EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE (23 page)

Tilting his head, he gave her a contemplative look. “He doted on you, used to hold you on his lap while he was reading. I was so jealous, but I soon learned that the nicer I was to you, the more Dad seemed to love me. And the nicer I was to you, the more I got to like you.” He smiled, and Hollin wanted to slap him.

“After Rachel told Dad I had sneaked into your room, he told me it was unhealthy to be thinking of you as anything more than a sister. But he didn’t understand. We were connected, you and me.”

Like hell, she thought, but didn’t voice her feelings.

“And then, when he stopped by that day, the day he had his heart attack, I realized he would never understand my feelings for you. He saw the pictures and . . .” He buried his face in his hands.

“What pictures, Brad?”

He lifted his head, and she noticed the grief stricken look on his face. “I usually keep that door locked. Dad was looking for the bathroom, and he opened it.”

“What door? What pictures?” Panic rose inside her, filling her veins and limbs with what felt like cement.

Shaking his head, he said, “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He smiled thinly. “All that matters now is the future. You and me.”

He was right. It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was her staying alive, getting away from him. She sat there, trying to tune him out while thinking how she could distract him, how she could get those keys.

He’d taken off his sports coat, and it now hung over the back of one of the chrome chairs. Perhaps if she told him she was hungry, he’d make something for her to eat. And once he turned his back on her, she could grab the keys and run.

“It was so easy to frame Wells. He never locked the door on that old trailer. I found his pocketknife in a drawer in his bedroom and tossed it in the bushes near the garage.” He snickered, obviously proud of himself. “I was the one who told Deputy Barnes to search the area again for evidence.” He exhaled loudly and shifted in his seat.

“I couldn’t believe that you would go anywhere near Wells when you came home.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t going to give you another chance, not after seeing you with him. Kissing him. And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, you let that piece of scum inside you. It was disgusting. Do you know how that made me feel? I wanted to kill you.”

Hollin cringed but refused to let him get to her. She pushed away from the chair and stood. “Brad, I’m starving. I need to eat something.”

“Haven’t you been listening to me?”

“I’m ready to pass out, and you must be hungry too.” She moved to the kitchen area, passing by the table and chairs, where Brad’s sports coat hung.

He quickly stood and closed the distance between them. “You’re trying to divert my attention, but it’s not going to work. There’s no way you can escape, Hollin.”

“I’m not trying to do any such thing. I’m just tired and hungry. After I eat something and rest a little, maybe we can talk some more. Maybe I’ll see things . . . differently.”

He reached out and touched her cheek and she almost lost it. Somehow she found the strength to force her trembling mouth into a smile.

“Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll cook for us,” she suggested, backing away from his revolting touch.

He dropped his hand to his side. “You’re not a very good liar. And if you think you’re going to find anything sharper than a butter knife in one of those drawers, you’re wrong.”

She swallowed back the bile in her throat. “Don’t be silly. I wasn’t thinking anything like that.” Slowly, she turned her back on him and went to scope out the contents of the refrigerator. She took out a carton of eggs, a stick of butter, some cheddar cheese.

Opening the cupboard doors, she searched for a pan, passing up the omelet pan in favor of a heavy, iron skillet. She turned on the gas burner, grabbed the box of matches on the back of the stove and lit it. While the butter melted in the skillet, she started preparing the omelet mixture.

From over her shoulder she noticed Brad had taken a chair at the small Formica table. “This is nice, you cooking for me. We could do this every morning together. You, Chelsea and I.”

Hollin stiffened.
Chelsea?

“Do you think she looks like me?”

Why hadn’t she put it together before now? Brad was Chelsea’s father. She fought back both a wave of tears and nausea. “Yes,” she muttered, refusing to look at him. “She does.” Although Rachel had always thought her niece was Rachel’s clone.

“Rachel refused to admit she was mine, but I knew. That lying slut!”

Hollin beat the eggs with a fork, taking all her frustration out on them.

“I knew I had to kill her.”

Her knees almost buckled as she grated the cheese.

“I was afraid I might not be able to murder a woman with my bare hands, which is why I decided I needed a little practice.”

The cheese grater flew out of her hands and hit the linoleum with a clang. Slowly she turned to face him. “You’ve killed . . . others?”

“Just one other. Some teenage whore. She was nobody.”

