Authors: August McLaughlin
“No...” She takes a small sip of water then pulls the blanket tighter. “He didn’t take me to bed until after that night. It was like he turned into someone else and made me...well, his wife, I guess.”
“This was shortly after our sixteenth birthday?”
Jill nods.
Claire recalls her nightmare. The pain. The man positioned over her. She hadn’t been raped; Jill had. But Claire felt it. “That’s why you dressed like this, seduced him in the basement.”
She nods. “And lightened my hair, to look more like our mother. She is his greatest weakness. Her and sex.”
“Was that when you started eating less?” Claire asks. “After the accident? Stop me if I’m prying too much.”
“You’re not. It started soon after that, then off and on for years. Each time I stopped eating, he found more ways to force food in me. For a while now, I haven’t been able to tell who is punishing me more—him or me.”
“Oh, Jill.” Claire reaches for her hand. Jill pulls it away, as though avoiding comfort.
“It’s okay. I’m better now.” She takes another sip of water.
They sit quietly together as time ticks on, Claire wondering if Jill’s nerves are peaking, too. Each passing moment brings his arrival closer. Unless something had stopped him.
God, let that be the case
...
Chapter Sixty-Two
Malcolm searches the exterior of the house, finding no additional signs of the women. He stares at the blood-spattered snow then heads inside to prepare for his journey. He pauses in the kitchen before flicking the light on. Listens. No sounds. Clearing a path through the glass shards, he wonders how much of the blood on the linoleum is his. Both girls were injured, but they’re alive. He feels it. No time to waste...
He opens the freezer door to retrieve ice then decides against it. He can use the pain. More so, the adrenaline. Medical bag in hand, he heads to the bathroom.
Standing before the mirror with a threaded needle, he stares at his reflection—past the bloody mess of the eye, straight into his good one. Grasping the sink with both hands, he leans in, nostrils flaring, anger seething.
You. Will. Find them
.
He inhales a deep breath, plunges the needle into the raw flesh above his eye. Sharp pain sends shivers through his body as his throat prepares to vomit. Resisting the agony, he steadies his breath.
Focus.
..
After several rounds of the needle moving in and out, the soreness shifts toward intoxication. Each bloody stitch adds to the thrill. Just look what he can bear, what he’s capable of. Once he’s finished, he steps back, admiring. He’s created a perfect row.
He snips the thread then walks to his bedroom, pleased by his clearer, if limited, vision. Changing into his warmest hunting clothes, he contemplates his course of action. Several cabins stand in the distance. None are easy to find or get to; each one is a long ways apart from the others.
In the dark and snow, he’ll need more than his ears and partial eyesight to find them… He thinks again of the cabin, Jill’s long ago hiding place. It hadn’t taken terribly long for him and Bob to locate her... because they weren’t alone! He closes his good eye, recalling the journey through the snow with the bloodhounds. One sniff of her windbreaker and the hounds were off, searching, hunting...finding.
Bob’s bloodhounds.
Of course!
He determines the time it would take to drive to his place and back, weighs it against the benefit of the dogs’ acute senses.
Hunters. Search hounds. Relentless.
Yes, he decides. Any time lost would be made up for. The animals might save him from several futile searches and lead him straight to the prize. Yes... He should have thought of it earlier. But she threw him off. Not this time...
He admires his sutures in the mirror then analyzes his appearance. A wounded warrior, but strong. Maybe stronger than ever.
“Find them, find me...” Dawn!
He stands up taller, raises his fists in the air, contracting his muscles, noting their bulk. A roar escapes him; he even sounds like a warrior. Warriors fly, fight...win.
Find them, find me. Find them, find me.
He retrieves his gun from the garage then darts outside and into his SUV. So heated, he barely needs his coat. He flies over the ice-topped road toward the nearest property, confident of his plan.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Standing outside the large, wooden house, Hank exhales in relief. If he hadn’t gotten a clear picture from his phone, he may never have found the place. The roads aren’t marked and the entire area is thick with trees and covered in snow. Good thing he had the wherewithal to turn his headlights off and park in a nearby turnout. Minutes after he started walking toward the house, he tucked himself behind a clump of trees and watched as a man rushed outside and drove off...alone. From the distance, the man looked like the photo he found online, the man he saw at the funeral.
