until you're in your thirties, and you hear that for your entire life—you get to believing it. Well, not any more. Not around my family."
Erin wasn't worried about dying any more. It was a strange sensation. She wasn't ready. There were a thousand things that she had left to do, people she needed to talk to, things she needed to correct.
None of those things were going to convince this guy that she should live. None of them were going to change the fact that she was absolutely going to die, and her mind seemed to decide that that meant there wasn't much point in worrying after all.
Instead, she looked around. There was a large section cleared here, but all around was glassware and folding tables. It didn't take a genius to recognize a meth lab in the halfway light.
"Say your prayers. You can have sixty seconds to make your peace with God."
