Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (20 page)

SHE IS NOT
online. It is eleven p.m., and she should be here. She is always here. He doesn’t always chat with her, she is often too popular, the grayed-out screen over her window indicating a private session, other men occupying her time. But she is always there, like clockwork, regardless of the day.

He flips screens incessantly, between her private website and the camsite, looking for a sign, any sign, of her location. She should be here. On a night like tonight, when he really needs a release, she should be here.

His fingers shake atop the mouse, anxiety taking over, heaviness pushing upon his chest. He paces to the window, glances through the blinds at the police cruiser. Maybe he should go to Annie. Find some way around the police and go to the property. He didn’t have time with her last night, didn’t do anything more than tie her down and listen to her cries. And now the temptation is too great, knowing she is his. Secured. Waiting.

And her replacement is nowhere to be found. He clenches his fist and refreshes his screen. Looks for her face. He needs a release.

MY FATHER WAS
a police officer during one four-year period in his life. His department made cutbacks, and as a new officer, he was moved to the Department of Corrections, working twelve-hour jail-duty shifts among rapists, murderers, and drug dealers. After four years of hell, he quit the force and went into real estate, quickly earning more in one month then he had earned in a year as a public servant. He always said he learned more about human behavior and conflict resolution in those four years than in all of his other work experience combined. He preached that I could accomplish more with voice inflections and body language than with a weapon. He taught me that if I was ever confronted, I should hold my ground, meet the eyes of my attacker, and use firm, authoritative language. It is a lesson I have never forgotten.

More than a cop, or a father, he was my friend—someone I could always count on for advice, help, and support. There aren’t enough words in the world to describe how much I miss him.

Now, driving down the dark highway with a gun beside me, I wish he were here. It would have been really great to have a friend in all of this.

My mind wanders to jail, to the knowledge that what I am planning on doing will earn me the right to belong in jail. My mother was one thing. A good attorney would categorize that as self-defense or temporary insanity. No one could walk into that situation and be expected to act in a reasonable manner.

But this is something far different. This is premeditated. Planned. I am driving along this road with every intent to kill this man. The jury will realize that my trip gave me twelve hours to change my mind, plenty of time to call the police and let justice handle Ralph in a proper manner. All signs point to murder one. Maybe I won’t get jail time. Maybe I’ll get the death penalty and this whole mess will disappear, my murderous inclinations gone in one lethal injection. There are worse ways to die, and then I could join my family on the other side. I am not afraid of justice. Justice is a good thing, even if I am on the losing end of it.

JEREMY IS ABOVE
 
me, his face intense, worshipping me with his eyes. I arch my back, offering myself, and he groans, lowering his head. He takes me into his soft mouth. His rough hands caress and squeeze my breasts, pushing them up and into his mouth as he moves from side to side, breast to breast, driving me crazy with his lips and tongue.

I am wet, incredibly ready and wanting, the need throbbing between my legs so strongly—more than I have ever experienced. His touch, masculinity, the breath on my skin—all sensations my body has forgotten, every experience magnified by my time away. I moan, pulling him to me, his hand traveling down. The incredible sound of a zipper reaches my ears.

I wake up, real life bombarding my senses all at once. I gasp, shocked into reality, my subconscious trying to understand the strange setting, sideways, dark truck, a rest stop parking lot.

Asleep.
My head nodding, I had fought sleep for over twenty miles, blaring music and rolling down the windows. It hadn’t worked; the truck veered off the highway twice before I pulled into a rest stop and set my phone timer to fifteen minutes, hoping to recharge in that short length of time. Sleep had come instantly, my eyes closing as soon as I had pressed “start” on the timer. And dreamed of Jeremy. It was my first dream in a long time that hadn’t involved mayhem and blood.
Dr. Derek will be pleased.
I roll my neck and start the truck, watching the dash as it comes to life.

The first thing I notice is that Jeremy’s truck is low on gas: the fuel warning light is illuminated. I glance at the dashboard clock: 11:46 p.m. I have slept for about fifteen minutes. I look at the GPS, doing calculations in my head. Getting back on the road now, I will arrive at about six in the morning. According to all of Mike’s updates, and the limited chatter on the police scanner, Ralph is down for the evening, and they are going to watch him all night. I assume he’ll head for Annie in the morning, if he hasn’t killed her already. If I can get there quickly enough, I can have her out of harm’s way in time. I press on the GPS’s screen, looking for the next exit with a gas station. There is only one option, a gas station seventeen miles away. I cross my fingers and hope that it will still be open.

