Authors: August McLaughlin
“Claire!” Jill darts to the door and a horrific sight.
Malcolm stands outside, Claire’s neck caught in the stranglehold of one arm, her legs dangling above the ground. With his other hand he holds a gun to her temple. Her red face is pressed with desperation; her eyes read,
Help!
The dogs stand on either side of them, vigilant, as though awaiting commands. Judging from Malcolm’s steely expression, he’s not about to back down.
“No, my love!” Jill calls out. “Don’t hurt her.”
Malcolm stares at Jill, a forlorn look in his one good eye. He appears torn and confused, but doesn’t ease his grasp. “She turned you away from me.”
The dogs continue to stand beside Malcolm on high alert, their eyes locked on Jill.
She glances at Claire, who struggles to breathe. “That’s not true! She was scared and confused, that’s all. She didn’t know better. She’s part of us! Of Dawn, remember?”
“She’s...part of...
him
! Gil kept us apart. I’ll never forgive him.”
He holds Claire tighter. She gags, her struggle intensifying.
Jill keeps trying. “Don’t you love me anymore? As I love you?” She grasps the doorway with one hand and reaches her opposite arm toward Malcolm, beckoning. “Please...Dawn wouldn’t want you to hurt her. She can save me. Let her go. Please!”
With another look at Claire, Jill steps outside, trembling. She winces, as if in pain, closes her eyes. Her hands fly up to her head—dizzy, falling. “I feel...so...” She falls to the ground.
“No!” Malcolm drops Claire and rushes to Jill, the gun still in his hand. He kneels down, listens for her breath.
Claire chokes, catches her breath then rushes up behind him.
In a swift move Jill draws her knife, tries to plunge it into his neck. But Malcolm catches on too fast.
“Liar!” He grabs her wrist, forces it and then her to the ground, seemingly unaware of Claire’s presence. “She’s gotten to you! I won’t let you become her!”
Claire reaches down and takes the knife from Jill’s hand.
You will not hurt her!
Not anymore. With fury as fuel, she raises the weapon up above her head. Releasing a yell, she forces it down, lodging it into Malcolm’s back as though stabbing tough meat.
“Yaggghhh!”
His angry yell blares as he tries to stand.
As Jill rolls away he lifts his gun in the air, his hand weak and wobbling. The women prepare to duck. Malcolm makes a guttural sound, then his whole body lurches as he pulls the trigger, a loud
bang
piercing the quiet winter air. His body goes limp. He lays on his side, deflated, the knife handle protruding from his back, the gun still clutched in his hand.
The dogs rush to him, sniff him wildly then lick his bloody back. Rather than react, Malcolm’s body seems lifeless.
Claire helps Jill to her feet, unsure whether it’s her own or Jill’s heavy breathing she hears.
Malcolm’s mouth opens. “Help...me. Please...” he says. Then, nothing.
The sisters lock eyes then hands.
Is he...dead?
The hounds sit on their haunches then start howling like coyotes. They believe he is, Jill thinks.
The women wait a few more minutes, watching as a pool of crimson soaks the snowy white. A harsh wind blows, sending whistling sounds through the air.
Jill looks at Claire.
Ready?
Claire offers a subtle nod.
Figuring it’s safe to move, Jill clasps Claire’s hand tighter and points with her face toward the cabin.
Let’s go.
“Should we just leave him here?” Claire whispers, eying the gun cradled in his arm. “What if he...wakes up?”
Jill looks around, focuses on a nearby tree. “We can tie him up. The rope.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Hank glances around the dim basement, grateful to be breathing. If the bullet had hit him centimeters to his right, it might not be the case.
A spree of thoughts struck him after Malcolm pulled the trigger:
Holy shit—I’ve been shot!
What a story I’ll have for patients...
Don’t let him know you’re alive.
Immediately, Hank realized the bullet must have missed major organs and arteries. Otherwise, his abdomen would have swelled up like a balloon. He’d let blood spill rather than apply pressure immediately, laid still and held his breath until Malcolm sped up the stairs, slamming then locking the door behind him. Good thing the bastard was in a hurry.
A concern has stayed with Hank since: if Malcolm would shoot to kill him, he’s as psychotic as he feared. And whether or not Malcolm has gotten to her, Claire is in grave danger...assuming she’s even alive.
