JACK KILBORN ~ AFRAID (22 page)

The impact jolted Streng, cracking his head against the window, bringing out the stars. With one hand he fumbled for the gear shift, and the other sought out and found the electric door lock. Streng manhandled the car into first and hit the gas.

A massive palm struck the front windshield, making a spiderweb mosaic out of the glass. The car lurched forward as Ajax’s hand broke through, reaching for the steering wheel. The giant caught it, holding on and allowing himself to be dragged up the dirt road alongside the Jeep.

Streng sought out, and found, the Ka-Bar. As the Jeep bounced around and Ajax banged on the door, Streng stabbed at the giant’s hand, over and over, the knife tip gouging bone. Little fountains of blood erupted, bathing the sheriff’s lap. Streng stabbed hard, then twisted the blade. The fingers opened and Ajax released the wheel, his arm flailing out and pulling the shattered windshield from its mounting. Streng checked the rearview and watched the monster roll into the underbrush, and then his image disappeared because Bernie stood up from his seat, mouth open, his broken and bleeding teeth biting at Streng’s shoulder.

Streng smashed down the brake pedal. Bernie bounced forward and flopped next to him in the front seat, legs in the air, combat boots kicking like mad. One of them connected with the Ka-Bar, knocking it from Streng’s grasp.

Streng tugged the door handle and fell out of the car before he got his head stoved in. A ways down Gold Star Road, Ajax was getting to his feet, and farther, coming up fast, was Santiago running full tilt.

Streng ran around the front of the Jeep, opened the passenger door, and pulled out Bernie. Then he grabbed the soldier’s hair and drove his forehead once, twice, three times into the oversize steel-belted radial. That took the fight right out of him.

Streng risked another glance behind. Ajax had broken into a jog, and Santiago had taken the lead and would be on him in seconds.

Streng wrestled Bernie into the back, climbed across the passenger seat without bothering to close the door, and hit the accelerator. The Jeep’s tires bit into the road, kicking up sand and gravel, and then they finally found purchase and the vehicle lurched forward—but not before Santiago made it to the passenger door and tried to climb in.

The steering wheel dripped slick blood, but Streng clenched it tight and swerved hard, away from Santiago, ripping the open door from his grip. Then he popped the Jeep into second gear, punched the gas, and left Ajax and Santiago in the dust.

Wind whipped at the sheriff’s face through the empty space where his windshield used to be, irritating the rug burn on his cheek and burning his eyes, and Streng hurt in so many places he couldn’t even take inventory, but for the first time since this hellish ordeal began he managed a small grin.

“Not bad, old man,” he said to himself.

He headed toward Safe Haven.

J
essie Lee opened her eyes and looked around. She was still in the boys’ locker room, surrounded by blood and bodies. The chair she sat in was the same chair that she saw Merv, her boss, die in.

She filled her lungs and let out the loudest scream she could.

But all that came out was a gurgling wheeze, accompanied by the worst sore throat she’d ever had.

“I used this,” said a voice from behind her. A voice that wasn’t Taylor’s. Dangling in front of Jessie Lee’s eyes was a pair of surgical scissors, long and thin, bits of tissue clinging to their blades.

“Yelling brings unwanted attention. And who wants to bother and fuss with gags? Messy, disgusting things. So I snipped your vocal cords.”

Jessie Lee sobbed—a quiet, pitiful sound. She tried to stand up, but firm hands held her down.

“Taylor and I have a question to ask, and we’d like a quick answer. You’ve already taken up a lot of our time, and other people are anxious for their turn. And don’t worry about us hearing you—I can lip-read.”

Taylor stood before her, brushing dust and bits of insulation from his uniform. He cupped her chin, making Jessie Lee look at him.

“Where is Warren Streng?”

Jessie Lee shook her head. Warren was Sheriff Streng’s brother, old and eccentric. He had a shack in the woods somewhere. No one ever saw him.

“I don’t know,” she tried to say. It came out as a wet whisper.

Taylor crouched. His eyes revealed the depths of hell.

“Think hard. Think very hard.”