The station is pathetic and run-down, sitting alone at the exit, the flickering white lights announcing its availability. I pay at the pump, swiping my card and reaching for the handle, suddenly aware of the emptiness surrounding me. I look over my shoulder to find the clerk eyeing me, acne-covered skin surrounding beady eyes and a grinning mouth.
Great.
I hear the gas topping off and loosen my hold on the pump, watching the number slide past fourteen gallons before the pump clicks in my hand. I squeeze a little more into the tank, hearing the slosh of petroleum topping off, then withdraw the pump. I open the truck and hit the lock button, my eyes on the black bag that contains the gun and my cash. I have a moment of indecision, then shut the door and stride for the convenience store, my eyes conscious of the surrounding emptiness, my good ear tuning to the ominous quiet of the lot. My tennis shoes crunch loudly on rough pavement.

I open the advertisement-riddled door, revealing a small, crowded store, the floors sticky and dark, the air stale. I glance at the fruit basket next to the lotto counter, the bananas browning and oranges hardened. I grab an apple, the skin too soft to be good, and move down the first aisle, snagging some peanuts and bottles of orange and apple juice. I avoid the eyes of the clerk, feeling his presence even in the farthest reaches of the store. I duck into the bathroom after first setting my items on the floor outside; but having found no good place to put the apple, I carry it into the restroom with me and chuck it in the trash. I shut the door and lock it, squatting over the filthy toilet and trying not to pee on too much of the seat. I relax, the pressure on my bladder lessening, the relief wonderful.

My eyes catch movement and focus, watching the handle twitch slightly, just once, and then return to its place. It takes me a moment, my mind slow, incredulous when it finally understands what is occurring.
The bastard is trying the door.
I rip off a wad of tissue, wipe, and yank my pants up, my mind realizing the next step before my thoughts do.
A key. He’d have a—

The door shoves open, and he is there, inside the small enclosure, shutting the door behind him with a metallic click, grinning at me with disturbing confidence. “Well, well. And I was just getting bored with my evening. What’s a tight little thing like you doing out this late?”

I meet his grin, my own stretching easily across my face, my hands sliding into my sweatshirt pockets. I wrap a hand around the handle of the stiletto knife, rubbing its grip, finding and fingering the release.
Wait.
If only he knew that he is prey and I am the hunter. And he has made it so damn convenient for me. This time, I will succeed. This time I will not falter, will learn from the mistakes with Jeremy. I will not go to the ground, I will kill him on my feet.

My grin confuses him. I see the hesitation, the pause in his movement, and the flicker of uncertainty in his stare.

“Don’t stop,” I say. “Please. Whatever you had in your mind to do, I welcome you to try it.”

He starts forward, then stops. He moves again, then pauses, his hesitation growing at my tone and lack of fear. I laugh, a sound he doesn’t like, and his fists ball while the dark look in his eyes returns.
Hunger. Hate.

“Drop your pants,” he rasps, his eyes falling to my waist and the open pants. “I want to see the little snatch I am about to—”

My hands reach out, my forearm against his throat; the speed of the motion catches him off-balance, pushing him back against the closed door. The stiletto is freed, the flash of blade catching his eyes. His body freezes in response. I bring it to his cheek, my eyes on his. I smile wider, cracking my face in two. I try to picture his death, to welcome the gruesome visions that battle constantly for entry into my mind, but can see only her—the tiny blonde, grinning into the camera, white-iced cake before her.
Annie. GO.

I battle my inner demon, not wanting to let this moment pass, a victim finally in my grasp, one worthy of killing, my timed attack perfectly executed. But I have to think about her. The reason I left the apartment. To do something right with the twisted cards I have been dealt. A dead body might slow my progress, might get me in a jail cell as opposed to Annie. I grit my teeth, grounding out words as I stare into his eyes. “There’s nothing I’d love more than to carve into that ugly shit that you call a face, and leave you bleeding and helpless on this filthy floor, scrambling to stand, your eyeballs cut out and squishing beneath my feet. But I am
fucking
late, and I don’t have time for this bullshit right now.” I press the blade into the thin skin under his eyes, feeling the easy slide of it, blood swelling around the tip. His eyes flit from the blade to me in a panicked jerk. My eyes drink in the red liquid, unable to move from the drip, my fingers unresponsive to my desire to stop the pressure and keep the blade from slicing deeper. I yank back, the blade catching a bit on his skin, and his hand jumps up to press against the cut, his face shocked.

Blood. I want it. I need it.
My hands shake, barely controlled. “Get the fuck out of my way,” I spit out.

He reaches backward, stumbling till he finds the door handle, his red hands slipping on it, then turns the knob, falling backward into the store, his hand returning to his face. I lean over, take my items, and walk through the store. I hesitate briefly by the register, grab a plastic-wrapped prepaid cell phone, and walk out the door to the parked truck. The words come again, louder.
GO. Annie.

THAT NIGHT, IN
my childhood kitchen, surrounded by carnage—my mother dying in front of me—the screams that came from my mouth weren’t cries of mourning. They were because when I stabbed her, when I shoved that knife in, again and again, when her blood soaked my hands and hit my face, I had experienced relief. I had taken her soul, extinguished her life. My mother, the person whose shoulder I had leaned on, who had packed my lunches, kissed my cuts, and been my inspiration, was dead. I had killed her.

