by Ted Dekker
“You can’t possibly think that I would actually even consider giving up a relationship with Burt so that you can run off to New York.”
“No, but you could send me to the New York Institute for College Preparation. They have a boarding program.”
Her mother looked as if she’d been slapped. “Boarding school? Who’s going to pay for that?”
“I will.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
But Bethany knew that the idea was already taking root in her mother’s head. She would put on a good show of resistance while secretly cheering the solution to her last barrier to freedom. With Bethany out of the house, Celine could do as she pleased, when she pleased.
“We both know you owe me this,” she said, pushing her chair back. She left the takeout on the table and walked to the counter.
“I don’t owe you a thing. You’re attending a private school, you’re on the cover of Youth Nation, I’ve always given you everything you wanted. You’re spoiled rotten!”
“You married a man who deserted us and you didn’t have the guts to set things straight. You dragged me around the country, forcing me to leave old friends and find new ones. I don’t belong anywhere, my friends are about as shallow as they come, I don’t have a father worth spitting at, I have nothing! I followed you stupidly because I was just a kid who had no choice. But I know better now. I’m not denying you your relationship with this new fling; I don’t see why you should deny me what I want.”
Hearing herself say it all, Bethany felt even more compelled to leave this city and make a new start, this time with people who valued her beyond their obligations.
She’d even been deserted by those who did have an obligation.
Slowly Celine’s stare softened. “You’re overreacting,” she said.
To what? Bethany didn’t ask the question because suddenly she felt quite emotional about her own predicament.
“You’re hurt.”
“Obviously.”
“By him,” Mother said, clenching her jaw. “By that freak who ran off. I hate him.”
“Don’t blame this all on your husband—”
“Ex-husband.”
“He may be a loser, but you’ve never cared much either.”
“How can you say that?”
“You know how I can say it, Mother. You’re just playing; you’re absolving the guilt you already have for wanting me out of your hair for good.”
The moment Bethany thought it, she became convinced it was true. Which only made her predicament worse. She was hated by both father and mother. New York really was her only option.
“You want me to go, don’t you?”
Celine hesitated, confirming her suspicion. She crossed to the cupboard and withdrew a red wineglass.
“I don’t know, Bethany. You sit here and talk like this and I just don’t know what to think. Maybe it would be best.”
The final confirmation sliced into Bethany’s chest with surprising pain. “My own blood doesn’t want me,” she said. “I hate you, Mother. I hate you as much as I hate my father.”
Celine spun and threw the glass in the sink, where it shattered. “You insolent little cow! You’re not even our blood.”
Bethany blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You… you’re adopted.”
Her heart stopped. Tears sprang to her eyes. Adopted?
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we took you in when you were a baby. I can’t have children.” Celine’s upper lip was trembling. “See what you’ve forced me to tell you?”
It now all made perfect sense to Bethany. Why her father had left. Why Celine had never shown her any affection. She wasn’t even their child!
But she didn’t know what to do with this information. She felt completely lost and vulnerable, staring across the island at Celine, whose glassy eyes signaled her regret for what she’d said. She turned away and poured herself another glass of red wine.
The woman who had been her mother up until a moment ago was right. Bethany was only sixteen, and no sixteen-year-old should have to face this kind of life.
How could it be that with all the cars and clothes and houses they had, they didn’t have the most basic of all human needs? They didn’t have each other.
Celine now had Burt Welsh.
Bethany had nothing.
“Thank you for sharing, Celine. I think I’ll go to bed now, if it’s all right with you.”
“Don’t try to manipulate me,” her ex-mother said in a low, biting tone. “I may not be your mother by birth, but I still changed your diapers.”
“Is that what I smell? Hmm, and here I thought it was coming from your mouth.”
The phone rang, and Celine stepped to the phone on light feet. She saw the caller ID, cast one glare at Bethany, and then turned away.
“Hello, Burt.”
All smiles. She was already done with her daughter and in the arms of her lover.
Bethany grabbed her book bag and headed upstairs, furious at the woman. She plopped her junk on the bed and sat down in front of her iMac. A quick scan of her email showed nothing interesting; a link to the New York boarding school revealed nothing new.
No new texts. No voice mail; no escape of any kind. Saint Michael’s, cheerleading, her friends, this house, even her so-called modeling career—it all felt like an empty cell to her. She was in a prison of her parents’ making.
Celine’s shrill laugh rang through the house.
Tears stung Bethany’s eyes again, and now she sat back, crossed her arms, and allowed herself to cry silently. Adopted? What did that make her? A daughter, but Celine’s daughter, not really.
No, she was the daughter of some other mother who’d dumped her. Some other father who’d deposited her into a pod until she could be dumped on a woman who needed an obedient little blob to make her feel significant and powerful.
But there was a problem, see? That little blob had grown up and now they had to decide what to do with it. Well, why not just dump it out again? Someone else will pick it up.
She knew she was oversimplifying the matter, but not by too much, right?
