Feeling like a voyeur, she realizes what she sees. Someone is tied to the four posts, spread-eagle, naked. Not Leslie. A man. Leslie crawls over to him and throws a leg astride his hips. She has a cigarette in her mouth, the end a glowing red.
What the hell?
Maggie shouts, “Fine. Don’t answer. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Leslie, with the deputy here to arrest you. Goodnight, bitch.”
She stomps her feet on the ground, hard, then softer, then softer still, but doesn’t leave. She keeps her eyes on Leslie through the slit in the curtains. Let the woman think she’s given up. She isn’t going anywhere.
Leslie takes a drag on the cigarette then stubs it out on the man’s chest. He barely reacts save for a light moan into a gag in his mouth. Leslie tosses the butt away, stands up, and pours the contents of a bottle of Balcones all over him. Maggie’s skin crawls. Leslie sets the bottle upright on the bedside table. Then she walks out, leaving the man tied there, alone.
Bess’s headlights are still pointing into the house. Maggie can’t get away much longer with the charade that she’s given up and left. She hoists herself onto the window sill, struggling to get a better look at the guy, wondering if she should call 911. Then she sees his face.
Horror washes over her.
It’s Hank. Her Hank, and he’s tied up in her bed, covered in Balcones, and this isn’t sex, good or bad. It’s some awful other thing that she doesn’t have time to understand.
She bashes one of the window panes out with the butt of the shotgun. As fast as she can, she batters the wood frame to bits and the other panes with it. She lowers the gun inside the window, drops it to the floor, then pulls herself in after it. Her landing is rough, the glass digging sharply in her palms. She rolls onto her knees beside the shotgun and looks up. The first thing she sees is Leslie, back in the room on the other side of the bed from her, setting down a gas can and lighter.
The second thing she sees is Hank, and once she does, he is all she sees. Up close, his predicament is even worse than she’d thought from outside. His mouth is gagged with a blue-and-white scarf. Each wrist and ankle is held fast in a noose that holds him fully extended. The material doesn’t look like rope. More like a plastic-encased steel cable. He’s naked, like she thought. His hair is matted and dark with sweat.
As her inspection crosses his face, he opens his eyes. I’ll get you out of here. Hang on, Hank. She imagines the two of them under a big Wyoming sky, riding side by side on a mountainside, and tries to send the image to him, but his eyes flutter closed again.
Leslie’s voice brings her back. “This will be perfect. Murder-suicide. The finale to the drama. Your Wyoming lover dumped you, he shows up in Texas to tell you once and for all to stay out of his life, you drug him like you did Gary, tie him to your bed, and set the house on fire for revenge, then, overcome by grief, you shoot yourself as you’re going up in flames with him.”
Maggie looks up at Leslie and into the short, lethal barrel of a steel gray handgun. She feels a flash of recognition. Why does she always feel like she knows this crazy woman, not like knows her from the present, but from sometime before?
Her voice sounds less like C-3PO now. “Throw the gun out the window. NOW.”
“What did you give him?”
“A roofie. I’m glad I had one left, since it was a lucky surprise he showed up here asking for you. I offered him a beer while he waited on my dear, sweet friend Maggie to get home. Easy as pie to crush a roofie up and watch him guzzle it down with Shiner Bock.”
Maggie puts her hands on the shotgun.
“Good girl. Out the window.”
Leslie’s chilling voice rings in her ears, but Maggie doesn’t move. She’s been in this moment before. In Wyoming. Hank shot. Bleeding on the ground. No one else around. The moment when she realized she had to run for help.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Maggie.”
She’d abandoned the gun then, and she’d figured out how to save him. There’s no alternative now, just like there hadn’t been one then. She’ll come up with something to get them out of this mess. She has to. Her refusal to take shit or ever give up are all she has.
She climbs to her feet, glass digging into her knees, fingers tight around the shotgun. She grimaces. Her left palm stings like a scorpion bite, a memory from a childhood playing in the woods in these parts.
“Easy,” Leslie warns her.
Moving slow and calm, Maggie tosses the shotgun through the busted-out window. It thuds on dry grass and dirt below. Blood trickles down her wrists. She rotates toward Leslie, holding her hands shoulder high. “Okay?”