Jessie Lee wondered if she should make something up, wondered if that would buy her more time. But more time for what? A few extra hours with these psychopaths? Dying here, now, was almost certainly preferable to the worst that could happen. She closed her eyes, paging through her memories to come up with a last thought. Her mind settled on Erwin, the night he proposed. Awkward, stuttering, getting down on one knee during the halftime show at the Packers game, the JumboTron asking, “Jessie Lee, will you marry me?” He put a ring on her finger—a much bigger ring than he could afford—and when she hugged and kissed him, twenty thousand fans cheered.

They would have had a wonderful wedding. And a wonderful marriage. Jessie Lee pursed her lips. She could almost hear Erwin’s voice.

“I don’t care if I’m not allowed. I’m looking anyway.”

It
was
Erwin’s voice. Outside the locker room.

“You can’t go in there, Erwin.”
Rick Hortach, the town treasurer.
“You’ll ruin it for the rest of us.”

“I need to know if she’s in there, Rick. Get out of my way.”

Taylor stood up, but his partner said, “I’ll handle it—I’m dressed for it,” and walked around the corner to the locker room entrance.

Jessie Lee flushed with hope. She had to warn Erwin somehow, had to let him know what was happening.

“I’m sorry, sir.”
Taylor’s partner talking.
“You’ll have to wait your turn.”

“I’m looking for my fiancée, Jessie Lee Sloan. Is she in here?”

“ERWIN!”
Jessie Lee screamed. She screamed with everything she had, until her shoulders quaked and her throat felt like it caught fire. But all that came out was a high-pitched hiss.

“Miss Sloan was here. She left about five minutes ago, with her lottery check.”

“HELP ME!”
Jessie Lee tried to stand up, but Taylor swung his leg over her and straddled her lap. She twisted and shoved, and he wrapped a hand in her hair and forced her head back. Jessie Lee felt his lips, and then his warm teeth, on her neck.

“Why isn’t her name crossed off the list, then?”

“We’re getting around to it.”

“I’d like to take a look anyway.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not allowed.”

“ERWIN!”
she cried out, one last time. The tears came fast but silent, and her chest heaved with sobs.

“You think you have a chance at getting away?” Taylor said, his breath hot on her ear. “No one gets away.”

Taylor nipped at her throat, and she shook her head
NO NO NO NO NO …

“I know she’s in there,”
Erwin said.
“Get out of my way.”

Jessie Lee looked toward the entrance and saw Erwin—big, strong, wonderful Erwin—stride around the corner, his hands clenched into fists. He focused on the stack of bodies in the shower room and his mouth hung open.

“HERE!”
Jessie Lee yelled.
“I’M HERE!”

And Erwin’s eyes met hers and pierced her with hope, and then he was rushing at Taylor, bellowing in rage, arms open to grab him.

The knife appeared in Taylor’s hand so fast it was almost magic, and he leapt up and smoothly punched the blade into Erwin’s chest.

Erwin gasped. He fell to his knees, looked longingly at Jessie Lee, and then pitched forward onto his face.

Jessie Lee ran to the man she loved, burying her face into his back, trying to get her hands under him to put pressure on the wound even though his heart had already stopped beating.

She was so preoccupied with her efforts that Jessie Lee didn’t even feel it when Taylor came up behind her and slit her throat.

F
ran hugged Duncan to her and stared at the man they’d almost run over. He stood in the middle of the road, only a few feet in front of their car. Tall, in camouflage military fatigues and a matching helmet, some sort of weapon strapped to his shoulder. He had his hands over his head and was waving, trying to flag them down.

“Drive!” Fran told Josh.

Mathison had other ideas. He hopped onto the dashboard and pointed at the man, hooting and chirping.

The man smiled and yelled, “Mathison?”

Josh glanced at Fran. “Your call. We can talk to him, or leave.”

“Hello?” The man took a step forward. “Do you have a monkey in there?”

Duncan looked up at her. “It’s his monkey, Mom. We should give him back.”

Fran used her fingertips to brush the bangs from her son’s eyes. He hadn’t lost his ability to trust people, to look on the good side of things, even after the night he’d endured. Fran didn’t think she could ever trust anyone in a uniform again.

“I’m a scientist,” the man said. “I’m here to help. Look, I’m putting down this weapon. I’m not even sure what it is.”

Fran had a tense moment when he unslung the big shotgun, but he quickly set it down on the road and raised his hands over his head.

“What do you think?” Josh asked.

Her gut told her they should leave. Even if Mathison did belong to this man, it could be sorted out later. Fran’s primary concern was Duncan’s safety.