Malcolm
. But where is Claire?
He approaches the house, clutching his Swiss army knife in one hand, a flashlight in the other. The front door is locked; no surprise there. He tries the windows. No luck. He knocks on both.
“Claire?” His voice pierces the silence, triggering a faint echo. He listens. No response. He runs to the back of the house. The door at the back of the garage is open.
Stepping inside, he shines his flashlight into the parked black Porsche. The car Zola freaked out at? He spots something familiar on the floor near the passenger seat.
Claire’s purse
.
Hank runs to the door of the house. Locked. He pounds on the door then presses his ear against it, listening. “Claire?” He listens again. Pounds harder. “Claire! Open up!”
With a harsh kick, he tries to bust the door down.
Damn it!
It looks so easy in movies. Grabbing a heavy shovel from the garage, he runs around the house again, stopping at a glass patio door. Using the heft of the shovel, he smashes the glass. He’s in.
Glass particles are everywhere, but not just from the door. Using his flashlight, he pans the kitchen. Broken dishes coat the linoleum. He pauses, listening. What if Malcolm doesn’t live alone? Anyone could be here...not just Claire. If that’s the case, they must already know he’s here.
With caution, he makes his way through the kitchen. The flashlight beam hits a pool of red.
Blood
.
There’s no phone in sight. He pulls his cell from his pocket. No signal.
Fuck!
Isn’t 9-11 supposed to work from anywhere?
The glass shards stop at an open door. He shines his light—a staircase. “Hello? Anyone down there?”
No response. He flips the lights on then makes his way down.
“Jesus Christ...” He’s nauseous, not because of the blood itself, but its context. Blood in a hospital he can handle. It’s not Claire’s, he tells himself, no idea if he’s right.
Dim lights remain on in a large room like nothing he’d ever seen. Two hospital beds, one tousled, stand at the center surrounded by medical equipment—a hospital room without walls. A desk and file cabinets make for a free-standing den. A projector and screen are set up. And photos of a pretty blond woman are everywhere.
She looks familiar...
Claire’s mother?
Heart pounding he rushes around the room, searching for clues, any indication as to what happened to Claire, her whereabouts. He analyzes the medical equipment. Sterile scalpels, syringes, needles, gloves, sutures. Prescription drugs.
He lifts the bottles. Cyclosporin and prednisone... Steroids like prednisone serve various purposes, Hank knows. But cyclosporin? He knows only one use for the immune repressor: to prevent organ rejection.
What the hell?
He feels sicker, dizziness adding to his unease. What has he done to Claire?
His eyes are drawn to a refrigerator/freezer. “Holy shit.” With trepidation, he moves toward it, forcing thoughts of serial killers like Jeffrey Dahmer away.
Like ripping the world’s largest Band-aid off, he yanks it open.
Thank God
... It holds only ice and bottles of thick fluid.
Hank runs up the stairs and searches the house—no sign of Claire or disruption anywhere else. “Claire!” he calls out then heads back to the basement, hoping for more clues, wondering if Elle had any luck with the police. He searches spots he’s already searched, feeling increasingly frustrated and helpless. If he can’t find anything useful soon, he’ll head for the woods out back.
He visualizes Malcolm leaving in his truck. He’d entered the vehicle alone, but had he already placed something in the back? Or
someone
?
Hank’s throat tightens.
Damn it, Claire. Where are you?
A sound stops him in his tracks. A door? He listens. Footsteps upstairs. Coming down the stairs.
He rushes toward the darkest corner of the room, but it’s too late.
“A visitor. How quaint.” The voice sent chills down Hank’s spine.
He turns to see the man he presumes to be Dr. Malcolm Campbell. The tall, broad-shouldered man stands before him, his thick white hair a mismatch for his red, bulging stitched-shut eye. He’s dressed in a camouflage coat and pants—a hunter.
“Where is she?” Hank demands.
Malcolm forms a maniacal smile.
“Where is she!”