With her head level and still, Maggie shifts her weight through her hip and drags the other foot forward without lifting it.
“Keep your hands up.”
Maggie doesn’t drop them. “So, who are you, anyway?” She repeats the process with the other hip and foot, gaining a few precious inches toward Leslie.
“Fuck off.”
Other hip. Other foot. “Who are you?”
“The woman who has Hank’s life in her hands.”
Hip. Foot. “You’re not Leslie DeWitt.”
“Yeah. And I guess you’re not as much smarter than the rest of the world as you always thought you were, because I told you that earlier.”
Maggie searches the room for a weapon. Something to stab with? A screwdriver. A knife. A pen. Something to use as a club—flashlight, wrench, glass bottle. All are normal items in her life, but tonight, she has none of them in her room. Then, like a gift from above, she realizes the sting in her palm is a piece of embedded glass. A long one. She folds her fingers over and tries to grasp it. The glass is too short to lodge between her fingers or to curl her fingers around.
“You don’t look like your picture online.” She brings her hands together, slowly. “Ouch,” she says.
“I said keep your hands up.”
“Glass. Give me a second.” She digs the glass out and acts like she’s discarding it, but keeps the shard between the fingers of her right hand. She raises her hands again. “You’re younger. You have lighter eyes.” Maggie sneaks a look at Hank. His eyes open, then roll back in his head again. She repeats her hip-foot sequence.
“Stop,” Leslie barks. “No closer.”
“I’m stopped.”
Suddenly Leslie bends at the waist, clutching at her gut. Her back heaves. Maggie thinks she’s having some kind of medical episode, until Leslie straightens. Tears are running down her cheeks. She’s laughing.
“If you haven’t figured out who I am, you deserve this even more than I thought.”
“Figured what out?”
“You hurt everyone in your life, you know it? You never give a shit what happens to the little people. And we’re all little people to you.”
“I knew you? Before this week?”
“Duh.”
“Your eyes are familiar.”
Leslie grins. It’s pure mockery. She pretends to play keyboard, then brings the barrel of the gun to her mouth like a microphone. She breaks into Martina McBride’s “Independence Day” in perfect pitch. She stops suddenly. “We shared a room for two months on the road. You’d think you’d at least remember that.”
The blood runs from Maggie’s face, and it’s like her life draining out of her. She remembers the night in Cheyenne like it was yesterday. Getting into an argument with her guitarist, Davo. Refusing to go back onstage. Standing outside the bar, talking to Hank. Hearing Davo introduce the next song, “Independence Day.” And the woman who sang it. Maggie’s backup singer. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner? The scars, sure, the scars, the age and weight, different hair, but she should have recognized Celinda Simone, even if she last saw her fifteen years before in a van in Wheatland, Wyoming, before her band drove away to an accident that killed all of them, except one. “Celinda.”
Celinda slow claps.
“You’re so different. Not just how you look.”
“I am different. I’m not
a doormat anymore.”
Maggie bites the inside of her lip. Celinda had been a doormat. She let Davo force her to the mic in Maggie’s place, when Celinda wasn’t ready to front the band. She slept with Chris, their drummer, who turned around and took up with Hank’s ex right in front of her, and Celinda didn’t do a thing about it.
But through all of that, Maggie had never once asked Celinda if she was okay. Maggie had just latched onto Hank and rode off into the sunset, however brief the ride was.
“I’m sorry.”
“The old me died in the crash, along with my face. This?” She vogues like Madonna around her face. “This is a lot of plastic surgery later. You didn’t make it to any of the funerals. Flowers and cards don’t get you off the hook with me, not when you shot to the top by climbing on our backs.”
“I, uh, I’m—”
“How many people like me are there, Maggie, hmm? In your life? How many people did you use up and throw out?”
Maggie stares at her. Names rush through her mind. Not just Celinda, Chris, Davo, and Brent. Her manager, Randy. Her mom, whose heart she’d broken. Rudy, a fan she’d blown off, who’d come back to haunt her in Wyoming because of how she’d treated him. Her dad. Yes, even her dad. Her mouth moves, but she doesn’t say anything.
