But it didn’t happen.
The screaming faded and she heard a door slam, then the noise was outside. Elena got off the bed and moved for the window.
Cuffs.
Damn!
She gripped the iron frame and pulled the bed across the floor. At the window, she had a view of the yard and the barn on the other side of it. A low moon hung over the trees, and in its light she saw Jimmy dragging a man across the dirt. She couldn’t tell who it was, but thought maybe it was Stevan. Jimmy had him by the foot. The barn rose above them, and its shadow obscured them until Jimmy opened the door and light spilled out. Then she saw them clearly: Stevan on the ground, clutching his leg; Jimmy in the open door. He had a baling hook in his right hand. She could see it clearly—dark metal, a vicious point—and remembered them from childhood, from long days on her grandfather’s farm.
Stevan had his hands up, now. Voice lower.
Begging.
“Oh, God!”
The words escaped her throat, and she felt her stomach lurch as Jimmy swung the hook in a fast, looping curve that drove the point through the palm of Stevan’s hand and jerked the arm tight. For a second, the image froze—arm extended, hook rising from a palm stained black—then Stevan screamed again, feet drumming dirt as Jimmy dragged him into the barn.
For a moment more, light spilled out on the yard, then the door closed and Elena found herself alone in the still, hot air of the silent house. For long seconds, she was paralyzed as the scene flashed again in her mind. She saw the glint of steel, then yellow light and crazy shadows as the taste of fear rose like acid on her tongue and her ribs ached from the hard, sharp stutter in her chest.
“Michael…”
His name fell soft from her lips.
“Please…”
But Michael couldn’t save her. That was real; that was fact. She felt horror and panic, the ache in her arm as she stared around the room and found nothing there. If she was going to escape, she realized, she would have to do it on her own. Not later or tomorrow, but now, while Jimmy was busy. Because she knew one thing with certainty: he’d left her alive for a reason. And whatever that reason might be, it would not be good for her.
So she attacked the bed. She didn’t care about noise, pain or saving some last reserve of will. This was about survival, about whatever time she had left. She tore at the metal frame. She ripped off the mattress, then lifted one end of the bed and slammed it down over and over. She drove it against the wall, kicked hard metal and leaned on the cuffs until her arm was slick and torn and red. It lasted for a long time, until she was exhausted, worn and shaking weak. But she never gave up, never cried.
Not until Jimmy came.
It was dawn. His clothes were dripping wet, and even his hair was spiked red. Bits of Stevan spattered his arms, the backs of his hands, but it was the calm that scared her most. He walked through the door as any man might at the end of working day. Breath exhaled in a light puff; small shake of the head. As if to say,
You wouldn’t believe the day I had.
Elena pressed into the corner. He stepped into the room, lit a cigarette.
“That man…” He took a drag, shook his head and pushed out smoke. “Tougher than I thought.”
The lighter snapped shut, and Jimmy shoved his hand into a pocket, kept it there. Elena went totally still, eyes on the cigarette, the stained fingers.
“Still…” Jimmy looked pensive, but content. “Lots of time, you know.”
“Is he…”
Her voice cracked, and Jimmy picked up the thought.
“Is he dead? No.”
He was still too calm. Too matter-of-fact. Elena waited for the bad thing that was coming. “Why are you here?”
A shrug. “Thought I’d make coffee.”
“Please, let me go.”
“Maybe some breakfast.”
“What do you want with me?”
She was losing it; she was going to lose it.
Jimmy took a final drag, then pulled his hand from his pocket and dropped a bloody ear on the floor.
“Nothing yet,” he said.
And Elena lost it.
Abigail rode hard in the cool dawn: same horse she always rode, same muddy track through the low field by the river. The animal was a wellspring of strength and purpose, a touchstone when nothing else made sense—and right now, nothing made sense. Not Julian’s collapse and disappearance; not the bodies in the lake or the things Jessup said when he tried to make it right.
“Hah!”
She drove her heels into the horse’s flank, and the animal did what it was meant to do. Mud flew, and the reins snapped once in white lather before they found their stride.
It was all coming apart.
Everything.
She reached the end and turned, ran it again as her thoughts burned and the sun rolled close enough to ignite the sky. This was the day, she thought. Another body would surface or Julian would be found and arrested. Michael would find Andrew Flint or learn some terrible thing.
