Devil's Creek

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  With shaking legs, she stumbled out the kitchen door, prodded viciously from behind with the nose of the revolver.

  “Move.”

  Grace staggered down the steps and fell, scraping her knees on the slate stepping stones leading to the hot tub. Swearing, she tried to get her balance.

  “Get up.”

  “Screw you.” Somehow she knew when she reached the creek, it would be over. She had to do something, anything, to stall him. Her brain began to whir, considering and rejecting ideas. When he raised the gun to hit her again, she rolled to her side and kicked his shins with all her might.

  He went down on his back, the gun went off, and she scrambled to her feet again, running as fast as she could manage. She heard him groaning in the background, then his shouts. But she kept moving, running like a zoo animal escaped from her pen for the first time in her life. She zigged and zagged around the hot tub, reached the lawn, and heard a bullet whistle past her.

  Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Head for the woods.

  Another shot rang out, but she ducked forward and churned up the lawn. It was hard with her arms tied behind her back, but her legs did her proud. She moved like a gazelle, streaking into the woods.

  “Grace!” he yelled. “Come back.”

  Over bushes and around pine trees, she kept on, skirting big granite boulders covered with moss. At the sight of the creek, she stopped. Deep and roaring white over exposed rocks, it didn’t look passable. Especially with her arms tied around her back.

  Damn. What now?

  She heard him behind her, leaves crunching, breathing hard. “Grace!”

  At the creek she took a left, running along the shale shore, stumbling over slippery wet rocks, but making progress in the right direction—anywhere away from Chandler.

  Another shot whizzed past her, this time closer.

  “Grace! I’m sorry. Come back!”

  You’re sorry? You’re shooting at me, and you’re sorry?

  She pounded on, coming around the bend just ahead of the pool of dammed water where they’d had sex this morning.

  Had it been just a few hours ago?

  How was that possible?

  She’d screwed him happily in the water, totally unconcerned. But when it was over, she’d lost the thrill, lost her ability to pretend.

  Why was it that happened? It was like a curtain dropped. Or maybe the curtain rose? Did it rise to show her what a sick person she was? How depraved and stupid and screwed up was she?

  Running like the wind, she bent low to make herself a smaller target.

  More bullets.

  More shouting.

  He’s a lousy shot. A maniacal laugh gurgled in her throat, but it was short-lived. Just as she reached the log where they’d had their tryst this morning, she stumbled and fell headlong into the water.

  Chapter 16

  Boone saw the turnoff before Anderson. “There! You just passed it. The mailbox said O’Rourke.”

  Anderson braked hard, performed a tight K-turn, and returned to the gravel drive, churning up loose dirt and stone as he sped around the corner.

  “Do you wanna go in with guns blazing?” Boone said. “Or sneak up on him?”

  “What do you think?” Anderson slowed the Jeep, but his mind was conflicted. Should they go in Rambo style? Or take the guy off guard?

  “I think if we announce our arrival, he might just up and kill her.”

  “Good point.”

  “When you see the house, pull off the road. We’ll circle around and surprise him.”

  Anderson nodded. Focused now, he spotted the mansion and pulled over.

  “Holy shit,” Boone said. “That’s some palace.”

  “It’s huge.” Anderson turned off the car and opened his door. “How the hell will we find her in there?”

  “We’ll find her.” Boone gave him a deadly grin. “We’ll just listen for the sound of her tearing him a new one.”

  Anderson chuckled for the first time that day and pictured his wife attacking Chandler the way she had Murphy last summer. “Yeah. She will be royally pissed.”

  “Come on. Let’s go get your girl.”

  Anderson popped the trunk. “I’m ready.” He opened his gun case and removed his revolver.

  Boone raised an eyebrow. “You still carry that?”

  “Damn right I do. After Murphy happened, everything changed. I want to be prepared, now and forever.”

  “Good for you.” Boone shouldered his rifle and peered toward the house. “Let’s do this.”