That long, agonized scream was for the life I had taken, both hers and mine. It was a scream for what, in that instant, I had become.

It is 6:04 a.m. when I pull off the highway, turning down the two-lane road. The road curves around on itself, taking me back parallel to the highway. The GPS indicates that I turn left, and I look in vain for a quarter mile till I see a thin dirt road. I turn down the road, the ruts causing a vibration throughout the cab. Fog is heavy in the air, blanketing the fields in white clouds, all but obscuring my view of anything beyond the clay road with deep ditches on either side. I almost miss my destination, slamming on the brakes beside a white metal gate that is chained closed with a shiny new combination lock. A
NO TRESPASSING
sign is visible, hanging from rungs on the gate.
Bingo.

I get out of the truck, leaving the door open, and look around: nothing but fog, trees, and empty road. The closest house is about a half mile behind me, a small clapboard frame set flush against the road, acres of fields surrounding it. I need to leave the truck somewhere and advance on foot. I get back behind the wheel and call Mike.

“God, I’ll be glad when this shit is over.”

“Yeah, earning money’s a bitch. Pull up a map, and tell me how Ralph would get from his house to this place. I need to know which direction he’ll drive down this road.”

“What road?”

“The fucking road I’m on!” I fumble with buttons on the GPS, pressing the wrong thing and zooming out to a map of the world. “Jesus Christ!”

“Damn, you are bitchy in the morning. Are you on the road that the trailer is on?”

“Yeah. I’m looking at a white gate right now.”

“Okay, I am pulling you up on GPS also. Just an update, lights are on in Ralph’s house, but no one has left yet. The cops watching the house are leaving at seven.”

“Going where?”

“Getting off shift. They’re not watching him today.”

“Fuck. His cell still puts him in the house?”

“Yeah, unless he’s sleeping at the neighbors’. He’s in the area of the house, so yes.”

“A simple yes will do.”

“Again, bitchy.” He breathes loudly into the phone. “Okay. If he heads to the rental, and follows any type of normal thought process in driving there, he’ll take the quickest way, which would have him traveling west down that street.”

“I don’t have a fucking compass, Mike. I don’t know which way is west.”

He laughs, ridiculously chipper for being up all night. “You came from the east.”

“Okay.” I put the truck in drive, backing up, my taillights illuminating only fog. Then I hit the brakes. “How do you know which direction I came from?”

“Uh…what?”

I speak slowly, certain that my anger seeps through each word. “How. Do. You. Know. Which. Direction. I. Came. From?”

“Just assumed.”

“Bullshit. You know where I live?”

“Uh…yeah. You think I can track Ralph’s cell but not yours?”

I try to control my panic, not comfortable with where this is going. “Do you know
who
I am?”

“Uh…yeah.” In those two words he is able to communicate both wariness and pride.

“How easy was it to find out?”

“Not easy. I followed your—”

“Stop. I’ll bitch you out about it later. Fix whatever gap you crawled through so no one else can follow suit.
Now.
And keep an eye on Ralph’s cell.”

“Will do, boss. You know that bullshit security package you paid for doesn’t cover shit. A few months ago I hacked in and amped up your firewalls. But there’s still more I can do. I—”

“Mike,” I interrupted him, “just fix it. You can upsell me on more services later.”

“Sheesh. Just letting you know. You’re
welcome
for the free security upgrade. Don’t forget, you know I gotta leave soon. Like in an hour.”

“Protect my privacy. Watch Ralph.
Please.
” I end the call and look over my shoulder, putting the truck into reverse and accelerating backward, looking for a place to turn around.

I find a place to pull over and park the truck, then grab my backpack and lock the vehicle behind me. The parking spot hugs a curve of trees, far enough off the road to avoid unwanted attention. If someone comes from the west, it’ll be hidden unless they look in their rearview mirror. If someone comes from the east, the gray truck will stick out like a sore thumb. I say a quick prayer as I trudge through thick dirt toward the locked gate and, hopefully, toward Annie.

As I walk, I think, trying to prepare for what is ahead. I have only ever thought of my demons as constricting—heavy chains that I drag around, trying constantly to wrestle myself free of—their cumbersome weight restricting me in daily movement, stopping me if I try to reach too high or go too far. The thought that I could actually put this personality quirk to good use—to help someone instead of hurt them—has put a glimmer of hope into my heart. A glimmer that I am trying my best to ignore. Hope is dangerous. Hope leads to expectations, which lead to disappointment. Disappointment in others is tough. But disappointment in yourself is far worse. I’m not expecting others to disappoint me. No—I am my own dream killer. That hope, that spark of expectation that I might aspire to something greater than evil? That hope will learn the taste of disappointment. Others letting you down is ice cream and cookies compared with the rejection of your own soul. I don’t know what is sadder, expecting myself to fail or being too scared to dream of success.