Instinct (27 page)

Everything is
dark and fuzzy, black swirls twisting sickly through my vision and I feel
myself being lifted and shoved, my shoulder landing against something hard
before another blow smashes into my face and the world goes black.

I come to with
a start and immediately lunge for the door, the handle standing out with stark
clarity in the center of a blur, as though the only thing my bruised brain is
capable of focusing on is a way out. Phillip curses viciously before swinging
the car off the road violently enough to knock me back again. He shoots out of
the car and I scramble for the door, planning to kick him and run. But the door
behind me opens instead and his arm is around my neck, pulling me into an
unforgiving embrace that cuts off my air and sends dark spots flashing before
my eyes.

“You stupid
bitch, you couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? I was going to take my
time with you, do things clean this time, but you forced my hand. Shit, this is
going to be hard to cover up,” Phillip snarls, his breathing labored. I strike
out at him with everything I have, knowing if I lose consciousness this time I
will likely not recover. “You and that freak Nicole just keep pushing me.
Calling me a murderer, drawing attention to me. I didn’t even kill Miranda and
you bitches won’t quit! Now I’ve got get rid of you too, and this is going to
be a pain in the ass to clean up.” He sounds more annoyed than anything.

My struggle is
getting weaker, my arms barely flailing and my kicks failing to accomplish anything.
A stone sits where my lungs should be, and I feel my eyes bulging out of my
skull, trying to release the terrible pressure in my head. My fingers catch
something solid and I dig my nails in, raking them across Phillip’s neck,
feeling the skin rip and catch beneath my clawed hands.

His arm-lock
around my neck tightens and my arms go limp. He is still growling, cursing me,
cursing Nicole, but I am drifting on a sea of misery, agonized gasps barely
clearing my lips as the darkness descends again and the emerald glow of
Phillip’s eyes dims and sputters out.

I am cold and
cramped, my knees bent at an awkward angle, as though I have been stuffed into
a box too small for me. I blink my eyes open but nothing greets my vision apart
from darkness so complete it is suffocating. Panic races through me and I reach
out only to meet a solid wall inches above my face, solid and metallic. Great
gulps of air punch into me and I begin to hyperventilate, sure I have been
buried alive, that somehow I am trapped in the ground with Miranda and Nicole,
planted in some psychotic version of a garden in Phillip’s backyard.

The sound and
sense of movement gradually bring me back, and once my breathing subsides, I
can hear the rumble of the wheels rolling beneath me and realize I am in the
trunk of his car. Somehow I am awake and alive, probably being transported
somewhere more secluded so Phillip can murder me in privacy. A sob escapes me, scorching
my aching throat, my neck so tender I am sure whatever injuries Shockey left me
with have grown more serious after Phillip’s handling.

I think of
Nicole, lying in this very trunk, paralyzed but still alive, bleeding and
broken, knowing she wouldn’t escape, that I didn’t come for her in time and
grief overwhelms me with sharpness that exceeds any discomfort my body suffers.
With pain comes some clarity and I push past the panic to try and think, think
of anything I can do to save myself.

Groaning with
effort, I pat my hands around, feeling the inside of the trunk for a weapon or
way out. My efforts meet with nothing and the panic redoubles as I realize I
have no idea how long I’ve been out or how much time I have left before Phillip
reaches his destination and comes to finish me. I reach around frantically,
finding where the trunk should open, but am unable to locate a catch or release
switch. Cursing the idiotic impulse that drove me to break into the car in the
first place, I bite my lip to keep from screaming in frustration and command
myself to focus.

Two years ago
Mom and I were pulled over for a burnt out taillight and we had to get the
police officer to show us how to replace the bulb. He didn’t give us a ticket,
mainly because I think he recognized how incompetent Mom was when it came to
cars, but he explained that most cars have panels inside the trunk that hide
the wiring for the lights and all we had to do was pull the bulb out through
the panel and screw a new one in before reinserting the whole thing.

I shift so I
am generally facing the front of the trunk, toward where I believe the
taillights must be. Running my hands over the carpeted surface, I feel for
anything out of the ordinary, anything that might signal a panel. The car rocks
as the wheels pass over an uneven surface and I clutch the edge of the fabric
to keep myself from rolling. I feel the material pull slightly, giving against
the pressure and I yank harder until a space is cleared enough for me to feel
around beneath it.

Seconds pass
by in tortured breaths, my body protesting the way I lay, the queasy ache in my
head, the throbbing of my neck; but at last I feel something, a dip in the
floor I can stick a finger beneath. Stretching, I pull up and feel it give way,
and a nest of wires rests beneath my hand.  Nearly sobbing in relief, I haul at
the wires, not having any way of figuring out what each one is for, just praying
that they connect to what I need.