She was a person! Someone’s daughter!
Hollin turned her back on him and poured the egg mixture into the skillet. As the eggs cooked, time seemed to pass by at a crawl, and she wanted Brad to shut up. She didn’t want to hear any more.

She grabbed two plates and carried them to the table. When the eggs were nearly done, she added the cheese and let it melt. Lifting the skillet from the burner, she carried it over to the table and scooped half the omelet onto her plate and the other half onto Brad’s. “Mmmmm,” she said, “doesn’t that look good?”

“Yes, it--”

But Brad didn’t get a chance to finish what he was going to say. Hollin drew back the hot skillet and slammed it into his face.

His scream was deafening as he fell backward, chair and all, onto the floor. “You bitch!” he yelled, holding one hand over his eye and forehead, while trying to reach for her ankle with his other hand.

She managed to escape his grasp, moving back a few feet. She almost dropped the skillet and ran, but then she remembered the keys. Brad was lying on his jacket.

He rolled to his side and was about to get up when Hollin charged forward and banged him on the side of the head this time. He fell onto his back, looking disoriented, moaning loudly. She thwacked him again, this time on the kneecap before dropping the skillet to the floor.

Grabbing the sleeve of the sports coat, she yanked it out from underneath him and ran to the front door. Her hands searched frantically for the keys, but there wasn’t a single key in any of the pockets. She shook the fabric, daring them to fall to the floor. But they were gone.

“Where are the keys?” she shouted. She ran back across the room, grabbed the skillet from the floor and held it over Brad. “Tell me where you put the keys!”

But Brad didn’t answer her, nor was he moving.

“He raped you?” Griffin asked, staring at Sara MacDougal’s teary eyes.

“I really didn’t think of it as rape at the time.” She gave him a sheepish look. “I mean, we were married. I didn’t blame him for being angry or hurt. I thought it was me. I hated for him to touch me. I thought it was because I might be gay. But I realize now it was more than that. It was Brad’s touch I hated more than anything.” She swiped a tear with the back of her hand. “I was his wife. He said he had a right to have sex whenever he felt like it, and that I had no right to tell him no.”

Bastard!
Griffin shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he told her, not knowing what else to say. But knowing MacDougal had raped Sara confirmed the nagging suspicion in his mind that he might have also been the one who had raped Hollin thirteen years ago. And now he and Hollin were both missing.

“There’s something else.”

Griffin locked gazes with her. “Tell me.”

She swallowed noisily, while twisting her hands in her lap. “Brad used to talk to me about Hollin all the time. How pretty she was. How I should wear my hair more like hers, learn to dress like her, eat better, exercise more.” She rolled her eyes. “The more he tried to make me look like his sister, the more I tried to deliberately do the opposite. I cut my hair and dyed it, wore the ugliest clothes I could find, I stopped exercising, started eating junk food.” Lifting her shoulder, she smiled. “It worked. I managed to gain thirty pounds, which totally infuriated Brad. But he never touched me again, and for that I was grateful.”

Griffin released a loud breath. “Sara, there’s a good chance Brad has Hollin somewhere. Any idea where he could have taken her?”

Sara seemed to be contemplating, then shook her head. “Sorry. I have no clue.” But she’d no sooner given her answer, when her face lit up. “Wait! I . . .”

Griffin slid to the edge of his chair. “What is it?”

“Right before we split, Brad bought a cabin up near Lake Michigan somewhere. He said it was close to where his dad used to take him fishing when he was a kid.”

“Where near Lake Michigan?”

“I don’t know. I was never there. We were barely speaking to one another by then.” She gave him an imploring look. “I’m really sorry.”

Standing, he said, “Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve been a big help, but I really need to go.” He rushed to the door, Sara on his heels. “Thanks, Sara.”

He left Sara staring after him as he ran to his truck and sped off toward town. He parked on the street in front of Brad’s place, cut the engine and made his way around back. It was an old brick building with a set of metal stairs leading to a small deck on the second floor. Griffin was about to climb the stairs, when an elderly woman stuck her head out the door of the first floor apartment. “Can I help you with something?”

Griffin forced a smile. “Mr. MacDougal asked me to stop by and take a look at these stairs. He wants them replaced.”

The woman stared at him suspiciously.

“And he asked me to build a new patio for you as well,” he added.