Hank’s voice croaks, and both women whip their heads toward him. His scarf gag is chewed partly in half and hanging below his mouth on one side. His voice slurs, the words coming between long pauses. “It’s my fault. I pushed her away from you guys. Then I dumped her. She was depressed.”
Maggie can’t make sense of what he’s saying. That’s not how she remembers it. She’d thought he had loved her. Then, very slowly, very deliberately, Hank closes one eye, the one closest to Maggie, and she realizes he’s winking. She’s not going to let him take the blame. Celinda is crazy, and Hank is defenseless.
“No. It’s my fault.” Her voice is firm.
“There’s plenty of blame to go around. Maggie, you took my career. Hank, your slutty ex–buckle bunny took Chris away from me. I actually loved him—can you believe it? And then he died in the crash, before I could get him back.” Celinda flicks her lighter. “How does it feel, Maggie, to lose stuff?”
“Bad.”
“Not bad enough.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll do anything you want. Please tell me how to make it up to you.”
“It’s too late. Funny, because I thought I was over it. It helped that you messed up your life. Your rehab was my rehab. Then I read a stupid article online, one of those ‘Where are they now?’ bullshit pieces. And I realized, nope, you got away with it all, so I’ll never be over it.”
“Celinda, I—”
“Shut up. I came here, and that stupid bitch renter you had—Leslie—wasn’t you. So I moved her out of the way and started taking your life like you took mine. Your friends. Your mother. Gary, until he chose you. Your shop. Your house. Your reputation. I was working on your sanity. And Hank—well, I don’t think he’s going to be on my side in this. But I’ll still get to take him, one way or another.” She points the handgun at the gas can and mouths “pow” and mimics a recoil.
“Gary?”
“Yeah, he was fine sleeping with me until you called. Got him back, though. Not just the fire. Before that, I got into his email on his phone, just like I got into yours. His phone wasn’t password-protected. You let Leslie stay here with your password taped under your desk. Not smart, Maggie. Neither of you is very savvy about security.”
Maggie’s knees feel weak. Leslie. There really had been a renter named Leslie. If Celinda isn’t Leslie, then Leslie is missing. Maggie’s voice is a whisper. “Where is she? Where is Leslie?”
“Where you and Hank are going.”
Shit. Maggie touches the sliver of glass. It’s too small and won’t do her any good. This woman is a murderer, and Maggie and Hank are next. She needs to call for help. Where is her damn phone? She tries to picture it. Is it in one of her pockets? No. She gets a visual. Louise. The seat in the truck. That’s where it is. Beside Louise.
Hank jerks his eyes sideways, toward the window. He’s telling her to leave. She’ll do as he’s asking, but not for the reason he intends. She has to get to that phone. Call 911. Pray that because Celinda hasn’t killed Hank so far and knows Maggie is onto her, that she’ll just make a run for it. That she’ll leave Hank alone and look out for herself.
“Trust me,” Maggie mouths at Hank.
Then she wheels, fast as she can, and takes two giant steps and dives headfirst out the window. Leslie reacts, but too slowly. Behind Maggie, bullets rip through the air and embed in the window frame. She catches herself with one arm, but it collapses and her shoulder hits, then her head. The ground is harder than she expected. It knocks the wind out of her. Her shoulder feels like it’s broken. Her head rings from the impact. She drops her worthless piece of glass and tucks her shotgun under her arm. She wants to roll and groan and hug all the parts that hurt. She’s in no shape for combat or rescues or escapes, but she’s all Hank’s got. She staggers to her knees, then her feet, and runs for the truck.
Behind her, she hears an evil whoosh and more glass breaking. A shock wave knocks her forward into the air-conditioner condenser. Somewhere in her mind is her father’s voice: Your mom will be here soon, then Johnny Cash singing about the burning ring of fire. An excruciating pain in her ankle keeps her tethered to a world tilting back and forth. She presses down into the grill covering the fan blades, fighting to stay upright, fighting through the pain.
When her vision clears, she sees a figure running. The front yard. Celinda. A million miles away, but maybe not so far.
