Ripples Page 8

  I detour down to Eric’s ranch. After escaping that place, I swore I’d never go back, but getting a second chance to save Amy changed my tune. When I was a prisoner there I didn’t spend my nights in the barn, like Amy. Eric kept me locked in a bedroom, the window nailed shut. One day he hauled me into the kitchen to scrub the floors, walls, stove, sink―left me all alone. Only, he forgot to padlock the doors. When he rode off on the stallion, I bolted.

  The only reason I went back earlier tonight was to set Amy free. The only reason I’m back again is that I need to fetch some serious firepower. My crossbow will be too clean, too quiet when I face off against Bryce. His death has to be as savage as he is. I remember a gun rack over the fireplace in Eric’s living room―two shotguns and a hunting rifle.

  At the edge of the meadow, I kneel. The haze around the ranch house reminds me of a graveyard where Bryce took me once to see the headstone of a girl my age—proof, he said, of what could happen if I disobeyed. The air that night at the graveyard was misty, just like now. Quiet. Not a light anywhere. I grit my teeth and limp down to the house. The closer I get, the faster my heart pounds. Where’s RJ? I hope to God he made it out alive.

  To be sure no one’s guarding the place, I circle to the front of the house—no motion lights there—and creep up onto the porch. The curtains are drawn shut, except for a small opening at one edge of the window. I peek in. Don’t see any signs of life, there. I sneak along the side of the house, checking each window as I head for the kitchen around back. The drapes in Uncle Eric’s bedroom are closed. I listen for a minute. Not a sound.

  What must be RJ’s window is wide open. Only piles of clothes and stuff on the floor this side of the bed. The knots in my shoulders unwind for a second. There’s a chance he’s alive. But then, he could be lying dead on the other side. When I get around back, I move slowly around the corner until the lights come on, then dart back to the side of the house and wait for someone to come out. After a couple of minutes, nobody appears. I ease up to the back door.

  I turn on a light inside the kitchen as I step through the backdoor. This is where I made the choice to run. There were lots of times I thought about Amy. Knew I should’ve gone back to the shack and set her free. Guess that’s part of the reason I’ve hung around for two years, trying to get up the nerve. Should have done it a long time ago.

  I rummage through the kitchen, making mental notes of supplies we can come back for. In one of the drawers I find some shells for a twelve-gauge. Stuff several in my pocket, go straight to the living room, and take one of the shotguns off the rack.

  I glance down the hallway at three doors. They kept me locked up in the first room. Must be RJ’s, now. How ironic. But, what if? I take a deep breath and inch toward the doorway. A chill runs up my spine. Is he in there? In a pool of blood? Dead? There’s only one way to know. I swallow hard and peek in. No RJ. I lean into the door jamb. Dizzy.

  When everything stops spinning, I move to the bathroom, flip on the light. It’s clear.

  I step back into the hall and stare at the open doorway to Uncle Eric’s bedroom. Did RJ try to be a hero? Stop Bryce from killing the only one in his family who gave a shit about him? I have to know.

  As I cross the threshold into the bedroom, I fight back the urge to puke. My knees wobble. I drop to the floor. Uncle Eric’s stiff, naked body and mangled face are too much to take. I shut my eyes and try to replace the gruesome sight with any other picture I can imagine. I remind myself of the other times I’ve had to suck it up to survive.

  Slowly, I get back on my feet and step around Uncle Eric’s corpse to check out the bathroom on the other side of the bed. No sign of RJ. My body goes limp. I drop to my knees next to the toilet and let the vomit rush out. When I’m done retching, tears roll down my cheeks. There’s still hope RJ’s alive.

  RJ

  Before all hell broke loose at the ranch, I heard footsteps coming down the hallway and ducked behind my bed. The footsteps didn’t stop at my room—the intruder didn’t check there, kept going. I let out the breath I’d been holding onto. When someone started yelling from Uncle Eric’s room, I knew things were getting ugly. I slipped out into the hall and made a mad dash for the kitchen. I’d only taken a couple steps when a shotgun blast roared in my ears.