She reached the end of the field and was startled when Victorine Gautreaux stepped out of the trees. Abigail reined hard, horse sidestepping. “Damn, child, you’re going to get somebody killed.” The girl said nothing. “What are you doing here?”
Victorine rolled lean shoulders. “Looking for you.”
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
“You’re here often.”
“You watch me ride?”
“I like your horse.”
Abigail looked from the girl to the far house. They were alone. “What do you want?”
“Julian says there’s medicine—”
“What do you know about my son?”
“I know he came to me instead of you.”
There it was, the challenge that made Abigail despise Gautreaux women. “Is he okay?”
“He tells me there’s medicine to help get his head on right. He says you’d know what it was and that I was to collect it.”
Abigail peered down at this ragged child with perfect skin, small breasts and blades for hipbones. She was pretty enough, but pretty only went so far. “Are you sleeping with him?”
“Nobody touches me ’less I say.”
“We found condoms.”
“I’m not saying we haven’t talked about it, neither.” She shrugged. “Julian’s nice and all, but still…”
“Then why do you care?”
“He’s helping me.”
“With what?”
“With running away.”
Abigail could find no argument there. Running away from Caravel Gautreaux made more sense than most things. Her voice softened. “Are you telling me Julian sees some reason beyond the obvious to help you?”
She lifted her chin. “Coming from nothing don’t make me nothing.”
Abigail studied the girl more closely. She talked tough, and stood straight, but there was fear there, too. The stare didn’t hold as long as it could have. “I want my son back,” Abigail said.
“And he wants to get his head straight first. He’s scared.”
“Of what?”
“Will you give me the medicine?”
The horse moved back a step, and Abigail put a hand on its neck. “You’re out in these woods a lot.”
“I’m not doing nothing. I just like the woods.”
“Do you know anything about the bodies they’re finding?”
She shook her head, but it looked like a lie.
“Don’t lie to me,” Abigail said.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Julian says he’ll help you, fine. I’ll help you, too. Money. A place to live. I’ll set you up, little girl. I’ll change your life.”
Defiance dwindled to shiftiness. “You lie.”
“We have a billion dollars and change. Try me.”
The stare held between them, and it was Victorine Gautreaux who broke first. “All I know is what Julian told me.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“You won’t like it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“He told me it was you.”
“What?”
“He told me it was you who killed them boys.”
The second time Jimmy came for Elena, he was breathing heavily. She heard the front door slam, then fast, hard steps. When her door opened, it struck the wall and framed him perfectly: shoulders square and locked, jaw so tight muscles showed under the skin. The calm was gone, and in its place Elena saw anger so clear and bright it was unmistakable.
“Stubborn son of a bitch…”
Muttering.
“Goddamn selfish…”
Then he seemed to remember that he was not alone. His gaze settled on Elena, and he forced a smile. “Ah, still with me. Good.”
Elena tensed, and the chain drew tight.
“I’d like you to call Michael,” Jimmy said. “I’ll give you directions. He can come collect you.”
She dragged herself up from the floor. “No.”
“No?” Jimmy was too surprised to be angry. He laughed, a small, conflicted sound. Then he got angry. “Is that what you said? No?”
“I’m not going to help you.”
“I’m not required to ask, you know.” A dangerous glint came into his eyes. “I can put the phone to your bland, female face and I can make you scream. But as I’m tired…” He offered a wholly unconvincing smile. “I’d rather not do that.”
Elena understood, then, and in spite of her fear, she stood taller. “You want Michael to come, unsuspecting. You want me to set him up.”
“That’s not—”
“You’re frightened.”
Her chin came up, and Jimmy grew very still. “Do you believe in free choice?” he asked. “I do. It’s an important concept, a right that far too many people take for granted. They follow the herd; do the expected thing. Even Michael is guilty. He plays the good son, the good lover, the good man. It’s disgusting because it’s not who he is. He’s like me. Same thing.”
“Michael’s nothing like you.”
“If he told you different, he’s a liar.”
“I won’t help you.”
