by Rebel Farris
Fear twisted my guts, but I nodded out of habit. What other choice did I have? This man was being nothing but kind. And my only other option was to set out on my own, in the dark, with a prayer that the other possible killer wasn’t still at my car. I’d a feeling this was going to be the longest night of my life.
Fear
My eyes were glued to the window as he disappeared into the back hallway of his house. The window faced the front porch where the porch light lit the weed-pocked dirt patch that was his front yard. My eyes unfocused as I tried to keep an eye out for any movement. I could hear the thumps of his footfalls as he walked, as if he was trying to make his every move known. It was slightly more comforting than when he was moving quietly.
He rounded the corner into the living room, and I turned away from the window. He held out a stack of clothing with a toothbrush and toothpaste on top, still in the packaging.
“If you want to use any of it,” he said as I took the proffered items, “you can. If not, just leave it in the guest room. I’ll show you where it is.”
He motioned to me to follow him. His footsteps were quieter as we turned the hall. There were two doors, and when he opened one, it revealed a steep and narrow set of stairs. I assumed the other door was his room where he retrieved the items from. The fact that we would be separated by some distance eased my mind a little.
At the top of the stairs, he flipped a switch. The light flickered, revealing a short hall to the left, leading to two doors, and a small bathroom to the right. He walked down the hall, then opened the door to a nice-sized room. A window unit air conditioner sat low in one of the windows. The air up there was stale and musty, like it had been years since someone had used them. He walked over to the air conditioner and turned it on. It hummed to life, sputtering a few times.
“Sorry, I do not get many visitors.”
I took in the room. It was sparsely furnished with a queen-sized four-poster bed against one wall, a rocking chair near the window without the AC unit, and a small nightstand. All the furniture looked antique. The bed was covered with a quilt that looked handmade. It wasn’t a typical bachelor pad, for sure, but it wasn’t decorated either. It looked like a functional room in a farmhouse.
I forced a smile. “Thank you.”
“Bathroom is down the hall. Did you see it?”
“I did.”
“I will leave you to it, then,” he said, backing out of the room. “I will be down the stairs, if you need anything.”
I blinked, and he shut the door between us. I listened to his footfalls retreat down the wooden steps, and I rushed over and locked the door. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep there, but the room offered some relative illusion of safety. My shoulders relaxed for the first time in hours. They ached from my constant state of alert. I walked over to the window in front of the rocking chair. It overlooked his front yard.
I watched the yard for movement, but there was none. I sat in the chair. It was quiet in the house, but all the quiet did was expand the other sounds. A creak had me snapping my neck to search the room, my gaze running over every shadow until I was satisfied I was still alone. It was just the old house. Each splutter of the air conditioner as it kicked on and off, ratcheted my nerves higher. Every dip of a branch in the wind had me scanning the shadows outside. Looking for an arm, a leg, a face. Eyes watching me back. Waiting for the killer to make his move. To come after me, if not us.
Everything had me on alert. I was on the edge of tears. It was too much.
Yet, the tears would be a relief because my eyes refused to blink. They felt dry and sticky. My head pounded. Distant laughter. Male laughter. The killer laughing at the silly girl glued to a window like it would save her. It was all in my head.
I was sure Xander had gone to sleep. No one could be that quiet for that long.
Unless he was as scared as me, jumping at every sound like a skittish animal. But somehow, I doubted he was. He seemed as cool as a cucumber, which was the most sketchy thing about him. I contemplated leaving. Sneaking past his room, slipping out the front door. But in my mind, the second I was out there, so was the killer. The walls between us felt safer. I wrapped my arms around myself, leaning forward to see more of the area outside.
It was still dark out, and the clear sky was littered with more stars than you could count. A pale moon hung low in the crowded sky. The man in the moon’s face seemed more sinister than ever before, or perhaps that was my imagination.