  They crept toward the mansion, keeping to the edge of the woods. At the back door, they stopped and listened.

  A shout came from the woods.

  “Did you hear that?” Anderson said, scanning the woods at the back of the property. “I heard someone yelling—”

  A shot rang out, silencing him.

  Boone motioned over his shoulder. “Shit. Come on, this way.”

  They bolted toward the woods. Anderson noticed the trail first, pointing out bent branches and two sets of footsteps in the soft dirt. Single file, they moved deeper into the woods, and suddenly, his heart flew to his mouth. There they were, up ahead. Flashes of color flitted through the branches and leaves. Chandler and Grace appeared, and then vanished behind a stand of pines. Running harder now, he called out to Chandler to stop, but was rewarded only with the sound of the gunshots.

  Each time a shot cracked through the forest, Anderson felt blood drain from his face. Now he pushed on like a madman, not stopping to catch his breath. From the short gasps he heard, it seemed like Boone’s lungs were bursting, too, but his friend kept up with him.

  Anderson was in good shape from running every morning, which helped. Or perhaps it was pure rage that kept him going.

  He stopped to train his gun on Chandler, who’d come into full view, chasing Grace. She loped along the streambed with her hands tied behind her.

  Boone caught up to him, and shook his head. “No,” he panted. “Let me. Better scope on this thing.” He laid the rifle across a tree branch and took aim. Under his breath, he hissed, “Take that, you son of a bitch.”

  He missed.

  Chandler turned—a distant dark figure—then continued chasing his prey, as if a stray shot from a rifle didn’t bother him in the least.

  “Come on. We’ve gotta get closer,” Anderson said, racing ahead.

  They closed the gap, flinching every time Chandler loosed a shot, and relieved each time he missed.

  Panting, Anderson took a stand, balancing against a tall pine. “Thank God he’s got terrible aim. Now it’s my turn,” he said, letting loose with three shots.

  Chandler’s gun hand flew up in the air. He looked back briefly, tucking his arm to his side as if he’d been winged.

  “Gotcha,” Anderson said, hurtling forward again.

  Boone kept pace with him, and both men trained their eyes on Grace, who apparently hadn’t been hit by any of Chandler’s bullets. She ran fast and sure.

  Until she fell headfirst into the pond on Devil’s Creek.

  Anderson felt his gut twist with fear. How deep is that pond? “Oh, God. Her hands are tied.” He pounded forward, outpacing Boone by a few strides.

  They pushed harder now that they reached the lawn and could easily sprint across the short grass.

  Chandler reached the water’s edge. Grace popped up ten feet away from him, wobbling precariously in waist-deep water. The man waded toward her, one arm still hugged to his body and the other leveling the gun at her.

  She backed away unsteadily. Sobbing, she screamed for him. “Anderson! Boone! Help me. Please.”

  Anderson shouted to the man who appeared ready to kill Grace. “Stop!” He aimed again, squeezing off three rounds. Chandler jumped sideways just as the gun went off. The water at the man’s feet spurted up at his face, but the bullets missed him.

  Chandler turned and smiled. In a moment of absolute disbelief, Anderson stopped and stared, his arms and legs leaden,
completely disoriented.

  It can’t be. There’s no way this can be. Is that Hank?

  Chandler aimed for Anderson, but his shot went wild and hit Boone, who fell to the ground two strides behind Anderson. Torn between his wife and the man who lay bleeding on the grass behind him, he froze, his heart pounding like a conga drum beneath his ribs.

  Boone cradled his forearm, but gestured for Anderson to go ahead. “Go! Get him, I’m fine.”

  Anderson didn’t waste a second, but stumbled into the creek.

  Only thirty feet away now, Chandler pressed the nose of the gun against Grace’s chest. “Say goodbye to your pet, Anderson,” he screamed.

  Anderson’s heart leapt to his throat and he sloshed into the water and toward them. Why did it take so long to move in water? Why was it so agonizingly slow? “No!”