The wires
catch on something and I change the angle, curving my wrist so that I can
thread them all the way out. After an eternity, a brilliant stab of light
pierces the gloom of the trunk and I am nearly blinded by the tiny bulb of the
taillight. My face is wet with tears as I blink furiously, trying to adjust my
vision.

The enclosure
comes into focus, the light weaker than I initially believed, but still enough
to illuminate most of the space into which I am crowded. Seeing the finite
space in the light does something to my breathing, as though my body is trying
to shrink my lungs to fit and it takes me precious moments to regain control,
to convince myself there is still air in the trunk. My nostrils burn and there is
a chemical smell emanating from the carpet that seems stronger the longer I am
in here.

My hands
shake, making the light bounce erratically as I search for anything that could
be used as a weapon, but I am sorely disappointed. There is a windbreaker shoved
into the corner and an empty soda cup from a fast-food restaurant, and nothing
else. A howl of frustration nearly escapes me, but I keep quiet, knowing the
longer Phillip believes me to be unconscious, the better. I’m not sure where
he’s taking me or if he even has a plan, but I feel certain he’ll be moved to
hurry up the inevitable if I draw attention to myself.

Miranda’s
journal pokes into my bruised side and I reach for it, whimpering at the odd
angle. Pulling the book out, I put it on the trunk floor, thinking bitterly I
managed to plant the evidence after all. Much good it would do me.

The light slips
from my hand and I clutch the roof to keep from being tossed around as the car
swerves wildly before accelerating. He has made a decision. My time is growing
short.

With my hand
on the journal I take a deep breath, wincing at the pain in my side. My head
swims and nausea threatens to cause a tumult in my stomach. I briefly consider
trying to cut myself on something, to leave a trace of my blood in the hope
that someone might eventually check this trunk for evidence. If I can’t take
Phillip down, at least maybe I’ll succeed from beyond the grave.

Even as I
think it, I recognize my thoughts are getting away from me, the air is growing
denser and harder to swallow; my body is fighting exhaustion and concussion. I
have never been hurt this much in so short a time in my life, and it is
catching up with me. Forcing myself to take deep, even breaths, I clench my
hands into fists and shift around until I think I’ll be able to kick when the
trunk opens. I know this is my only chance now, to surprise Phillip and maybe
get far enough away to call for help. Pushing aside the pain and terror, I
tense my body, coiled and ready to strike.

The thundering
movement of the wheels below me slows and grows steadier, as though Phillip is
suddenly taking more care with his driving. And then I hear it, the most
beautiful sound, music so exquisite tears stream down my face, dropping home on
the rough fabric beneath my cheek.

A police
siren.

The sound is
slightly muted in the trunk, but there is no mistaking the banshee wail that
slices through the rumbling of the tires, the groan of the road. I pray,
silently and fervently, and weep with relief when I feel the car drift to the
side, slowing gradually into a halt. I can picture Phillip sitting in the
driver’s seat, confident I’m unconscious or dead in the trunk, but perhaps
there is a tinge of fear in those green eyes, a tightness to his sculpted lips,
the taste of uncertainty on his tongue.

As soon as I
hear the muffled thump of a car door closing I scream with everything I have,
pounding and kicking on the roof of the trunk with frantic force, unexpected
strength coursing through me. I scream for Miranda, for the pain she never
shared, for the time she lost. I scream for Nicole, for her fury and vengeance,
for the loss of something I barely had. I scream until my tortured throat is on
fire and still push past it.

The trunk
opens.

“I knew this
kid was a psycho,” Officer Sowers’s voice cries out over me, shock written all
over his face. He immediately extends a hand and I grab it, using his weight as
leverage to pull myself out of the trunk. I come to my feet trembling, knees
nearly giving out beneath me, but the shell-shocked officer steadies me,
pulling me around to the side of the car.

“You stay
right there, and don’t move. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” he shouts
at Phillip. Sowers turns to me, concern creasing his face. “Derry, are you
alright? What happened?”

I glance over
at Phillip, fear coursing through me in a painful burst as I take in his
murderous expression. He is leaning against the passenger door, hands and legs
spread. Humiliation burns in his eyes and I know he is imagining all the ways
he will punish me for it.

Something
occurs to me, looking at where he is standing. “Officer Sowers,” I gasp, my voice
raspy and grating. “Phillip has a gun in his glove compartment.”

Phillip
registers surprise before he lunges for the door handle, his quickness
startling, but Sowers releases me and pins Phillip to the car again, his hand
pressed into the back of his neck as he growls warnings in his ear.

“Move again
creep. Go ahead.” Sowers pulls his radio out of his belt and calls dispatch.
“Sowers here. I’ve got the Bennett kid pulled over on Broken Ridge. He had
Derry MacKenna in his trunk.” He glances my way again. “I assume you didn’t
want to be in there?” he asks dryly.