  My heart stopped. I froze. Tess shrieked from Uncle Eric’s bedroom. A split second later the intruder yelled, “Come back here.” I bolted. Just as I got to the end of the hall a second blast was deafening. A spray of buckshot ripped my leg. I dove into the kitchen. Fear must have blocked the pain. I sprang back to my feet—knew I had to get the hell out of there, or I’d be dead. As I lunged toward the backdoor, I snatched up Uncle Eric’s shotgun that was propped against the wall. Outside, I took cover behind the bitch’s pickup. The man followed me out, but headed for the barn, firing his shotgun a couple more times. The first chance I got, I made for the woods, dragging my leg.

  After stumbling through chaparral for what seems like half the night, every step aggravating the pain, no light to speak of, I finally reach a cabin at the lake. It’s bigger, fancier by a lot more, than what Mercedes described when she opened up to me—told me about the hell the bastard put her through. Maybe the creep won the lottery and rebuilt the place after she ran away. I crouch in the brush near the deck, trying to get up enough courage to limp up to the door. I’m Uncle Eric’s only real family. It’s up to me to even the score.

  A man comes out of the cabin. My heart races. He’s bigger than Mercedes said. What this monster did to her must have really messed up her head. It’s no wonder. My mind is a train wreck after just one night of his terror. Can’t imagine what it’s like for Mercedes. She suffered through it most of her life.

  My throat is dry. Uncle Eric—dead. Sweat stings my eyes. The fuzzy figure on the deck stands motionless. I tell myself to walk away. I’m not inside some video game. There’s no restart button. No extra lives or special powers to put a player back in the game. It’s a good thing this guy’s just a blur.

  Bryce deserves to die for what he’s done. Not only for murdering Uncle Eric, but for terrorizing Mercedes. Maybe putting an end to the bastard will give her a second chance. I brace myself and anchor the butt of Uncle Eric’s shotgun in the hollow of my shoulder. My arms tremble. I take a deep breath and hold it. Close my eyes and squeeze the trigger.

  Click.

  Damn. Forgot to load it.

  The bastard darts back inside … no doubt going for his gun.

  I bolt, ignoring my throbbing leg as I race through the underbrush into the woods.

  Tess

  All the way back to the shack from Eric’s ranch, Bryce keeps reminding me how he spared my life and how he wasn’t going to let anybody leave him ever again … not like she always did. He was going to “take back what belongs” to him.

  That’s when it clicked. He hasn’t been helping me out these years. It never was about saving me and my baby from the streets, helping me settle a score. By she he meant his mother. He kidnapped me to be the mother he wanted but never had. And ransoming Amy was just how he planned to get his hooks into me. It’s all been about the little boy who stared out the window all those nights, wondering whether his mother’d come home, whether she’d been behind the wheel drunk and wrapped her car around a tree somewhere, left him alone.

  When we get to the shack, he tells me to clean up. He takes off in the pickup to get rid of my bloody clothes—bury them somewhere away from here so no one can find them. While I’m washing blood off my face I stare in the mirror. I’ve taken his shit far too long. I’m done. I walk over and grab his shotgun. Load it and wait for him to get back.

  Don’t have to wait long before he pulls up and parks the pickup. His footsteps on the other side of the door raise the hairs on the back of my neck. I watch the door latch as it begins to turn, bring the butt of the shotgun to my shoulder, and draw a deep breath. The door swings open. The concussion from the blast sends me stumbling backwa
rds. Everything goes dark.

  Mercedes

  I reach the lake and duck down in the underbrush about ten yards from Bryce’s shack. The whole nightmare floods into my head. Bruises … sore all over … him pounding his prick inside me, grinding his clammy chest into my back, his stale beer-breath filling my nostrils. Amy whimpering in the corner—knowing she’d be next. I’ve woken up night after night since I left this place—sweaty, achy, shaking. No matter what it costs me … I have to make him pay.

  In a matter of minutes, the pickup comes rumbling up the gravel road. My heart turns as hard and cold as granite. Bryce slides out of the driver’s seat and grabs a shovel from the back—swaggers up to the door. I stand, quivering—my face and neck dripping. I bring the butt of the shotgun to my shoulder and step lightly toward him, aiming at his head. He deserves this. Amy deserves this. Hell, I deserve this.

