Bad to the Bone

Literary license is a wonderful thing. It’s like permission to be wild. Why am I telling you this? Because I’ve taken a little license.
Okay, Okay!
I’ll confess. I’ve taken a lot, but I have wanted to shake up a fairy tale from the moment I read the first Loveswept
Treasured Tale
. I wanted to do something on the edge, wanted to stand my fairy tale on its head and spin it in a new direction.

After all, I thought, my editor didn’t bat an eye at the psychic archaeologist and the midwife. She calmly accepted the idea about the ex-navy SEAL and the ice-skating nun. Maybe she’d actually let me go a little farther out on that limb I seem so fond of.

And so it was that I called my editor one fine day.

“I have this idea for
Treasured Tales
. Are you ready for this? It’s Goldilocks and the Three Hit Men!”

Upon hearing my clever description, all she could manage was, “Excuse me?”

Encouraged—it doesn’t take much to encourage me—I forged ahead. “This isn’t going to be an ordinary fairy tale.”

“Fairy tales aren’t
supposed
to be ordinary.”

“My point exactly!” I agreed, so relieved she understood. Then I told her, “There is something that appeals to me about innocence surrounded by predators. My Goldilocks isn’t lost in the woods,
but
she is alone and searching. And, of course, the bears have guns in my version.”

My very brave editor said, “Scoot over,” and joined me on that limb. Isn’t that what fairy tales are really all about?

Debra Dixon

She forced herself to stay awake in the relentless dark, clinging to a slim hope, a simple plan. Her sense of time had vanished days before. But she could still tell night from day. Night felt different, colder.

That’s when
he
came. Always the same routine. He’d open the door, angle the flashlight beam at her, and throw down a sandwich in a Baggie and a carton of milk or juice. Then he’d close the door, leaving her alone in the total blackness of the small damp basement. All without a word.

Except when he
—

Automatically shutting off the memory, she realized the whole nightmare would forever be divided not into days or nights, but into the time
before
he killed Jenny and the time
after
he killed Jenny. He’d kill her too. Maybe not tonight, but soon. No one was going to save her. No one was coming for her. She didn’t expect them to. Now that Jenny was gone, she was completely alone.

Shivering against the cold and the fear and the aching loss, she lay on a bare mattress that smelled of
mold and something worse she couldn’t name. Anxiously she raised herself to a sitting position and pulled back the corner of the mattress. A little sigh escaped her as she felt carefully with her hand, reassuring herself for the hundredth time that it was still there. She hadn’t dreamed it.

The long shard of glass was dagger shaped with a wicked point. She had found it in the corner where it must have fallen when someone pulled out the window and bricked in the opening. Her fingertips brushed softly against the cool glass, remembering how it had been half buried in loose dirt, a treasure waiting to be discovered. That’s when the idea had come to her; that’s when she had decided to try.

Outside she heard the faint rumble of an engine. Fighting sudden nausea, she clutched her uneasy stomach through her T-shirt. Her heart pumped the sick feeling through her body with every erratic beat. When dread threatened her resolve, she forced herself to grab the long, sharp wedge of glass. She had to be ready before he came. She might not get another chance.

Terrified, she walked to the rickety wooden stairs which jutted out into the room and started up them.
One, two, three, four
.…

She counted the steps as she climbed; she’d counted them a thousand times that day. Practiced crouching and balancing on top of the flat guardrail at the landing until her back ached and her legs screamed. But not with the piece of glass. That had been too precious to risk. Even now she was more terrified of breaking the only weapon she had than she was of what lay ahead.

As silently as she could, she crawled onto the railing, choosing the side nearest the door hinges. Clumsily
she wobbled on her hands and knees, unable to get to her feet, her nerves interfering with her balance. When she couldn’t stop shaking, she began to panic, which only made the shaking worse.

She had to stand up. Her hands had to be free. The door had to swing all the way open without touching her. Otherwise he’d know she was waiting, and she’d lose her chance. Closing her eyes, she tried to calm herself. This railing was just like the balance beams she had made last summer, she told herself. Just an old two-by-four supported by volumes “A” and “M” of the encyclopedia. She wet her lips and tried again. This time she made it.

With the glass held gingerly in one hand, she tried not to think about the floor below or her chances of surviving a fall like that. It didn’t matter. He was going to kill her anyway. He had killed Jenny just to make a point. She had no choice. Quickly she pulled a torn strip of T-shirt from her pocket and wrapped the wide end of the glass. She wrapped a second strip around her hand.

Beyond the door she could hear muffled noise. Maybe the sound of a paper sack, a chair dragging across a floor. But no footsteps.

Why didn’t he come?

Sweat trickled down her temple and the back of her neck. Finally she could hear the thud of boots as he walked toward the door.

One by one, four dead bolts clicked, and the knob turned. She held her breath, afraid the tiniest sound would give her away. The door swung gently open, the edge of it bouncing against the railing in front of her sneaker. Light flashed down the stairs, arrowing toward the mattress.

Please
, she begged silently, adjusting her grip on the glass-knife.
One more step. So I can see you. Please!

He took the step.

In one action she made herself drive the glass into the side of his throat and tried to shove him down the stairs. She shuddered at the feel of the glass as it slid home, but she couldn’t allow herself to pity him. Not if she wanted to survive.

Half-turning, he grabbed for her. She screamed and lunged for the door—clinging to it, fighting for balance as she kicked him hard enough to send him plunging down the stairs. Without wasting a second, she jumped to the landing and got around the door, frantically pulling it shut and locking the bolts.

She ran out into the night, feeling almost safe for the first time; until she realized she was in the middle of nowhere. There were no neighbors, no traffic on the road, no one to save her. Then she saw a hint of light through the trees in the distance. She didn’t stop running or screaming for help until an old man came bolting out of a country home and into the yard in front of her. He was barefoot and wearing pajamas, but he had a shotgun. “Hey now! Who are you running from? What’s this about?”

“Please,” was all she could get out as she reached him. The words stuck in her throat.

He grabbed hold of her arm to steady her, then tilted her chin up to the moonlight so he could look down into her face. “Oh, my God. You’re one of those little girls they’re looking for. One of the twins.” He pushed her behind him, backing her toward the safety of his house.

Little girls?
Jessie Dannemora almost laughed.

Sometimes Jessica would go months without the nightmare, and then she’d have it every night for a week. Always the same. Always the feeling of helplessness and terror. Always the scream that sliced through her heart and woke her—the scream no one else could hear because it was in her mind. It was Jenny’s scream—sharp and clear after all these years.

Midnight had come and gone, but Jessica still huddled in the corner of her sofa, wrapped in an old starburst quilt and staring at a dark television screen. She shouldn’t have needed the quilt; Utopia, Texas, was warm in June. Unfortunately, the chill came from inside herself—from the fear of going to sleep and confronting the past again.

This had been a bad week.

Who was she kidding? This had been a bad year.

The phone rang twice before the sound of the bell penetrated her reverie. The telephone didn’t ring often. When it did, Jessica never answered until her machine screened the call. All the same, as if compelled,
her hand snaked out from beneath the quilt and snagged the receiver.

“What?” Her less than cordial greeting clearly flustered the caller.

Silence reigned for a second, and she thought they’d hung up until she heard an unmistakably young female voice say, “M-miss Dannemora?”

Jessica threw off the quilt and sat up as a shiver slid along her spine, distributing alarm until the hair on the back of her neck stood up. No one was supposed to know how to find Jessica Dannemora.
No one
.