I snort,
wondering where Sowers got his sense of humor. “No, I really didn’t.” Suddenly
the opportunity is too perfect, the kind of moment I’ve been waiting for since
the certainty of Phillip’s guilt took hold. “Officer, when I was in the trunk,
I saw something in there…I think it was a journal Nicole had. She said it was
Miranda’s.”

Sowers gives
me an incredulous look before an expression of deep satisfaction settles.
“Notify Detective Radcliffe of our location. There may be evidence he needs to
see,” he says into his radio.

Tears leak
onto my cheeks, turning frigid as the cold air hits them, but I don’t care.
I’ve done it. Shockey is in the hospital with a collapsed lung, a prolonged
stay in a prison infirmary in his future. Phillip will go to jail for
kidnapping me. Miranda’s journal will tie him to Nicole’s death, and I have no
doubt that there are fibers and other forensic things in that trunk that will
tie the noose. My knees collapse under me and I sag against the car, openly
sobbing, relief pumping through me faster than my blood. Sowers gives me a
troubled look and then drags Phillip by his collar back to the police cruiser a
few feet away.  After securing Phillip in handcuffs in the back of the car,
Sowers returns to me, eyes surveying me for hidden damage.

He asks me
something, but all I can do is laugh. I hear the hysteria in it, the
uncontrolled note that has him worried, but the release is exquisite and I revel
in it, savoring the lessening of the terrible weight that has held my head down
for so long.

I am still
laughing weakly when Detective Radcliffe makes it to the scene, followed by an
ambulance. Seeing it, I groan and get to my feet, determined to convince the
powers that be I have no need of medical attention. The thought of another ride
in the back of that tin can while my head is pounding like this sends a shudder
through me. I reach up to feel the lump on my forehead where I hit the
cobblestones. It’s pronounced, but there’s no bleeding, so I have hopes that I
can just go home and curl up with an ice pack and a Tylenol.

“I am scared
of you,” Detective Radcliffe says in greeting, walking directly to me, his eyes
taking in my bedraggled appearance. “It seems you’ve gotten yourself in another
pickle.”

“Not on
purpose, Detective.”

He snorts and
nods his head. “Right. So, Officer Sowers here tells me you found something
while you were hanging out in the trunk?” He gestures toward the still open
trunk and I walk over with him, gaining more stability with each step. Out of
the corner of my eye, I see my paramedic friend from a few days ago move toward
me, but Radcliffe waves him off, clearly placing priority on evidence over my
health.

We stand in
front of the open trunk and I point directly at the journal I had placed in the
back. “Nicole showed me that the day she died. She said it was Miranda’s and it
made her think Phillip had something to do with Miranda’s death.” I pause,
remembering some of Phillip’s furious ramblings while he was choking me to
death. He had said he hadn’t killed Miranda. My stomach twists uneasily. At
that point, moments before he planned to kill me, there was no reason for him
to lie. He confessed he murdered Nicole, so why hold back about Miranda?

I drag myself
back to the moment, deciding to worry about his culpability later. Either way,
he is going to jail and everyone will know what a monster he is. 

Radcliffe uses
his gloves to lift the journal out of the trunk and opens it tenderly, as
though afraid to disturb any lingering traces of the girl whose thoughts lay
dormant within. He flips through the book cautiously, his eyes widening and
mouth turning down in distress as Miranda’s shaky mental state and evidence of
Phillip’s abuse is laid out in black and white. Even though the words on the
paper don’t really reflect what she felt when she wrote them, there is still
enough angst to give a pretty clear picture.

“Sowers, get
the kit from my trunk,” Radcliffe barks, his eyes drifting over to me with
curiosity, as though he is really seeing me for the first time. “You’re a deep
one, aren’t you? What were you doing around Phillip’s car anyway?”

I don’t even
try to make something up. I have a feeling being knocked unconscious and
stuffed in a trunk will outweigh my original plans. “Honestly, I was trying to
get into his car. I was hoping to find some evidence that would link him to
Nicole, to get something that would warrant a search.”

Radcliffe nods
and a smile quirks the edges of his mouth. “That was stupid. But I get it,” he
says quietly, eyes washing over me with approval. “Quick thinking with the
taillight.”

I beam under
his praise, the pain in my head growing slightly dimmer. “Thanks. I didn’t
really think it would work,” I admit, still wondering what lucky stroke of fate
led a police cruiser to be waiting along whatever off the beaten path Phillip
had brought me on.  We are on a narrow road sandwiched between a tall fence of
trees and a cliff face, the sound of gently moving water tickling the edge of
my hearing. I have no idea where we are.