She tilted her head, glared at him for a moment longer, then relaxed her shoulders. “Well, it’s about time. There’s barely any room when my son and grandkids come to visit. And the concrete is cracked in several places. It’s not safe. I could trip and fall.”

Griffin pretended to study the patio’s cracks. “That’s what I told Mr. MacDougal. It’s dangerous. As soon as I finish upstairs, I’ll be back down to measure everything.”

“I hope you’re not going to make a lot of noise up there.”

“Not today, ma’am. I’m really just checking things out, and I have to go inside to look at Mr. MacDougal’s tub. He wants me to replace it with one of those big soaking tubs.”

“I’m the one who needs a tub. I only have a shower in my bathroom.”

Griffin winked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She nodded, then closed the door.

Not wanting to waste anymore time, he raced up the stairs, pulled out his pocket knife, and went to work on the lock. He was inside in less than thirty seconds.

The one thing he noticed about Brad MacDougal was that he was a neat freak. There were no dishes in the polished stainless steel sink and the countertops were free of clutter. In the living room, there were no magazines or newspapers lying about. The bed was made and the bathroom tidy. Seeing a closed door, which he assumed led to a second bedroom or spare room, he tried the knob, but it was locked.

Interesting. Why would the man lock the door to the spare room when he lived alone? What are you hiding, MacDougal?

Griffin
kicked in the door, the wood splintering away from the frame. He pushed open the door and froze. “Jesus!”

Closing his eyes momentarily, he swore, then dug in his back pocket for his cell phone. “Sheriff Tyler please,” he barked when the female dispatcher answered.

Tyler had barely identified himself when Griffin said, “There’s something you need to see. Right now!”

#

Griffin didn’t waste time waiting for Sheriff Tyler to arrive. He dug through the desk drawers and file cabinet, scattering papers and paid invoices onto the floor, looking for something that would give him an address for the cabin in Michigan. And then, finally he found it.

A tax bill.

At the same time, Sheriff Tyler came bounding into the apartment and made his way back to the spare bedroom. The bedroom MacDougal had turned into a shrine.

Tyler whistled through his teeth, his gaze scanning the hundreds of photos on the wall. All of Hollin.

“Don’t touch anything,” the man warned.

“Too late,” Griffin said, waving the tax bill he’d found. He stepped on the papers on the floor, his boots crunching them, and made his way out into the hall. “He’s got Hollin at some cabin up in Michigan. About six hundred miles from here, I’d guess.”

Sheriff Tyler reached for the bill in Griffin’s hand. “Now hold on.”

“There’s no time,” Griffin said, feeling his anger mount. “MacDougal’s the one who raped Hollin and framed me. And now that sick bastard . . .” He couldn’t say the words, refused to think what he might be doing to Hollin, what he might have already done to her. “We need to find her.”

The sheriff stared at Griffin for only a moment before nodding. “Let’s go. I’ll make some calls on the way, get a cruiser up there right away to check things out.”

Griffin followed the sheriff out of the apartment and into the cruiser. While the man made some calls, Griffin made one of his own. To Sara MacDougal.

“I thought of something you could do to help,” he said once she answered.

“Sure, anything.”

“Do you like dogs?”

“Uh, yes, but--”

“Good,” he said, feeling relieved. He needed someone to take care of Buster. After giving her a brief rundown of what was going on, he told her where a spare key to his house was hidden, then quickly hung up.

Sheriff Tyler glanced his way. “If it turns out you’re right about MacDougal, I owe you an apology.”

“Oh, I’m right about him, all right.” Only Griffin wished he wasn’t. He wanted Hollin safe in his arms. He wanted to tell her she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. She was only person he’d ever loved.

He turned to stare out the window as they sped along and prayed silently.

“Have you ever been in a chopper, Wells?” The sheriff’s question came out of nowhere.

Griffin faced him. “No, why?”

“Well, we can get there a hell of a lot faster in one of them things than this damn car. And I know just where we can get us a helicopter ride.” A smile spilled from beneath his big mustache. “Buckle up, and hold on.”

#

Hollin stood, gasping and panting, while staring down at Brad. The side of his head was bleeding and swollen, but she didn’t care. Still armed with the hot skillet, she nudged him in the side with the toe of her shoe.

Nothing. She’d almost thought he was dead when she saw his chest rise and fall. She closed her eyes momentarily, not really sure if she was sorry or relieved she hadn’t killed him.