With caution, Hank removes his jacket and uses it to apply pressure to the wound. The pain is like nothing he’s ever felt. And they say kidney stones are the worst pain known to man. They can’t feel worse than this. He fights the urge to vomit, hoping to prevent more fluid loss. Judging from the pool of red surrounding him, he’s already lost too much.
Once the “bandage” is secure, he slides carefully across the floor toward the desk and cabinets. Every inch magnifies his pain. How’s that even possible?
Finally, he arrives at the storage unit, relieved to find alcohol, cotton swabs, gauze, tape and bandages. But unfortunately, no hard core pain drugs. Megadose ibuprofen will have to do. He guides with logic, drawing on what he’s learned and applied in medical school. Meanwhile he studies the procedure as a curious student.
The thought of recapping the story on daytime TV almost makes him laugh.
“Yes, Kelly Lee. I did get shot before saving my girlfriend’s life...”
A tender pull in his chest brings tears to his eyes.
Damn it, Claire. Where are you?
He cleanses the wound, wincing as the alcohol stings his raw skin. He dresses it with gauze then secures it with tape. The absence of a second wound on his back means the bullet remains inside him. While grateful for only one external injury, the possibility of internal bleeding adds to his anxiety. If he moves too much, or even if he doesn’t, he risks more serious damage.
He swallows two large, chalky pills then sits for a long moment, hoping the wooziness will pass. Soon, the pain pills are either working or he’s getting used to the pain. Or slipping away from it. From shock?
Think about this, he prompts. He’s injured but he has his mind. Numerous scenarios could unfold: Claire could show up. The police could arrive, or a neighbor. Could someone have heard the gunshot? Though remote, other properties must stand in the area. The road could draw passersby. Malcolm could reappear, with or without Claire...
Or, as much as he hates to admit it, he could die here—in the minutes, hours or days before anyone shows up.
Regardless of what happens, he can’t just lay here and wait.
He moves toward the desk with the pace of an injured snail, then pulls himself up to sit on the chair. Good thing he does pull-ups and dips; his biceps and triceps are coming in handy. Fierce pain keeps him from sitting straight up, but leaning back it isn’t so bad. He uses the edge of the desk as an anchor as he rolls the chair to the cabinet and freezer.
Back at the desk with ice on his wound, he uses a scalpel to pick the small, metal lock open. Opening the wooden roll-top reveals a computer—
thank God.
While the system boots up, he pulls the IV machine close by. It won’t improve his blood levels, but it could boost circulation. Anything to increase his odds of survival.
Navigating the computer screen, he finds that Malcolm’s computer files require passwords. But he is able to open the web browser.
Before attempting any other task, he logs on to his email and composes a message to Claire, hoping that at some point she will read it. And that it isn’t his last.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Inside the cabin, the twins gather the rope and scissors.
“Is this enough to tie him up?” Claire asks. From the looks of it, they have about three yards to work with.
“Should be. We can at least tie him to a tree. With his injuries, he’ll probably die out here. But even if he broke free, I doubt he has the strength to chase us now.” Jill recalls their previous attempts to restrain him...unsuccessful. Everything is different now, she reminds herself. Malcolm is weak and injured. And she has Claire.
Looking at her sister for confidence, she heads for the door.
They return outside to see the hounds lying on either side of Malcolm, who remains motionless. They step closer. Is he breathing? Jill can’t tell. She arranges the rope down on the ground beside him. “Help me roll him onto it.”
Claire looks again at the gun in Malcolm’s arm then bends down to retrieve it, trying not to breathe through her nose. What do dead people smell like? He didn’t smell good alive...
Jill looks up to see Malcolm’s one eye, open. He winks.
“Wait!” But it’s too late.
He grabs Claire’s legs with one arm, grunts angrily as he pulls her down. She yelps, crushed by the heft of his body as he rolls on top of her.
“Get...off of me!” Her words come out muffled. Snow fills her mouth, chafes the skin on her face. Ignoring the discomfort, she tries to throw him off of her, but it’s like moving a cement wall.