“It might not
have if I hadn’t had every officer on the force keeping an eye on him,”
Radcliffe reveals nonchalantly. I stare at him open-mouthed and he releases a
reluctant chuckle.

“You’re not
the only one who thought there was something off about that kid. In
questioning…he just seemed too pleased with himself. It didn’t sit right. And
we knew Nicole’s wound couldn’t have been self-inflicted…” he trails off,
giving me a sharp look. “Now that information is not for the general public,
young lady. How do you get people to tell you these things?” he asks as Sowers
returns with what looks like a plastic briefcase.

“Just a gift,
I guess,” I answer, finally allowing the paramedic to drag me to the back of
the ambulance where he clucks over my injuries, reminding me that my head has
taken one too many knocks in the past few days.

A few minutes
later Radcliffe strides toward me, muttering into his radio. “I’m sick at heart
over the dead girl,” he says quietly, and tears prick my eyes at his unwitting
honesty. I feel guilty that I suspected this big-hearted, if gruff, man of
being negligent or uncaring. If I had been frustrated knowing that Phillip was
walking around free because of lack of evidence, I could only imagine how
Radcliffe must have felt, allowing him to leave the police station unhampered. 

“I’m sorry
that you had to go through all this Miss MacKenna. I know you’ve had a tough
time of it. But you being trapped in that trunk is the best thing that could’ve
happened in this case,” he says, putting his big hand on my shoulder for an
awkward pat. “There’s old blood in the trunk. Looks like he tried to clean it,
maybe with bleach, but the Luminol picked it up. My money is on it belonging to
Nicole. I owe you thanks, young lady.”

He tips his
hat to me and tells the paramedic to quit wasting time and get me to the
hospital. I beg for them to let me go home, but no one listens and once again I
endure the loudest, most bone-jarring ride of my life.

I am arguing
with the doctor, who has become familiar enough for me to address on a first
name basis when my mother and Geoffrey Wise walk in. Mom immediately races for
me, taking my bruised head into her arms and sobbing in great, unintelligible
gulps. I can hear the loss of control balancing on a precipice in her voice and
know she has been pushed too far. No matter how complicated our relationship,
Mom loves me, and me nearly dying three times in one month has pushed her to
the limit. I stroke her hair and mutter soothing words, my eyes on Geoffrey and
his speculative expression.

“I’m going
make you work for me,” he says, voice full of sympathy. I bare my teeth at him.

“I should’ve
been there to save you,” Jake says, joining us in the overcrowded room, bumping
up against the blood pressure monitor before shifting back to the wall. I
suppress a sigh and give him a tight smile. I really want to go home and get in
my own bed.

“Jake was
worried about you, so I told him he could come by. I hope you don’t mind,”
Geoffrey says, watching me greedily. Pretty soon he and I are going to have a
long conversation; one where I ask some leading questions and he gives me
honest answers.

“Where’s
Cole?” I demand, ignoring the flash of hurt on Jake’s face. Geoffrey’s face
darkens at the mention of his other son and I wonder what it is about Cole that
makes him so antagonistic.

“He had to
stay home, unfortunately. I’m sure you’ll see him when you’re feeling better,”
he answers. My skin hums with the lie.

The doctor
huffs, having had enough of the bizarre family dynamic going on, and shoos
everyone but my mother out of the room. He proceeds to tell her although I have
collected a new set of bruises to go with my already heavily decorated body, I
don’t seem too much worse for the wear. Apparently the forehead is not as bad a
place to be hit as the back of the head, so my concussion is holding steady at
only a seven on the agony scale.

Small favors.

There are
raised voices in the hallway and then I hear it, the deeply compelling sound of
Geoffrey Wise’s words of command.  “Go home now, Cole.”

My heart picks
up its pace, making the machines I’m hooked up to screech in alarm. The weight
of  Geoffrey’s order pushes against me and even Mom stands up and looks as
though she is about to walk out.

The curtain
parts and Cole steps in, his face red, sweat beaded along his forehead, strain
and effort in every movement as he plods toward me, his legs moving slow and
stiff as though trapped in sand. He is fighting his father’s compulsion.

Fighting for
me.

I reach out my
hand and take his, entwining our fingers. He takes a shuddering breath and then
moves forward uninhibited, as though he has thrown off the knotted rope that
was holding him back. Giving me a weary smile, he leans over and presses his
lips to mine, the touch gentle and demanding all at once. When he pulls away, I
am shaky and short of breath, forgetting everyone else standing around arguing,
my eyes fixed on his.

“I love you,”
he whispers and I feel something wild and hopeful in my chest, a promise being
born. Whatever he has really said doesn’t matter and I don’t want to know. I
hold on to this moment and don’t let go.