“Ah, ah. You don’t know what the choice is, yet.” Jimmy took a small key from his coat pocket. He stepped closer and Elena moved back until her cuffs snapped tight. The bed slid a few inches before Jimmy put a hand on the rail and halted it. “See…” He leaned close. “Words are easy.” He unlocked the cuff from the bed rail. “Choice is hard.”
“What are you doing?”
He yanked on the cuff and pulled her toward the door. “Making you a gift.”
Elena stumbled through the house, tripped and went down in a room of dead men. Jimmy jerked her hard, dragged her through bodies that were cold and stiff. She wanted to vomit but never had the chance, for as lean as Jimmy was, he was strong, too, and dragged her fast enough for rocks and dirt to tear skin off her back. Her arm twisted as if it might break, but that hurt was nothing compared to the thoughts that squirmed in her mind. He was taking her to Stevan, to the barn that rose hard-edged and dark against the pale, pink sky. From inside, she heard a sound that touched her in a terrible, intimate way. It was the sound of a shattered man weeping, wet and shameless and utterly broken. That’s where Jimmy took her, off the hard dirt and through a two-foot gap in the big doors. She saw high, dusty beams, shadows and weak, yellow light. She saw tools on nails, smelled oil and old straw.
And she saw Stevan.
“This is your choice.” Jimmy hauled her up, one hand in her hair, the other on the cuffs. He bent the arm behind her back, forced her up onto her toes and drove her forward. Stevan was naked and spread on his back across the hood of a rusted tractor. Rope led from his wrists to the rear axles of the tractor, where they were twisted tight. Baling hooks had been driven through the meat of his calves and tied down, one to an engine block, the other to a hundred-pound sack of fertilizer. He was stretched tight, his back bent, calves weeping blood. His body was a patchwork of open wounds.
But that was not the worst of it.
Not even close.
Elena turned away, but Jimmy jerked her straight. “No, no, no. Choice must be informed, and you haven’t really looked—”
“I have. Oh, God.”
“Looked but not seen.”
Jimmy moved her closer, and one of Stevan’s eyes rolled to follow her. The other eye didn’t move, couldn’t. The socket was a bloody hole, the eye just gone. A mirror hung above Stevan’s face, angled so he could witness the damage with his remaining eye.
“See?” Jimmy flicked a fingernail against the smooth, polished surface. “He can watch himself.”
“You’re insane.”
“No. There’s method here.”
His hand tightened in her hair and he moved her head, forced her to look the full length of the tortured man. “The eye should have done the trick. But like I told you earlier, he’s tougher than I thought.”
“Why are you doing this?” Elena was weak, choking.
“Money.”
“I don’t have it…”
The words croaked from Stevan’s throat, and Jimmy slapped one of the open wounds hard enough to make Stevan scream.
“I’m not talking to you,” Jimmy said.
The screaming went on, but Jimmy ignored it and spoke louder as he forced her to look at Stevan’s face. “I decided to take one side at a time. Left eye, left hand. You see?”
Elena nodded. Where the eye had been carved out, so, too, had the ear been removed. Strips of skin had been cut from his face, and four of his fingers had been snipped off, leaving only the thumb. Jimmy saw her looking, and said, “Thumb’s up.” He put a hand on Stevan’s bloody leg, leaned close so the one eye settled on him. “Thumb’s up, right?”
He laughed, and Stevan sobbed.
“I’ll probably do the eyebrow next,” Jimmy said. “Then maybe the scalp. Still on the left side. Do you see the method? The reason?”
“No.”
“He’s always been a two-faced, spoiled little shit. Now, everyone can see it.”
Elena tore her eyes away; she looked down at straw on the floor, then at the collection of sharpened tools. She saw chisels and wire brushes and shears and pliers. Sharp blades, serrated blades. Terrible tools, and bloody. They rested on a small, rickety table. Neatly ordered, largest to smallest. “Why are you doing this?”
“Otto Kaitlin died with sixty-seven million dollars in offshore accounts. I thought pretty-boy here could help me get it. I’m starting to think I was wrong.” Jimmy let go of Elena’s hair and lifted a chisel. Its edge gleamed silver, and he studied it. “See, Stevan claims he could never find the account numbers and passwords. We all assumed Otto gave them up before he died, but Stevan says that’s not true.”