  Chandler pulled the trigger, but no sound came from the weapon other than a dry click. He tried again. Nothing. He slammed the butt of the gun against Grace’s temple, and she went down.

  Part II

  Caroline

  19 years ago

  Chapter 17

  Anderson jumped when a locker door slammed beside him. Memories of his detail in Iraq flooded back to him. Explosions. Gunfire. Heat. Death. Dust. Blood. Loss.

  The losses were the worst.

  He remembered the raid the week before he’d been injured and sent home for good. He’d lost five good friends that day. Five.

  He began to sweat and shake, but it wasn’t new. His therapist at the VA Hospital told him it would take a while to get used to sudden noises and the memories they invoked. And hell, he’d only been released a few months ago.

  He leaned his head against his locker and tried to breathe. They told him he was pushing too hard. Going back to school so soon might not be the best idea, they’d said. But he was driven. He wanted this. He wanted to immerse himself in the American way of life he’d fought to protect. He wanted to be a normal, regular guy. He wanted a life again.

  Was that too much to ask?

  It was strange being the oldest guy in his freshman class. Here he was, twenty-two years old, and his fellow students were all gawky eighteen-year-olds, except for a handful of vets like himself.

  A hand touched his shoulder. “Hey. Are you okay?”

  Anderson raised his head to meet the gaze of a girl with the most beautiful brown eyes he’d ever seen. Doe-eyes. Liquid chocolate. With long fringed lashes that blinked once while he stood staring at her like an imbecile.

  “Um. Yeah. I’ll be okay. Thanks.”

  “You’re a war vet, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  She pointed to his camouflage duffle bag and the USA stickers on the inside of his locker door next to the prominently displayed photos of his friends who’d died. All five of them stood side by side with arms around each other’s shoulders, making funny faces for the photographer.

  “Oh, right.” He relaxed a little and held out a hand. “I’m Anderson Rockwell. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Caroline Wells. Likewise.” She took his hand and gave it a gentle shake. “Were those your buddies from the war?”

  His smile faded. “Yes. I lost them all in a raid seven months ago.”

  “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” Tenderness flooded her face, and he couldn’t help but realize how perfect her features were, how mobile and fluid her expression. Her pretty face was framed by long, curly sable brown hair that hung loose around her high cheekbones. When she smiled, the world seemed to tilt in a better direction and her full lips bloomed in a curved ribbon, natural and unaffected.

  She linked an arm through his, as if they’d been friends forever. “How about we go down to the café? We have another forty-five minutes before our drama class starts. We could talk, if you want. And frankly, I'm ravenous.”

  Surprised, he shut his locker and raised one eyebrow. “You’re in my class?”

  She nodded. “Sure. I sit way in the back.”

  “Why haven’t I seen you before?”

  “I don’t know.” She laughed, a light, tinkling sound that entered Anderson’s heart and seemed to mend it a little. “You’re pretty serious. Sitting up there all by yourself in the front row.”

  He managed a laugh. “I guess I am. Since coming home, I’ve been pretty damned serious about everything. I want this education, this ‘normal’ life, more than you can imagine.”

  “Come on,” she said, pulling him toward her. “I want to hear all about it.” She lifted her eyes to his. “If you want to talk about it, that is.”

  He glanced down at her, and suddenly realized she was a petite little thing. She probably stood just under five feet, so there was over a foot between them. But the way she held herself, the way her compact movements seemed to flow so naturally… he couldn’t help but think of her as a princess.

  “Caroline?” He started to walk beside her, noticing he barely limped at all. The wounds had healed well, and soon he’d be able to run again.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  The blinding smile she flashed made him feel weak, as if he’d been struck by a powerful blow. But it wasn’t bad. It felt incredible. Like a sudden ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds, surrounding him in its light, warming his face.

  “Um…” he lowered his voice when a crowd of rowdy freshman boys pushed past them. “For the invitation, I guess.”