Waiting for her breathing to subside, she forced herself to think. The keys weren’t inside his jacket pocket. Had he moved them to one of the pockets in his pants?

Tentatively, she knelt on the floor beside him and touched one palm to the closest pocket. No keys. She did the same with the other pocket. And still nothing. Which meant she would have to flip him over onto his stomach in order to check his back pockets.

She tried to roll him over with one hand, but wasn’t strong enough. She had no choice but set the skillet on the floor and use both hands. Using as much strength as she could convoke, she managed to roll him over but ended up losing her balance and landing on her behind. Quickly, she righted herself, ran her hands over his pockets and let out a wail when she realized there were no keys.

Getting to her feet in a frenzied manner, she tore around the room, lifting sofa cushions and rugs, opening kitchen drawers and cupboards. She made her way to the bedrooms and began another frantic search. But there were no keys to be found. They had to be there somewhere.

Hearing a moan coming from the living room, Hollin froze, then tip-toed out into the hall. She had to get out of here. Not wanting to chance Brad seeing her, she rushed back to the closest bedroom and closed the door behind her and locked it. She stared at the boarded up window on the far wall. It was the only way out.

An antique oak chair sat in the corner, but paying no more regard to it than if it were a tree stump, Hollin picked it up and slammed it against the window. Glass broke and shattered, spraying her clothing and hair. Ignoring the mess, she slammed the chair against the window again, this time hitting the wooden boards and hearing them splinter.

She whacked the chair against the wood over and over again. Daylight came creeping through the splintered boards, bringing with it a taste for freedom.
She was about to ram the chair through the opening one last time when she heard Brad call out.

“Hollin!”

His voice was muffled, but she heard her name just the same. He would find her. Setting the chair on the floor, she stood on its seat, and kicked through the wood, not giving a damn about the scrapes and cuts or pain. She had managed to dislodge one of the criss-cross sections of wood. She kicked at it again and almost jumped with joy when the last board fell to the ground outside.

But just as she was about to leap through the window opening, Brad busted into the room. “Get away from that window, Hollin.”

She could jump through it faster than he would make it around the bed and grab her. She’d made up her mind to do just that when she saw the rifle in his hand.

“This thing will blow a hole in you the size of a watermelon. Think of Chelsea, Hollin.”

Was he bluffing? Or was the rifle really loaded? And where had it come from? Was it the same one she’d seen hanging above the fireplace? If so, would Brad be stupid enough to keep it loaded.

“Okay, Brad,” she said in a shaky voice. She felt blood running downing her calf, and her leg stung from the cuts and scrapes. “You win.” She lifted a hand in front of her. “Only you’re making me nervous pointing that thing at me.”

“Get down from that chair.”

“I am. I’m getting down,” she said, bending one knee slightly. “But please stop pointing that rifle at me. It could go off accidentally. I’ve heard of that happening before. Please, Brad, point it at the floor and I’ll get down.”

He hesitated for a moment, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind, then lowered the barrel downward. It was all the time she needed to propel herself out the window. The gun shot came two seconds later.

She landed on her back in the wet grass and muddy earth. The wind had been knocked out of her, but she had to move. And move she did. She scrambled behind the nearest tree just in time to hear another shot ring out, and then she ran.

“Hollin!”

It would take him a few moments to get out the window and to his feet, and she used that time to bury herself deeper into the woods. She was careful to stay away from the road and the lake, where she would be out in the open.

She ran in a zigzag pattern, dodging branches, tree roots and rocks, afraid of one of those bullets finding her and blowing her head off. It was still raining, the ground and decayed leaves slick and slippery. Several times, she’d nearly fallen. She didn’t hear him behind her, but she wasn’t about to assume he’d given up the chase.

The damp air was so humid she couldn’t get enough air. She wanted to stop, just long enough to catch her breath. But she couldn’t. No, the only way to stay alive now was to continue on. No matter how tortured her lungs and body were. She pushed herself to run a little faster. To get as far away from that cabin as possible.

Her face met with a branch and tangled in her hair, stopping her dead in her tracks. She yanked at her hair, trying to free herself, and then she heard the ground crunching and twigs crackling behind her.

Brad.

She finally freed herself, and shot around the bend. She didn’t see the tree stump in her path until it was too late. Her ankle snapped and she went down.

Now she was helpless. Like a scared rabbit in a trap. And there was absolutely no one to help her.