“No one helped us, Mom. After the crash.”

Fran couldn’t believe that came from his lips. Duncan
never
talked about the accident. Not even in therapy. But she often wondered if he thought about it as often as she did.

It had been late, almost midnight. They were driving home from the annual rodeo in Spooner, a neighboring town. Just ten minutes away from home, her husband, Charles, had slowed down to take a sharp turn on the winding country road. Some nameless driver—either drunk or careless—had taken no such precaution, taking up both lanes and forcing Charles to swerve into the woods to avoid a collision.

Their car went down an embankment and hit a tree, rolling them over and trapping them inside. Charles had been horribly injured. But Fran remained hopeful. They had crashed only a few yards off the road. Someone would see them. Someone would stop.

Twenty-three cars passed them up that night. Fran knew, because she counted. As each one approached, she prayed they would see the wreck and help. Each time, her prayers had gone unanswered.

It took two hours for Charles to bleed to death. And another hour before they were finally discovered. She remembered talking to Duncan during that time, soothing him, even as her husband’s life spilled out of his wounds and onto her face. Fran assumed Duncan had blocked the memory. Apparently he hadn’t. She looked at her son now, so earnest, so strong, so full of hope, and felt such overwhelming pride it made her chest hurt.

“Okay,” she told Josh. “Let’s talk to him.”

Josh opened the car door and craned his head out the opening. But just as he began to speak, Mathison jumped off the dash and galloped to the man, leaping into his arms. Fran let out a long breath as she watched the happy reunion, her apprehension dropping a notch. The monkey hugged the man, the man hugged the monkey, and both parties engaged in some back patting. Then Mathison jumped down to the street and hopped back into the car, sitting on Duncan’s lap and prompting a delighted squeal from her son.

“I take it you two know each other,” Josh said to the man.

“We go back a long ways. May I approach? I’m guessing some bad things have happened tonight and you’re spooked.”

Fran nodded at Josh.

“Okay, you can come closer. But please keep your hands where I can see them. We’ve had one helluva night.”

The man walked forward, keeping his arms raised. He stopped next to Josh’s door and squatted. Up close Fran saw that he was older, perhaps late fifties, and so thin his Adam’s apple looked enormous. His helmet was askew, revealing a bald head dotted with liver spots. He smiled, his front teeth slightly crooked.

“I’m Dr. Ralph Stubin. You’ve met Mathison, I see.”

Woof walked over and gave Stubin a sniff, then began to bark.

“Woof!” Fran used her firm voice. “Shush!”

The dog woofed once more, then turned a circle and sat back down.

“Is Mathison yours?” Duncan asked Stubin.

“Yes and no. I bought him, but he’s a sentient being and really only belongs to himself. We’re friends more than anything.” Stubin stopped grinning, and his face became serious. “You’re probably wondering what’s going on here, and how I fit in. I’m guessing there’s a roadblock ahead?”

Josh nodded. Fran wondered why Josh didn’t speak and realized he was waiting for information before he decided to share any. Smart.

Stubin rubbed his pointy chin. “I was afraid of that. Standard operating procedure, I suppose. Have there been any casualties yet?”

“At least four people have died,” Josh said evenly.

“But we got away!” Duncan added.

Fran gave Duncan a small pinch on the bottom, a signal to stay quiet.

“You got away?” Stubin raised his thick gray eyebrows. “Extraordinary.”

“Do you know what’s going on?” Josh asked.

“I have an idea. This is kind of a long story, and I’m guessing you don’t want to invite me into your car. And rightfully so. Do you want to talk outside?”

Stubin’s eyes flashed to Duncan, then back to Fran. She understood. There were things her son didn’t need to hear.

“Duncan, stay in the car with Woof and Mathison.”

Duncan opened his mouth, apparently ready to protest, but then Mathison pulled himself onto Josh’s shoulder and began picking at his hair.

“He’s grooming you,” Stubin said. “He only does that with people he likes.”

“Can I pet him?” Duncan asked.

“He doesn’t like his head being touched, but he likes belly rubs.”

Duncan tentatively tickled Mathison’s midsection, and the primate cooed. Fran relished the big smile on Duncan’s face, then she and Josh got out of the Roadmaster. She met them by the front of the car.