“Ah, the boyfriend. I remember you... Here to rescue your precious Claire, are you? Well I’m afraid you’re too late.”
Hank glares at him.
Don’t let him get to you... Think
. The surgical equipment hasn’t been used. The back door is open. Did Claire escape? “I don’t believe you.”
Malcolm laughs. “Fine, don’t. But I have some work to do, so if you’ll excuse me.” He pulls a gun from his belt and points it at Hank.
“Please don’t. I can h-help you. I’m a doctor What do you need? Her liver? Her kidneys? I saw the drugs... Seriously, we can be a team.”
“I’ll show you what I need.” A click sounds as Malcolm cocks the gun.
“Please! Don’t shoot.” He braces himself to duck.
A shot rings through the air. Hank’s body hits the floor.
Chapter Sixty-Four
The night passes like a long, wakeful dream. Or nightmare. At least they are alive and together...so far. Jill’s increasing chill worries Claire, more so than her own. Daylight will soon break, bringing the warmth of sun. But even more than the sunrise, they expect
him
.
“What if he never comes?” Claire asks, breaking a period of silence.
“That would be nice,” Jill says, feeling no need to say what she knows to be true. When has he
not
appeared? Never. A journey through the winter air or waiting it out here, even if they have to wait for spring, seems easier than surviving his grasp.
She sits up straight. “
Did you hear that?
”
Claire’s pulse quickens. She listens.
“Now I do.
”
Galloping sounds, footsteps crunching the snow. A single light beam hits the window from a distance.
Claire looks at Jill, who turns the lantern off. She grasps a knife, hands another to Claire.
“Dogs,” Jill whispers. “
He brought the hounds.
”
“Malcolm’s dogs?”
She hadn’t noticed any at the house. Chills cover Claire’s body. Her hands tremble.
“An old friend’s, I think...”
If they are the dogs Jill’s expecting, she hasn’t seen them in years. More likely, it’s their offspring. The hunting dogs she met were sweet, but Malcolm has a way of drawing up evil everywhere. The friendliest animals in his company could turn into angry beasts.
She thinks of the deer that led her to find the hunting cabin in the first place, and again tonight.
Animals are our friends
. She tries to convince herself, though it’s more of a plea. Some animals are trained to kill...
The sounds grow louder—not just footsteps, but heavy breath. Louder. Any moment...
Claire prepares herself. Jill stands, holding a knife in the air. The door bursts open. Two large dogs bound in, bringing heavy breath, their feet scratching loudly on the wooden floor. One lowers its head, starts to growl. The other follows suit beside it.
“It’s all right...” Jill says, her voice soft and calm. “Good boy... It’s all right. It’s me, remember? The little girl you used to know.”
As she reaches a closed fist out toward the animal, its growl intensifies.
“Don’t, Jill.”
Claire winces, afraid it will bite.
“It’s all right...” Jill carries on.
A whistle sounds from outside. “It’s him,” Jill says. He’s communicating with the dogs from a distance, but he’s moving closer.
Jill closes her eyes and sends every ounce of loving energy she can to the growling dog pair.
Help us, sweet ones. Save us. Keep us from that monster.
Something tickles Jill’s hand. She opens her eyes. One of the dogs sniffs at her palm then licks it. Good boy. Another whistle sounds. This one louder. Closer.
“Go!” Jill whispers to the dogs, pointing at the door.
Make him leave.
The animals hesitate then exit the cabin. Jill closes the door behind them, exhaling in relief. Within moments the sounds fade—no scuffling of animals, no whistling—no Malcolm? But there were no sounds of footsteps moving away. Is the strengthening wind muffling them?
Claire’s eyes turn to the cabin door. It stands partway ajar, allowing brisk air to seep in. She inches toward it.
“Careful,” Jill warns.
I’ll be fine.
A few more steps. She’s almost there.
A powerful gust blasts the door fully open, releasing a creaking sound, filling the cabin with icy air. Claire closes her eyes, mouths a silent prayer then reaches for the handle.
“Wait!”
Jill warns.
Claire doesn’t listen. She peers outside. In a moment she disappears from the cabin. And a shrill scream fills the air.
Chapter Sixty-Five