Bethany sat back in her chair, lost in thoughts of utter worthlessness, and the longer she considered her predicament, the more useless she felt. She picked up the scissors that lay on her desk and eyed the razor edge. They were the kind you could buy at any Walmart, with orange handles, made from aluminum.
Sharp. What would Celine think if she were to carve up this pretty little body? There would be an interesting cover for a magazine.
The moment she thought it, Bethany closed her eyes and scolded herself.
But girls did this, right? They cut themselves. And why not? Why not make a statement to yourself that you were what mattered, not everyone’s opinion of you? You could do what you wanted. You had the power.
If you couldn’t beat the world, you could join it on your own terms. Not on a magazine cover, but with a pair of scissors and your own skin.
She lifted her arm. Pressed the sharp edge on the back of her wrist and drew a thin line across the flesh. Didn’t really hurt.
So what could be so wrong with just cutting her skin a little? Just a thin red line across her arm. It was her body, she could punish it as she saw fit, right?
Bethany pushed harder and pulled just a little. Not too far, just enough to—
A sharp pain streaked up her arm. She uttered a small gasp and lifted the blade, revealing a thin red line that swelled with blood.
She’d cut herself. Half an inch or maybe an inch. Okay, so maybe that was stupid.
She flung the scissors at her desk and pressed her finger against the small cut. Still, she’d made her own statement. Tomorrow she would tell anyone who asked that she’d scraped her arm on the trunk or something. And as stupid as it was, it did feel just a bit deserved.
Bethany sighed and began to surf, hardly caring where her screen took her.
She downloaded a new song b
y the band Red and another from Breaking Benjamin’s new album. Patty tried to contact her twice but she ignored both texts.
Finally, at eleven, she pulled on her plaid flannel pajama bottoms, lay down on her bed, curled up in a ball, and fell asleep.
THE NEIGHBORHOOD WAS quiet at one o’clock in the morning, when Alvin Finch walked along the tree line that skirted a large yard behind the house.
The two dogs on the property to the south were dead already. He’d learned the hard way that dogs had a sixth sense when it came to strangers after dusk. He’d killed the German shepherd that had barked on his approach to the first victim in El Paso, but caught unprepared, he’d resorted to a bat over the animal’s skull, not an ideal distraction in the heat of a taking. Tonight he wouldn’t be bothered by any such interruption.
The house they were renting had a pool that snugged up to a sliding glass door at the back, but this would not be his point of entry. There were two bedrooms that shared a bathroom upstairs, both with balconies. The family used the first room for storage and odd projects. The girl slept in the second bedroom.
Pulling on his black leather gloves, Alvin walked to the side of the house, lifted the metal ladder that they stored behind the heat exchanger, and carefully rested it against the balcony railing. With one last glance along the trees, not because he needed to but because he wanted to, he mounted the ladder and climbed up the rungs.
The evergreens hid the neighbors from the house, and him from the neighbors. Privacy was a wonderful thing.
Careful not to shake the balcony, he hefted himself over the railing and set himself on the wood flooring. He’d chosen a night without a moon, but the clouds could not be controlled, and for the moment what starlight there was would show his form to any careful observer.
He’d been on this balcony twice in the last week. Nothing had changed.
There were two things that BoneMan loathed. Nay, three. He loathed dogs that barked in the night. He loathed the man who’d tried to stop him. And he loathed the mother cow asleep on the floor beneath them.
From his right pocket Alvin retrieved a diamond-tipped glass cutter attached by a thin cable to a suction cup. He pressed the cup against the glass on the sliding door, oiled the diamond tip from a small tube in his shirt pocket, and ran the cutter in a circle. The slight scraping sound might wake someone in the storage room, but this didn’t concern him. His subject’s room was insulated by a bathroom and two walls.
It took him fifteen minutes to cut a five-inch-diameter hole through both panes in the glass door. Pocketing the cutter, he reached in and unlatched the lock. With a gentle nudge the door slid open and Alvin slipped inside the house.
He’d studied each room of the house on his numerous visits, and a quick glance now told him that all was precisely as he’d expected. Boxes piled on the left and a folding table set up on the right.
The anticipation coursing through his veins was now so intense that it brought a small shiver with it. He stood safely in the dark and considered the turmoil he was about to cause.
Welsh, who’d swaggered under his boast of throwing BoneMan behind bars where he belonged, would wake up tomorrow and learn that not only was BoneMan back, but that he’d taken the daughter he would make his own.
The enormity of this taking was enough to give Alvin decidedly more pleasure than he’d felt with the last victim, and he took his time now to relish the accomplishment.
The silence stretched and he stood perfectly still, satisfied by this slice of heaven on earth. The daughter asleep in the next room, the mother dreaming of Welsh below them.
BoneMan standing in the dark—their lord and master had come to take their souls. When he could wait no longer, Alvin withdrew the syringe from his left pocket and walked into the girl’s room.
His subject was lying in a ball. He studied her dark form for a moment, then stepped along one side of her bed and positioned the needle just over her neck.
He thrust the 22-gauge needle into her jugular vein and shoved the plunger home. She jerked and cried out into his gloved hand—they always did—but the girl also managed to twist and stare up at him with wide eyes.
