Held & Pushed (2 book bundle) (33 page)

Without thinking, I started my car. When Ron
pulled away from the curb, I swung out into traffic, made a quick U-turn, and
followed him, taking great care to stay far enough back to avoid detection.

I wasn’t sure what compelled me to follow him.
Maybe it was the fear that Ron was going to kill the flirtatious blond woman.
Or maybe it was the more likely reason, which was that I had a morbid obsession
with Ron. I had to know where he lived and how he filled the hours of his days.
Know your enemy. That seemed to be my new motto. But if ever there was an enemy
I should know, it was Ron.

Following him through the city was no problem. It
was easy to blend into the dense traffic and remain hidden from his view. But
once we were out of the city, it was harder to hide. The farther away from
downtown St. Louis we got, the more sparse traffic became. I did the best I
could, falling back to put more distance between us. However, if we kept
driving, pretty soon I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the chase without being
noticed.

A thought popped into my mind that made my heart
pound. What if he knew I was following him? What if he’d already noticed me and
was simply leading me out of the city and into the country where he could kill
me and dispose of my body at his leisure? That was certainly something Ron
would do.

Before I had a chance to work myself up into a
full-blown panic attack, Ron’s right turn signal began to flash. I was forced
to slow down as he turned off the two-lane blacktop highway and onto a gravel
road.

My heart sank because I couldn’t follow him down
the road, but my spirits soared again when I slowly drove past the turn off and
realized that it wasn’t a road at all. It was a long gravel driveway, complete
with a fancy black mailbox at the end. The box didn’t have a name on it, just
the address.

As I passed by on the road, I craned my neck to
see what lay at the end of the long driveway. It set back away from the road,
but I could see a white, two-story house with an attached garage nestled among
the trees and steeped in shadows.

I continued down the road more than a half mile to
the next driveway, which was another long, gravel path that led so far back
into the woods I couldn’t even see the house, and then I turned around to head
back to the motel.

On my way back, I reduced my speed as I passed in
order to get a better look at what was presumably Ron’s house.

Confirming my suspicions, Ron’s car was now parked
in the garage, the large door rolling down behind it. This was definitely his
house. And I could see why he’d picked it. It was surrounded by a dense forest,
with the nearest neighbors half a mile away. The house set back far enough away
from the road that no screams could be heard by anyone who happened to be
walking or bicycling past. It was close enough to the city to have a broad
selection of victims, while at the same time it was far enough away from the
hustle and the bustle to get away with it. It was the perfect place for a
murderer to do as he wished without fear of being caught.

After stopping off at a liquor store, I went back
to the motel room and performed the usual routine. I locked the door behind,
wedged a chair under the knob, and checked the bathroom. It was probably
unnecessary this time, since I knew Ron was at home, but there was still a
slight chance that he’d gotten into the room while I was at the liquor store.
Was that scenario farfetched and unlikely?
Probably.
But it was also possible, and I wasn’t willing to take that chance.

Satisfied that I was alone, I sat on the bed with
a fresh bottle of vodka nestled between my legs, flipped on the television, and
searched for something to watch.

When my fingers finally stopped clicking buttons
on the remote—not because I had found something to watch, but because I was
tired of looking through the same few channels—I popped the top on the bottle
and drank.

The familiar and welcome burn of the alcohol
warmed my throat, leaving a trail of fire all the way down into the pit of my
stomach, where it would eventually turn sour. Until then, I would just sit
there with my back against the headboard and my legs stretched out in front of
me, waiting for it to numb my mind.

Halfway through the bottle, the news came on.
Somewhere in my muddled thoughts, I considered changing the channel. I didn’t
want to watch anything depressing, and you couldn’t get more depressing than
the news. At one point, I thought for sure I had changed the channel, but after
the commercial break, the dark-skinned news anchor with the big hair was
looking at me once again.

As I listened to reports of taxpayers complaining
of unfilled potholes in the streets and the terrible smells coming from the
local landfill, my eyelids grew heavy. Each blink lasted longer than the one
before it until finally, it was nearly impossible to keep my eyes open. At
first, I fought it. As soon as I realized that my eyelids had fallen shut, I’d
force them open again, only to ask myself why I was fighting to stay awake.
Eventually I gave up and let them remain closed.

As I sat on the bed, caught between the waking
world and that of sleep, I heard the news anchor mention the local writer and
his successful book signing. Without any direction from me, my eyelids sprung
open and my eyes struggled to focus on the video clip playing out on the
screen.

Wide awake now, I leaned forward on the bed,
squinting to better see the details of the images before me.

There was Ron, sitting on one side of a table that
contained stacks of his latest book. On the other side of the table was a line
of his fans, people who had no idea that the things they read about in his
books had really happened.

The camera cut away to a close-up of Ron greeting
his fans one by one, smiling and chatting and signing his name in the book he’d
written at the cost of human lives.

He looked happy. His eyes sparkled. His smile was
broad and genuine. His skin was radiant, his teeth white and perfect.

While I was holed up in a rat’s nest of a motel
drinking cheap vodka straight from the bottle to try and kill the memories that
haunted me—memories of things
he’d
done—he was laughing. While I was alone, isolated from the people I’d loved
more than anything, he was surrounded by adoring fans. While I wanted nothing
more than to die, he was enjoying life to the fullest.

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fucking fair!

I threw the bottle of vodka across the room where
it hit the wall, knocking a hole in the thin paneling before falling to the
floor and spilling onto the stained carpet.

Furious, I fell forward on the bed and beat my
fists against the mattress, pummeling it again and again until my strength
failed me. Then I rolled onto my side and cried.