  Sweat trickles into my eyes, blurring my vision. He’s not human. He’s a monster. A life form that shouldn’t exist.

  The door opens.

  Boom.

  I stagger back. Jerk the trigger. Another boom pounds my ears. My head snaps back, eyes shut tight. When I open them, Bryce is lying in a heap in the empty doorway. Flames flickering inside the shack. Someone’s lying on the floor. I gasp for breath, my heart throbbing in my ears as I clutch the shotgun in both hands.

  Tess

  Flames are spreading over the floor. I can make out pieces of a broken lantern in the middle of the flames. I get up. Head aches like hell. Must’ve banged it against something when the shotgun’s recoil kicked me on my ass. I stumble toward the open doorway. Bryce lies across the threshold, lifeless. Blood pooling around his head. I start to puke. Hold it in. Gotta get out of here.

  The pickup door is still open. I slide in behind the wheel and crank the engine. As I barrel down the gravel road, I swallow back acid that’s pushing up into my throat. There’s been way too much blood. Everywhere I look I see red, like I’m wearing blood splattered glasses—the seat, the windshield, the road, my white blouse, my hands. I try to rub it away as I drive over the gravel road past the lake. It won’t come off, doesn’t even smear. It’s unreal. I don’t bother checking for traffic as I careen out onto the highway. Somehow, somewhere I’ll outrun this horror.

  Deputy Sheriff Baker

  We find Jacob Chandler staring at smoke billowing up into the night sky—flames shooting out of his neighbor’s shack. He’s drenched in sweat, emergency vehicle lights pulsing all around him. I shine my flashlight on the bloodied blade of the shovel resting at his feet and ask, “Is that yours?”

  He stares blankly.

  “Mr. Chandler, is that your shovel?”

  “Uh … sorry. What?”

  I pick up the shovel with my latex-gloved hand. “Is this is your shovel?”

  Chandler looks around. “Where are we?”

  I signal the EMT who’s been hovering nearby.

  The EMT takes out a pocket flashlight, examines Chandler’s eyes, and asks, “Sir, are you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah … just a bit groggy. What’s going on here?”

  The EMT points to the back of the paramedic truck and steadies him as they walk. “You’d better take a seat.”

  After Chandler sits down at the back of the emergency vehicle, he looks at the EMT. “Can someone tell me what’s going on here? Is my place gone?”

  “No, Mr. Chandler. This is your neighbor’s place.”

  “Is the girl okay?”

  “There is no girl. We’ve been over that.”

  He stares at the burning shack. “She’s not in there?”

  “No girl.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “As I said, she doesn’t exist. Now, I’m going to ask you one more time. Is that your shovel?”

  “I don’t know. Could be. I have one that’s similar. Are my initials on the handle?”

  “You’re JC …?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  I point to the initials etched on the handle. “What happened here tonight?”

  “Not sure.”

  “How’d this blood get on your shovel?”

  “No idea. Guess I was trying to put out the fire.”

  “With blood?”

  “I said, I don’t remember. I don’t even know how I got here. Suppose I wanted to help … when I saw the fire.”

  “It’s my impression your neighbor didn’t want you coming around.”

  “I wouldn’t just let the place burn down. For sure I wouldn’t let the girl get hurt.” He looks around. “The pickup’s gone. He must have taken her somewhere.”

  “Your neighbor doesn’t own a pickup, and he doesn’t have a driver’s license. I checked him out after my last visit up here.”

  Chandler wobbles and lists to one side.

  I catch him before he tumbles off the back of the paramedic truck. “Mr. Chandler, these folks are going to give you a ride down to the hospital. One of our deputies will go along to keep you company.”

  “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

  “Positive.”

  As the EMT helps Chandler climb into the emergency vehicle, I nod to the deputy who was holding the shovel. “We’d better tag and bag that thing.”

  Chapter Eight

  RJ

  My eyes ache, and sunlight poking through the tree canopy doesn’t help. I put up my hand to block the glare. My throbbing leg reminds me of last night’s chaos.

