Now she climbs to her feet, the weapon held in front of her, adrenaline driving the haze away. He climbs through the broken window and rushes into the night. Darcy grabs the gun off the kitchen table and turns toward the entryway. She hurls the front door open, expecting headlights to blind her. But hers is the only vehicle in the driveway. The killer is on foot, too far away for her to catch him.
It doesn’t matter.
She saw his face.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jennifer awakens to the chains around her body. He bound her again, but something is different. Her skin crawls from recent contact, and when she pulls her shirt up to her chin, she sees the hand marks across her belly and chest. Automatically, her body performs an inventory, each nerve at high attention.
Did he touch her in other places? No, she doesn’t think he did. Still, she feels the ghosts of his fingers pinching and prodding.
It’s dark outside, the light in the hallway seeping through the floorboards. She knows she slept a long time before the front door opened and edged shut. Someone is in the house.
Across the room, Sandy is an immobile bulge. For a panicked second, Jennifer doesn’t hear the girl breathing. Then the girl coughs and chokes, rolling onto her stomach in a tangle of chains to clear her windpipe.
“Sandy, I didn’t hurt you. He did it. That creep put my hands around your throat while I was asleep.”
The girl doesn’t answer. Her eyes flutter for a second and shut again.
“That other girl who was here last night. I saw him carry her down the hallway. Do you know her name? Is she still here?”
What she wants to ask is, is the girl alive? But in the dark corner of her mind, she already knows. The kidnapper killed the girl, and he’ll murder Sandy and Jennifer too. It occurs to Jennifer the silence inside the little house is deeper than before. Absolute.
He’s not here. Whoever is inside the house, it’s not the kidnapper. This is her last chance to escape before the killer finishes the job. She pulls on the chains, searching for a weak point. Five minutes later, she’s no closer to freeing herself than she was when she started.
“Wake up and help me!”
Screaming doesn’t rouse the prone girl. Falling to her back, Jennifer pushes against the radiator with her feet. The struggle causes a headache-inducing racket, but the heater holds firm. She curses and slaps her hand against the floor. Immediately, she pays for losing control. Jennifer clutches her hand and rocks back and forth, flesh stinging, bones and tendons bruised.
The shadow in the doorway touches her face. She retreats toward the wall, but it isn’t the kidnapper watching her from the darkness. The older girl has returned, and as Jennifer expected, the girl hasn’t brought the sheriff and FBI with her.
For an uncomfortable minute, Jennifer and the older girl glare at each other from across the room, neither speaking.
“What are you staring at?”
Jennifer’s anger backs the girl into the hallway where she stands like a statue. Moonlight touches the girl, and a flood of emotions twist her face. Terror, desperation, disgust. When the girl edges into the doorway again, Jennifer lowers her voice.
“Why do you help him? He treats you like an animal.”
No response. On the floor, Sandy’s body shifts, legs twitching. Jennifer wants to believe the girl is waking up. More likely a nightmare haunts the girl…images of Jennifer’s hands wrapped around her throat and squeezing the life out of her.
“If you won’t help me, please help Sandy. She’s sick and needs a doctor.” Jennifer lifts her hands and displays the chains. “Help me break these chains, and I’ll make sure Sandy gets to the hospital.”
When the girl’s eyes lock on the chains, a shudder rolls through her body. But she doesn’t move.
“I can’t break them by myself,” Jennifer says. “Maybe he left a key for the locks. Or he keeps tools, something you could smash the chains with.”
The girl clutches the door frame as if the world is a spinning ride she’ll fly off of if she doesn’t hang on. It seems insane to Jennifer the girl won’t help, and that rekindles the suspicion the girl must be the man’s wife or daughter, always in his service. The girl’s unwillingness to help breaks Jennifer’s spirit. She collapses against the wall where she huddles in a ball and sobs. Nobody will help her escape, and Sandy won’t open her eyes. She cries in the thickening darkness until a sound pulls her head up. The floor squeals with each careful step into the room.
Now the girl stands above Jennifer. She’s bigger, older. Jennifer is at the girl’s mercy should she turn violent and attack. But the girl doesn’t hurt her. Instead, she looks down upon Jennifer, lips quivering. Jennifer believes the girl wants to free her but can’t smash through the mental barrier holding her in place.
Her hand reaches out. Touches the chain and darts back as though the links burn. After a long period of indecision, she kneels before Jennifer and pulls the chains through her hands until the padlocks prevent further stretching. Then she shifts to the radiator and examines the locks as one might a bizarre new flower growing amid weeds and bedrock.
“Does he leave the key?”
Each time Jennifer speaks, the girl jumps back. Jennifer walks a tightrope, balancing discretion with her need to prompt the girl into action.
“If not a key, then a hammer. Or an ax. We can split the chains and escape before he returns.”
The older girl shakes her head as if at war with herself.
“We’ll run until we find help. Just you, me, and Sandy. The sheriff will come and arrest him. He’ll never hurt us again.”
The girl chews on the corner of her mouth. Her eyes swing between the two chained girls as Jennifer nods in encouragement. But the girl turns and runs from the room, terrified.
“You bitch! Don’t leave us here!”
The front door slams. She’s gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Moonlight beams down on Laurie’s farmhouse, the rising sun hours away. Darcy lifts her head off the floor at the sound of two vehicles rolling down the driveway. She checks the clock, realizing with a start she fell asleep again. Asleep with the killer outside.
Hensel’s voice calls to her as he pounds up the steps. The front door opens, and he blinks at the mess covering the downstairs. As he rushes into the living room, Fisher and Reinhold appear in the doorway. Both agents have their weapons drawn. Kneeling beside Darcy, Hensel raises a hand toward his partners.
“Give us a second.” When Reinhold gives him a questioning stare, Hensel points at the staircase. “Clear the upstairs while I check on Darcy.”
A second glare from Fisher tells Darcy the agent knows nobody else is inside the house. Still, the agents clamber up the stairs and move from one room to the next as Hensel turns Darcy’s head to face his.
“There’s bruising on your neck. He strangled you?”
Darcy touches her neck, the attack more dream than reality until she remembers the killer’s hands squeezing the life out of her.
“Eric, I saw his face.”
His eyes light with hope. They extinguish a moment later.
“Look at you. You’re abusing the meds again. How many this time? Three? Five? More?”
“It’s not important.”
“Yes, it’s damn important,” he says, moving two fingers in front of her eyes. “A good lawyer will blow holes in the testimony of an intoxicated witness. What time did the attack occur?”