It was a soul-wrenching moment, lying among the
smelly old blankets in that cheap motel room. Before that, I’d thought myself
to be all cried out, but from somewhere down deep came a flood of tears that
lasted for more than an hour, accompanied by body-rocking sobs. With no shame
left and no one to see me anyway, I was free to let it all out.

And that’s exactly what I did.

The next morning, my eyes were swollen and sore
from the previous night’s cry. With the curtains pulled together tightly on the
windows, I couldn’t see the bright morning sunlight, but I could feel it. I
knew it was out there, announcing the arrival of yet another long and miserable
day in my lonely life.

I dragged my ass out of bed and got in the shower,
trying to wash away the sorrow. It was while I was washing my hair that the
idea came to me. It wasn’t yet a complete idea, just a fragment that I would
spend the next few days rolling around in my mind, molding and shaping it,
adding to it until it became a fully formed and hopefully perfect plan.

∞

After a three-hour search across town, I’d found
only two pay phones, neither of which worked. The first one I’d come to was
missing the handset and two of the buttons off the keypad, while the second one
had everything except a dial tone. Frustrated, I was left with no choice but to
buy a cell phone. And while I was buying a cell phone, I bought a few other
things I was going to need.

Back in the motel room, I dropped the shopping
bags onto the bed and after performing the usual room check, I began to pull
out the items, spreading them across the bed one at a time.

I opened the box that contained the laptop first.
After that, I wrestled with the plastic packaging to get to the cell phone. It
was one of the disposable types, the kind where you buy units of time as you
needed them instead of paying a monthly bill. No contract with a company, no
way to be traced. I plugged the phone and the computer into the wall to charge
the batteries while I sorted through the rest of the items.

One article at a time, I pulled the clothing from
the bags, removed the tags, folded them neatly, and placed them inside the new
duffle bag. I then stuffed all of the tags and packaging material from the
electronic devices and clothing into an empty store bag, which I would later
burn.

This was the groundwork for my plan. Everything
had to be ready to go come Thursday, the day I would begin to take back my
life.

Three hours later, I sat in the back corner booth
of a McDonald’s, nibbling on a Big Mac and fries while using the free Wi-Fi to
set up my cell phone and buy a few more items I needed that couldn’t be bought
in a store.

When my online shopping was done and my phone was
activated, I closed the computer and finished my meal, even though my stomach
was a tight ball of nerves and I had no appetite.

I drove back to the motel and used the cell phone
for the sole purpose I’d purchased it.

With trembling hands, I dialed the number and
wondered what the hell I was going to say when he answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” After a couple of awkward seconds passed, I
added, “It’s me.”

“I know.”

Just hearing the sound of his voice made my heart
beat faster. I’d heard it for so long, and then suddenly, I hadn’t heard it at
all. And now here it was, on the other end of the line, sounding exactly as I
remembered. My palms grew damp with sweat and my stomach clenched into an even
tighter knot, making me regret eating the Big Mac.

“I haven’t heard from you in so long,” he said
quietly. “How are you?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying
to steady my voice.

“I’m fine. Well, that’s a lie. But I’m better than
I was.”

“That’s good to hear. You definitely sound better
than you did the last time we talked. Are you still at Alpine Grove?” I could
tell he was weighing his words, not wanting to say anything to upset me. That
in
itself
upset me. He shouldn’t have to tread lightly
when talking to me. This is what we’d been reduced to.

“No. I got out a few weeks ago. I should’ve called
but…I just…I just didn’t. I needed to get myself together before I called you.
You know what I mean?”

“I do. I understand. So have you? Gotten
yourself
together, that is?”

“No, but I’m getting there. It’s hard to overcome
some of those fears, Wade. I’m always looking over my shoulder. Always
wondering who’s in the shadows. I know it’s ridiculous—”

“No, no. It’s not ridiculous. You have every right
to look over your shoulder. I absolutely get why you do it.”

I smiled. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that
what he was saying was anything other than the truth. He did understand. He
always understood me. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to fight back the tears
that threatened to come.

“I just wish I could help. You’re my wife. I
should be there, by your side, protecting you from whatever you’re afraid of.
In this case, that son of a bitch asshole.”

There was anger in his voice, but I also heard a
quiver, and I knew that he was fighting back tears. Wade was a take-charge man
who prided himself on providing for and taking care of his family. It killed
him to know he couldn’t do anything to help me through this. He felt helpless,
which something he wasn’t accustomed to feeling.

“I know,” I said softly. “But I have to do this on
my own.”

He sniffed before asking, “So where are you
staying?” It was every bit as obvious that he was uncomfortable talking about
my problems as it was that he was changing the subject. But it was okay with me
because I was uncomfortable talking about it too. Probably because I knew that
I wasn’t well yet. I still had a long way to go, but I would be fine.
Eventually.

“I’m staying at a cheap little motel. It’s nothing
fancy, that’s for sure, but it’s somewhere to be until…”
Until
what?
Until I was well enough to return to my family?
Until I failed and ended up back in Alpine Grove?
“Until I’ve collected myself.”
I cringed as I said those
generic and lazy words. Although really, that was probably a fitting way to put
it since I had fallen apart.

“Good. Do you know what your plans are yet?”

I wasn’t about to tell him that I had an immediate
plan and if it went well, then I’d work on planning for the future. Instead I
said, “I think I’m going to stay here for a little longer. Keep doing my
therapy.”

“That’s probably a good idea. Do you need
anything?”

“No. Thank you though.”

“If you do, all you have to do is ask. You know
that.”

“I do. And thank you. I appreciate it more than
you know.”

He nearly whispered, “I can’t wait for you to come
home.”

“Me too.”

For a minute, neither of us spoke. We were both
lost in our thoughts, remembering how wonderful our life together had been and
wondering what it would be like when we were together again.