I was startled by a loud bang. I jumped from the rocking chair and it rocked back so far I thought it would clatter to the floor. It only rocked back into place, shuffling across the floor with a loud rhump-rhump. Stilling it, I looked out the window and saw something near the chicken coop. A shadow. My heart thundered loudly, echoing in my ears. There was someone out there.
A light tap at the door broke the silence of the room. Glancing around for a weapon, the only thing I could find of use was an old ewer on the nightstand. I plucked it up and tiptoed to the door, trying to move as silently as possible. Very carefully, I twisted the lock on the old doorknob that looked like the large end to an old skeleton key. Then I waited, determined to get the drop on whoever tried to enter.
The door parted from the frame silently, not even a creak. Then his head poked in, turned away, looking toward the bed. It was so dark, with only the faint light from the porch leaking into the room, I couldn’t tell who it was. With the ewer held high, I brought it down with all the strength I could muster. He reacted faster than my eyes could track, catching the ewer in his hand and stopping my assault. I backed away.
Fear rushed through me. There was no way I could survive. I could only beg for mercy. Would he even have it? Time slowed until my heartbeat sounded like a slow whhhhhhuuuuuummmpppp-whhhhhhuuuuuummmpppp in my ears. His posture straightened, and he reached out to lay a gentle hand on my shoulder. I whimpered.
“Are you okay?” His voice sounded strange and garbled, like I was underwater listening to his muffled soundwaves reach through the thick barrier. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Slowly his voice became more clear, like I was finally breaching the surface. I blinked. His accent was almost nonexistent. I blinked again.
“I just wanted to be sure you were okay before I check outside. Lock the door behind me.” And the accent was back.
My eyes tracked him as he went, my brain still seeming to operate like it was stuck in tar. I didn’t move otherwise. When I heard him hit the bottom of the stairs, I snapped out of it. I took the two steps to the window in one large step and watched for him. He came out seconds later, with a shotgun ready at his shoulder, swinging it around like Chuck Norris in Delta Force.
When he turned the corner near the chicken coop, his arm moved faster than I could track, but my ears caught the faint snick as he cocked the gun. My hand flew up over my mouth. I wasn’t particularly religious, but in that moment, I prayed. I prayed that if the killer was over there, Xander would take him out. Even though I didn’t entirely trust him, it was better the devil I knew than the one I didn’t.
I held my breath when he disappeared out of sight. Tears welled in my eyes from lack of oxygen. A startled shriek escaped me when the gun went off. Time stretched out into an eternity as I waited for anything to happen next. When he finally came back around the corner, I collapsed to the floor. I couldn’t hold myself up any longer.
I couldn’t see anymore, but I heard him enter and lock the front door and take the stairs in less steps than should be possible. Then the knock. I jumped up and flung open the door as fast as my shaking hands would let me. When it was no longer between us, I flung myself at him, crashing into him so hard, he stumbled back a step before finding solid footing. My arms wrapped around his waist. Relief felt thick in my veins.
His smell invaded my senses. Cedar trees and fresh air, with hints of something metallic. Gunpowder. I sucked in a breath, and a sob came crashing out of me. I felt out of control. I was clinging to a stranger a
nd crying into his shirt hysterically.
His arms wrapped around me. One around my waist, while the other curled up my back, his hand cradling the back of my head.
“Shh, shh,” he cooed into my ear, leaning his cheek against the top of my head. “I didn’t see anything. I only fired a warning shot in case the coyotes were after the chickens.”
I relaxed into him, finding his comfort soothing. More soothing than one ought to find a stranger. When my breathing slowed, I pulled my head back. His shirt was soaked with tears and snot. Good God. I’m a wreck. I sniffed, but found I couldn’t breathe from my nose.
“Have you gotten any sleep?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Okay.”
We stood there for a moment, still wrapped in each other, neither of us willing to move. There was no discernible emotion behind his eyes, but he appeared to be thinking, processing. Then suddenly he moved.