Celinda howls at Maggie. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Maggie tries to run, but her ankle gives way. She half skips, half hops, using the shotgun as a sort of crutch. An eternity later, she makes it to Bess and her phone, leans against the comforting metal. Celinda is almost to her own car, fifteen-feet away. Maggie takes aim and shoots wide and high. She pumps and shoots again. The car’s wheels blow out and glass shatters in a spray of shot.
“Bitch,” Celinda screams.
Louise howls and squeezes herself through the partially rolled-down window, squirting onto the ground like a newborn calf. She’s up in an instant, black-and-white fur aloft as she launches herself at Celinda. The woman falls, shrieking in a three-octave soprano, with the dog on her back.
Maggie dives into the truck’s cab. When she has her phone, she dials 911 and holds it to her ear with her shoulder, grabs the shotgun again, and rushes back to the side of the house. Flames are shooting out the open master bedroom window.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
She sprints around to the front door. “Fire. There’s a man in the house. She’s getting away.” She shouts the address into the phone, then drops it on the front stoop.
Staring at the house, her heart hammers. She’s always the one running from, not running to. From that long-ago fire of her childhood. From home to chase a music career. From Hank in Cheyenne. From Wyoming last week, and even though it wasn’t her fault, from Gary’s house as he burned to death. But not now. She can’t now. Nothing can keep her from running into this fire, to this man. Nothing.
She tries the front door, but it’s locked. She throws her body weight into it, beats it, kicks it, but it won’t budge. Using the butt of the gun, she batters out the sidelight window beside the door. She can’t crawl through the space, but she can reach the doorknob and deadbolt. Broken glass slices open the not-yet-healed burns on her forearms. The pain will come later. Now, with a truckload of adrenaline coursing through her, she’s impervious. She turns the door lock. Celinda hadn’t thrown the deadbolt, and when she twists the knob, the door flies open. Maggie stumbles through, still clutching the gun under her left arm. She pulls her right arm from the sidelight, cutting it even worse and not caring.
Smoke billows out through the door, but no flames. She runs into her kitchen and rips o
ff her shirt. With water from the sink, she drenches it, then puts it over her mouth with one hand. The cool water on her face is instant relief from the smoke burning her eyes, and it blocks the stench of gasoline and char. As she’s about to take off, she grabs the gun. It’s been an important tool so far, and she may need it again.
She pounds through the living room, running past burning furniture and who knows what else, down the short hallway toward the master bedroom. With all the smoke, she can’t really get a last look at the irreplaceable collection of art on the walls. Gidget’s treasures. A memory, fleeting, consumes her. Playing an art gallery opening in Houston. The wildly eccentric but gorgeous owner, Gidget, who took an interest in her. She’d never met her mother again. She’d only later discovered the woman Gidget was through her magnificent paintings and the personalized collection of artistic gifts she’d amassed from all the notable artists of her time. She hadn’t had enough time with her, with them, but there’s nothing she can do to save them now.
Maggie may be losing Gidget tonight, but she’s not going to lose Hank.
The bedroom door is locked. She leans over sideways using the shotgun as a fulcrum, kicking like a deranged mule, over and over. The door gives way and slams into the wall. There are things burning in the room—the area rug, the comforter, the trash can—but Celinda hadn’t taken the time to douse everything in the room thoroughly with the gas before setting it on fire. So Maggie can still see through the flames to the bed. Before her eyes, though, the wadded top sheet at the foot of the bed ignites.
“Hank,” she shouts through her shirt.
He coughs then says something, but the sound is too muffled for her to understand him.
She’s on him in an instant, dropping the gun on the bedroom floor. “The restraints. It’s steel cable.”
He wheezes. “Attached by spring latches.”
Maggie slides her hand up a cable. Sure enough, the chain is doubled around a bedpost and fastened on itself with a spring-tooth latch. She pulls back a lever and the spring releases. She unhooks the latch and loosens the noose around Hank’s wrist. Hank rolls away on one shoulder from a flame that’s crawling across the bed toward him. Maggie beats at it with her shirt. He groans and coughs, pulling the cloth gag from the corner of his mouth.
Maggie Box Set Page 48