  She laughed again, pulling him along. “Don’t be silly. You and I are going to be great friends. I can just feel it.”

  “I think you’re right.” He stopped her and turned her toward him. “There’s something about you,” he said, ignoring the stares of the kids streaming past. “Something really special.”

  She blushed and lowered her eyes. “Oh, stop. Come on. I'm starving. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Okay.” His stomach growled. “I could eat at least five hamburgers, myself.

  “Really?” she chuckled. “Do you have a hollow leg?” Her face fell, and she glanced down at his leg. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay. I don’t have a prosthesis or anything. Just a shrapnel wound that’s almost healed. I plan to try out for the cross country team in the spring.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Her cheeks pinked. “I was afraid I’d made a terrible gaffe.”

  “I liked what you said. My mother used to tell me I had a hollow leg. One time I ate seven hamburgers, and she was the only witness.”

  She laughed again. “You really are a big guy. Just look at you. What are you, six two? Six three?”

  “Good guess. I’m six two and a half.”

  “I’ll bet you could put away a pound of French fries and a whole pie with those burgers.”

  Anderson chuckled. “Add a gallon of vanilla milkshake to that and I might feel full.”

  “Okay. I’m going to take notes. Maybe you’ll break your record today.”

  They chatted all the way to the dining hall, and in the back of his mind, he observed the interchange, noting how effortless their conversation seemed.

  This is it.

  Somehow, he knew. This lovely, spirited young woman was “the one.” Here was the start of something very special. Something lasting. In spite of how sappy it sounded, it rang true in his gut.

  Caroline would change his life. Forever.

  Chapter 18

  Caroline breezed into the dining hall, tossing greetings to students as she passed them. Her charisma shone, and Anderson felt as though he were traveling in the wake of a wonderful beam of light, eliciting smiles as it brightened the room.

  With calm self-assurance, she chose a table for them near the ordering line. He wondered if she did that so he wouldn’t have to overuse his gimpy leg.

  “Let’s dump our stuff here,” she said. “Ooh. I smell waffles.”

  Anderson set his backpack on the floor near a chair. “Are they good here? I haven’t tri
ed them yet.”

  “Good?” She did a little pirouette and raised her hands to the sky. “They are fantastic. All crispy and sweet and… oh, just perfect.”

  You’re just perfect.

  The random thought shocked him, and Anderson mentally shook himself.

  Get a grip. You’ve just met this girl.

  But there was something so extraordinary about the way her eyes sparkled, how her melodic voice trilled up and down the scale, the way she moved. Almost like a dancer. Before he could stop himself, he blurted it out. “Are you a dancer, Caroline?”

  “Yeah.” She grinned. “But come on. Let’s get our food and then we can talk shop.”

  Talk shop?

  “Okay.”

  They walked to the grill and ordered. Five minutes later, they sat before their waffles and bacon, and in between bites, they talked as if they needed to fill each other in on their entire life stories before the next class started.

  “Okay, to get back to your question. Yes, I love to dance. Took it all through high school.”

  Anderson cut another bite of waffle and dipped it in a warm container of syrup. “You going into it professionally?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “Oh, no. I’m going to be a singer.”

  “Really?” He smiled. “I love to sing.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Cool. Maybe we can both try out for the Phantom production.”

  “Seriously?” His heart skipped a beat. He’d been preparing for the tryouts for a week now. “I’m already planning on it.”

  “Honestly?” She tilted her head, as if what he’d said was too good to be true.

  “Yeah.” He took a sip of coffee. “Singing was the only thing that got me through the war. It kept me and my buddies grounded. They made me sing all the time, actually.” He laughed, a really good chuckle that reached to his toes. It felt good, and he realized he hadn’t laughed about his pals and tour overseas since he’d come home. “I was in all the shows in high school. So I knew a bunch of songs.”

  She pushed back her chair and her jaw dropped. “No. Way.” She ran to his side and took his hand. “Me, too.”