He swept me up and walked into the guest room, depositing me on the edge of the bed. Then he turned and left the room, only returning moments later with a wad of toilet paper, which he held out for me. I took it from him and blew my nose. Such a simple gesture, but it shook me to my core. I set it on the nightstand once done, and he nodded to the bed.
You should lie down, his look said.
When I did, he pulled the quilt up over me. I turned onto my side to face him.
“I will sit in that chair and keep an eye out, if you will go to sleep. I won’t let anything happen to you.” His eyes pleaded with me to trust him. “Can you? Please.”
I watched him for a second, trying to make my mind up. I think in any other circumstance, I wouldn’t have let myself trust him. But I was exhausted, scared, and out of options. And it looked like we were in this together, for better or worse.
I nodded, and his shoulders relaxed. An audible breath left him like he’d been holding it, waiting for my answer. He retreated to the rocking chair, turning it so it angled into the room, but he could still see out the window. He sat, kicking his legs out in flannel pajama pants. His hand came up and covered the tear stain on his shirt as he turned his head to face the window.
“I will protect you for as long as you are in my life,” he mumbled into the darkness of the night, as if he were talking to no one.
I closed my eyes then and let sleep take me.
Kilometers
When my eyes opened, sunlight filtered through blue-and-gray-checked curtains that had been pulled shut. I didn’t know what time of day it was, but Xander was gone, the rocking chair empty. I stretched lazily before the sleep finally cleared and the unease started to set in. I sat up slowly, surveying the rest of the room.
It had to be late in the day, but I couldn’t believe I had slept that long. I felt better, having rested, but as my memory of yesterday caught up with me, I felt less and less sure of that assessment.
I threw the quilt back and slid out of the bed, deciding to use his donated toothbrush to freshen up. I grabbed my purse and went into the bathroom at the end of the hall.
It was quiet, except for the plink, plink of a leaky faucet. I looked around and realized that the tub faucet was dripping. Rust stains colored the iron tub where the water hit and trailed to the drain. I jiggled the handle and it stopped. I found myself lost for a moment, just staring at the faucet head, waiting for the next drop to fall. It didn’t, but in that moment, I saw it. The cliff—the sunrise spot—the warmth of the sun, then the horrible smell, the frozen waxy face, the panic, the running, the fear… It all came crashing back into me. It raced through my veins and stole my breath. I didn’t know I’d moved when my back hit the wall, and I slid down it, wrapping my arms around my knees.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, but slowly familiar sounds that I’d only heard when visiting an auto shop pulled me from the trance. I blinked. Was that a compression wrench? I dated a mechanic once. Jeff. I think that was what he called it. It was short-lived, as with all my relationships.
That thought pulled me starkly from my reverie, and I quickly finished what I’d come in there for. I moved down the stairs. The silence of the house was punctuated by sounds drifting in from outside. Music. He was listening to music while working on his car. I walked into the kitchen. A foil-covered plate sat in the center of the counter with a one-word note: Eat.
I pulled back the foil to find a scrambled egg sandwich on toast. My stomach gave a growl at the smell. I hadn’t eaten anything since my PB&J on the cliff. I plucked the sandwich off the plate and took the first bite. It was delicious. The eggs were buttery and fluffy. It sated the hunger pangs quickly. I was down to one bite when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. The phone.
Taking the last bite, I walked over to it. My heart pounded in my ears as I reached out and touched the cool plastic of the Trimline phone. My hand hesitated before I pulled it from the base and brought it to my ear. Silence. No dial tone, nothing. He wasn’t lying. It didn’t work. I checked the cords, but it was plugged into the wall correctly. It just wasn’t in service.
I placed it back on the base and turned back to the room. That’s when I heard him singing. I followed the sound of his voice, which wasn’t bad. He was actually quite good, though his accent got in the way of reproducing the heavy twang of the country song he was singing along to. I found him out in the garage. His feet stuck out from under the truck.
“You don’t have to call me darlin’…” he sang.