“Let her
go
!” Dropping the rope, Jill rushes over. She tries, but can’t pry his fingers from Claire’s neck. As she reaches for the gun, Malcolm lifts it in the air and knocks her away with it. She falls back in frustrated tears.
Jill reaches down and yanks the knife from his back, sending blood spurting into the air. He yowls, arching his back in agony. The hounds bark loudly—a canine cry for help.
With Claire wriggling beneath him,
Malcolm pulls on Jill’s leg, forcing her to the ground. As he loosens his grip on the gun, Claire lunges for it. She misses, but causes the weapon to fall from his grasp and slide several feet across the snow. Finally, she’s free of his trap.
“Get her!” Malcolm commands the dogs from his position on the ground. He points at Claire. The animals growl. Their furry hackles rise as they lower their heads and torsos in pre-attack position.
Claire shudders. “No, please!”
But rather than jump at Claire, the hounds attack Malcolm, tearing at his clothing as though he’s an intruder. One stands on Malcolm’s back, holding him down like captured prey.
He lurches, his hand falling on the gun. He points it at Claire. A click sounds.
“No!” Jill pulls the scissors from her pocket and charges him.
Whatever it takes!
She plunges it into Malcolm’s neck, sending blood spurting. He rolls back, gasping and choking, as though drowning. He pulls the trigger, sending a stray bullet into the air.
Jill stabs his neck again and again. Blood pours from his mouth. He chokes and gags, his mouth a gurgling fountain.
“You bastard!
You...took...everything!
I HATE YOU! You can’t take her, too!”
Claire tries to stop her, but it’s like trying to catch a tornado. As his body jerks and twitches Jill raises the shears and stabs him again and again, over and over, plunging the blades into whatever flesh is left exposed. Then, dropping the scissors, she pounds what remains with her fists—screaming, crying, her body drenched in his gore, until all that’s left is a pile of torn, bloodied meat.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Claire grabs onto Jill. This time Claire is able to pull her sister away. “He’s gone, Jill. He’s gone.”
Claire holds her, feeling the sobs that ripple through Jill’s frail body as tears pour from eyes identical to her own. “It’s all right... It’s all right now. It’s over.”
The sisters hold each other as they sob. Neither can bear to look at the bloody corpse in the snow or erase its image from their minds. A pile of person with no soul. Did Malcolm possess one in the first place?
Jill steps back from Claire, faltering as though dizzy. The strength seems to have drained from her body and spirit.
“Let’s get back inside.” She leads Jill to the cabin, supporting her with what little strength she has remaining. The hounds follow, huddling up beside them on the blanket, adding greater warmth. Claire brings the lit lantern closer.
Soon they scarcely need it—for light, anyway. They sit quietly and observe as sunlight streams through the windows and birds begin chirping a singsong ‘good morning.’
“We made it through the night,” Claire says. “How are you feeling?”
“Numb. But relieved. We should start heading back soon.”
Claire observes her sister, wishing she could donate some of her own body weight and heat. Jill appears alert, but fragile. And more exhausted than before. “Drink this.” Claire hands her a cupful of water then walks to the door. “I’ll check the weather.”
Stepping outside, the shock of Malcolm’s bloody corpse, illuminated in the broad day sun, hits her like a punch in the stomach. The one benefit is the chilly air, which may be preventing a putrid smell.
She opens her eyes, prompting happier thoughts. Elle, Zola, her patients...Hank. She longs to feel Hank’s arms encircling her, hear his voice, taste his kiss. Though she hasn’t yet told him, she’s now certain: she loves him—deeply. Now, with Malcolm out of their lives, little matters more than seeing her loved ones. And introducing them to Jill.
But first, she reminds herself, they have to make it back.
The sun rises higher, adding a blanket of yellowish orange to the horizon. Straight above, she spots a few dark clouds. They seem to be moving, hopefully away. No more snow—yet. But even with the warmth of the sun, a sharp chill permeates the air. And both she and Jill are colder and weaker than they were when their journey began.
“Everything all right?” Jill’s voice sounds from the cabin.
“Yeah, I’ll be right in.”
Think
. Questions accumulate in Claire’s mind like fast-falling snow. Should they leave now? Together? What if it storms? What if Jill isn’t strong enough to make it back? Is Claire strong enough herself?