  After the shotgun misfired at the lake, I panicked and scrambled off, hobbling through trees and scrub toward Mercedes’ hut. Didn't make it far. My knees buckled, and I landed on the shotgun wound, driving buckshot deeper into my flesh. Pain was too much. The cool ground brought on the shivers. My forehead burned with fever. I must’ve passed out. I kind of recall headlights racing past, but I could’ve imagined it.

  I shake the cobwebs out of my head and push up off the ground, standing on my good leg. Bite down on my lower lip and shift some weight to the wounded leg, but it collapses underneath me. I land hard and every pellet buried in my leg stings twice as bad.

  What a klutz. Lost the damn shotgun at some point during the night. Now I can’t even use it as a crutch. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. If only I’d remembered to load the damn thing. I clench my teeth and prop up on my good knee so I can scan the area nearby. Just out of reach, there’s a branch lying on the ground. Probably knocked down during a wind storm. Just the right size for a cane. I pull myself along the ground until I’m close enough to grab it.

  After hobbling for nearly a mile, I recognize the terrain. My heart beats faster, this time it’s from more than exhaustion. Uncle Eric’s ranch is around the next bend in the trail, just out of view. Can’t bear to relive that nightmare right now, so I detour higher up into the woods and trudge ahead.

  Later, I’m on the ridge overlooking Mercedes' hut. I lower myself to the ground and stretch out my throbbing leg. My throat tightens. Did the girls make it back? God, Mercedes could be dead. Then who’d I have left? Can’t imagine my mom would want me even if I found her. I let out a loud caw then wait for Mercedes’ to give me the all clear.

  Mercedes

  My nerves are still jangled from last night when a familiar ‘caw’ sends my heart into my throat. He’s alive?

  I rush over to the door, swallow hard and, return his signal.

  Amy joins me at the doorway. “What’s going on?” she asks.

  “RJ.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “It’s our signal. He’s the only one who knows it.”

  Amy searches the ridge. “Where is he?”

  “It’ll take a few minutes.” I point to a stand of pines. “He should come from over there.”

  The first sight of him takes my breath away. He’s hobbling, supporting himself on a long branch, stumbling, almost dropping to one knee.

  Amy grabs my arm. “Does he need help?”

  I know how this is going down. H
e’ll have the hots for her in no time. She’s a regular healing angel. Always patched up Bryce when he got hurt. If it’d been me, I would have made sure the damn wound got infected bad enough to kill him.

  “You mean like he helped us?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Of course he needs help. He’s a boy.” I start out the door. “You coming?”

  We race up the ridge and I get to him well ahead of Amy. He collapses in my arms. I stiffen at the sight of his bloody leg.

  “He’s been shot,” I murmur to Amy as she comes up behind me.

  She doesn’t hesitate taking charge, easing him out of my grasp, and cradling him in her own arms. “He’s burning up with fever,” she says calmly, looking up at me as she strokes his hair. Her eyes take on his pain. His body relaxes.

  When we get him into the hut, we lay him on the pine-needle mattress in the corner, and Amy starts barking orders. “Quick, I need bandage stuff. And boil some water.”

  I’m already under her spell, the one she casts over everybody when her healing powers take over. “Clean rags,” I mutter as I scan the room.

  “Hurry,” Amy scolds, rushing to the wash basin to scrub her hands.

  I wander over to a corner of the hut and dig through a box. I pull out several towels swiped from the man’s cabin at the lake. “Here.” I toss them at Amy.

  Amy scowls. “Boiling water?”

  “Right. I’m on it. It’ll take a few minutes.” I stoke the fire in the little cast iron stove, grab the water pail, and head down to a spring I discovered not far from the hut. A horrible thought burrows into my brain like a worm. I saved her, now she’s going to steal my only friend.

  Amy

  I rip open RJ’s pant leg and start picking out buckshot with my fingernails. When Mercedes comes back with the water, I keep my head down and ask her for a knife. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her set the water pail on top of the stove. She opens the stove door and sticks a knife inside, into the flames. When she’s done sterilizing it, she brings it to me.