The drug was a tranquilizer of his own creation. One part sterile saline, two parts pentobarbital, two parts chlorpromazine, all adding up to nine cc’s of tranquility. The jugular vein pumped it through the heart and then on to the rest of the vascular system, quickly shutting the brain off by sealing the gates between the central nervous system and the peripheral nervous system. She fought for less than ten seconds before her voluntary muscles ceased all function and she lay still.
Satisfied that his subject was now subdued, Alvin left the room and headed downstairs and across the house, moving quickly on the balls of his feet. He withdrew the second syringe as he entered the mother’s room. She, like the daughter, slept on her side, with her back toward him.
Alvin slid a ski mask over his head, crossed the room, and slid the needle into her jugular vein, making no attempt to still her sudden cry of horror.
The relaxant froze her throat muscles first, then the rest of her body when it entered her spinal column. She lay on the bed staring up at him, fully conscious but unable to move more than the muscles required to breath, and then only barely. Soon, she would hallucinate, then sleep, with her saliva glands excreting onto her pillow.
His fourth subject had died from an overdose before he could finish his task with her. He would not make the mistake again.
“Tell him this is payback,” he whispered hoarsely and broke her left forefinger as if it were a pretzel. The soft pop had the sound of justice, but only a whisper of it. She deserved so much more. He considered breaking her wrist but held off. There would be plenty of time for justice later.
Alvin slung the woman over his shoulder and took her out the back as if she were a bag of rocks. He set her on the ground next to the pool, and her head struck the concrete with a wet thump when she toppled to her side.
The rope was where he’d left it, by the barbeque. He tied her ankles and her wrists behind her back, then lifted her by her clothes and dropped her on the air mattress, as planned.
She would float on the water, staring up at the night sky, immobilized for a few more hours before her ability to move finally returned. By then, Alvin would have retrieved the camper and driven to his first stop.
With any luck, Welsh would feel the need for an early breakfast with her, as he had on two occasions since Alvin had been watching the house.
Without wasting another minute, he hurried back upstairs, threw the daughter over his right shoulder, and walked out the front door.
17
RYAN ROSE EARLY the morning after his weekly session with Father Hortense, feeling more refreshed than he’d felt since his abduction in Iraq. More important, he thought, free from distraction; his mind was working again. He could even reflect on his mental state with reasonable accuracy.
At eight o’clock he made himself breakfast for the first time since he’d been in the apartment. He toasted two slices of whole-wheat bread, placed sliced avocado on each slice, then sat down at his table to enjoy the food with a tall glass of milk.
In hindsight his experience these last few months made perfect sense to him. Having passed through the valley of death and climbed up the mountain beyond, looking back provided an interesting view. This is what had happened.
One: He’d been forced into a situation beyond his control and had faced a horror that even now sent a chill down his spine.
Two: He’d managed to escape but only after watching children die, in part because of his refusal to sacrifice his own wife and daughter.
Three: His experience had fundamentally altered his view of his own daughter, Bethany, and the senselessness of abusing innocent life.
Four: After a week of holding as strong as he could in the base hospital, he’d suffered an emotional break for which the navy had put him on an extended leave.
Five: Rushing home to repair his r
elationship with Celine and Bethany, he’d discovered that he was too late. The damage done to Bethany had understandably blinded her to any reconciliation, and Celine had found love in the arms of another man.
Six: Still suffering from the emotional break, Ryan had lost his calm and assaulted that man, which did nothing but give them all grounds to legally exclude him from their lives with a restraining order.
Ryan stared absently at the blue sky, framed by the window to his right, as he bit off a corner of avocado and toast from the second slice.
Seven: It had taken him two full months to climb out of the hopelessness that had consumed him after their complete rejection of him, but last evening, in a time of deep reflection, he’d finally broken completely free of the emotional bonds that had ripped the life from him.
He was almost whole. A changed man to be sure, but able to function again.
Father Hortense had called him at six o’clock last evening and told him that he’d given the envelope to Bethany, who’d pulled out the photograph, stared at it a moment, then handed it back, asking him who the man in the picture was. She brushed past him without another word.
His daughter had summarily dismissed him.
His ex-wife was in love with another man.
So, then. He had done what he could do. A month ago he would have crawled back in and lost himself to one of the blackouts that were his mind’s way of seeking peace. But now his mind was stable enough to consider it all in a calculated balance.
He would always love his daughter, of course. But the problem was no longer his. He had to get back to his own life. He would make sure that Bethany never hurt for money and get back to living.
He’d decided then that he would travel to San Antonio this very day and begin to look for suitable housing for his move.
Ryan rinsed out the glass, placed it in the dishwasher, and pulled out the keys to the Toyota Camry he’d purchased a week earlier. Silver, decent gas mileage, plenty of power for his tastes.
He left the University apartments and headed south on I-35. Heavy construction on either side of the highway could have bothered him; in his agitated state of hypersensitivity it certainly would have. But today, calm and calculated as he was, he hardly noticed.