I watched his feet jerk with the movement of his hands and listened to his voice. The music was coming from a record player that sat on a row of cabinets against the wall. There was something so domestic and innocent about the whole scene. It brought a smile to my face, despite everything.
When the song got to the part about the mom and the train, I giggled. Even if it struck a nerve within me, he was singing it with such seriousness, plus the mixture of his accent and the silly words forced it to bubble out of me. He rolled fluidly out from under the old truck he was working on with wide eyes.
His cheeks pinked, and a shy smile played at his lips. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were up.”
“It’s okay. You’re a good singer.” I smiled and looked away to the chicken coop.
The rooster was strutting around the small yard while the hens pecked at the dirt. Xander stood up, and though I wasn’t looking, I could feel his closeness like an energy radiating between us.
“You want to go to your car?”
I nodded.
“Let me go clean up, and I will take you back there.”
He was covered in grease, up to the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt. He looked better, almost happy, in the full sun, though there were dark smudges underneath his eyes, belying his lack of sleep. Guilt welled up in me. There was a black smudge on his skin near his collar that made me consider wiping it off, but I turned away, nodding again. He went back into the house, the screen door slapping against its frame as he entered.
I watched the chickens wander in the yard for a moment longer before my gaze drifted, taking in the space. Near the record player, there was an old milk crate on the floor, filled with albums. I wandered over to it. Flipping through it, I found the same that you would find at most people’s houses around here. Merle Haggard, Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, George Jones… I pulled out a Tammy Wynette album and flipped it over. I remember my mama singing a song by her, often. I read the song list on the back. Sure enough, it was there.
I walked over to the record player. It had turned itself off, so I set the record over the one that was already on the spindle and pulled the arm over. I listened to her lament about how hard it was to be a woman. How you should stand by your man, no matter what. A cold shiver ran down my spine. Thinking about my mama, I cringed. Such a horrible sentiment. Exactly why I vowed long ago that I never wanted a relationship. I wouldn’t be one of those women that idly complained when my husband screwed up or screwed around.
The song ended.
“You r
eady to go?” he asked.
His voice startled me in the quiet lull after the music ended. I spun around to find him leaning against the frame of the garage door, watching me. A smirk played at the corner of his full lips. The way the sunlight hit his back while his face stayed in the shadows of the garage gave him an ethereal look. Though even Lucifer was an angel.
I snapped out of my thoughts. “Yeah, sure.”
“We can take the road. Your car is about two kilometers down.”
I tilted my head, not sure how long kilometers were, but eventually brushed it off and walked past him. We walked up the dirt drive, for what felt like forever, until we reached the road and took a right. The walk down the road was equally as long before he stopped. His brow furrowed.
“This should be it.” He pointed to the ground.
There were two trails in the gravel shoulder of the two-lane road, but they weren’t tire tracks. There was no tread pattern. They were just two curved smudges in the dirt. I looked up and down the road, but it all looked the same. There was no landmark to say this was the right place. Then something white fluttered in the ditch, catching the sunlight. I walked over and picked it up. It was a hardcover copy of Midnight by Dean Koontz. My copy of Midnight. Which meant he was right—this was where my car had been. I’d left this book on the driver’s seat. And someone tossed it into the ditch before they took my car. Not someone—the killer.
I clutched the book to my chest and looked around. There were no other people nearby or any signs of civilization. We were well and truly in the middle of nowhere. Shit.
Fixed
It wasn’t really hot out that day, being that it was November in Texas. But the stress of walking in the full midday sun still caused sweat to bead up on my skin. I pressed my sunglasses farther up my sweaty nose with a finger and looked up to the sky. Buzzards circled in the air overhead. Not likely for our benefit, but I already knew what was calling to them like a siren. In my mind, I imagined that the killer was busy carting off my car to God-knows-where and making plans to return tonight to finish his disposal of the body and to dispose of me—us. But somewhere out there, that body was rotting away under the shade of the trees. Likely pulled apart by coyotes and mountain lions.
