Stained (18 page)

No.
I walk to the bag and feel inside for the piece of metal.
I'm going to get myself out of here.
I start to work on the boards again, my hands already slippery with sweat.

I tear the bottom two boards off, the ones I already worked on. I wish I could squeeze my body flat like a cat and fit through, but there's no way I can. I need at least one more board off, maybe two. Two more boards that are fastened by screws.

I ram the metal between the cracks of the boards and push down hard, the scent of metal strong in my nostrils. The board creaks. I yank out the metal, jam it in the crack a little farther along, and ram it down again. The board doesn't move. I grunt, my arms trembling, before the metal slips from my hands and falls to the floor.

“Goddamnit!”

It's hard to tell what time it is, but it must be at least late morning. How many hours until Brian comes back?

Every few minutes I think I hear his car engine, his feet on the gravel. I work harder, ignoring the pain, just jamming the metal under the wood and wrenching it. The sun starts its descent in the sky. It's past noon, then.

I keep working at the board long after my hands feel bruised and numb. I can feel Dad standing behind me, his strong hands on mine, urging me on. I can feel Mom brushing back my hair, telling me I can do anything. I even feel Nick beside me, laughing softly. “If anyone can do it, Sarah, you can.”

I grit my teeth and keep going, working past my sore hands, my weakened body. I force the metal through the gap, pushing and yanking at the plank of wood, back and forth, back and forth, until one end comes off with a loud squeal, wood splintering.

I pry the end of the board from the frame and push it down, away from the window.

More air floods in, soft and welcoming against my face.

Tears slide freely down my cheeks, and I breathe in the air, let it fill my lungs. It smells like leaves and grass and pine.

I look at the weathered board hanging there. It's only wood, after all. Wood and screws. I smile determinedly.
I'm going to get out of here.

I look at the rest of the boards still on the window, the screws plunged deep, and the smile fades from my lips. It took me so many hours to get off just one board. I'll never do it.

“You will, Sarah,” Dad says inside my head. I push myself harder, work as quickly as I can. The next board is loosening faster now, as if it wants to help me escape. Every so often I dig my fingers into the widening gap and put my entire weight into yanking the board. The sun is a deep, vivid orange, closer to the horizon, but not there yet. Sunset is probably a few hours away. I listen with my entire body for the sound of his car. “Faster!” I urge myself, my hands slipping on the metal—and then I get another board off.

I CAN FIT THROUGH that space; I'm sure of it. I don't stop to think, just scrabble up onto the windowsill and half jump, half fall through, the earth slamming up to meet me. I gasp for breath, sucking the warm, fresh air into my lungs. The sky above me is deep blue, the sun still lighting up the sky. Tree limbs creak their warning on the wind. I leap to my feet. The summer cabin is to my right, its windows darkened. The cabin Brian must have rented. I can't go there. He could be here any minute.

I whirl around and race toward the trees and the shelter they offer. My breath catches as I run. I look over my shoulder, lose my footing, stumble, and run some more.

I reach the trees, and they pull me into their depths, hiding me, shielding me, maple and oak trees with lush green leaves, and sharp-scented cedar and pine that remind me of him. Branches claw at me, jerk me backward. My legs feel unsteady and weak, like I've been ill for a long time.

Behind me, I hear the crunch of tires on gravel. I run faster. Sobs tear out of my throat. I'm sure I feel a hand on my neck, fingers reaching for my shirt, grabbing and plucking at the fabric.

I stumble over roots and uneven ground, running as fast as I can, my legs heavy, sweat pouring off me. Branches whip my face, drawing blood. All I can hear is my body crashing through the bushes, my heart pounding in my ears. And then my foot catches on a root and I am falling, stones and roots cutting through my jeans.

I stagger to my feet and run again, away from my prison. Away from him.

Please let me escape.

I don't know who I'm praying to; I just know that I am. It feels like I am running in slow motion, every step pushing against gravity. And then I see lights gleaming through the trees, and I stop, my breath torn from me. I'm afraid I'm still lying asleep in the shack, dreaming. Afraid none of this is real.

I whirl around, but there's no one in the shadows. No one reaching for me. I turn back to the lights. There's a house through those trees, and people. Safety?

I stare at the house. Its stone walls, pink and gray and white, look strong and homey at the same time, the rounded windows like friendly eyes.

I edge closer. There's a stack of split logs piled against one side of the house and yellow curtains in the windows. It looks cozy and welcoming. But can I trust it?

I shift from foot to foot. Brian must be on my trail by now; I ran like a frightened horse through the forest. He could be here any minute.

I step out from the safety of the trees, stagger up the porch steps, and bang on the door.

“COME ON, COME ON!” I mutter.

A woman's face appears at the door, staring emptily out through the glass. Her graying hair is thin and straight, with bits of pink scalp showing through, and the hazel eyes that are beginning to focus on me look sad. Her face is not a pretty face, not a face that would ever be in a fashion magazine, but it's a kind face, and right now it's the most beautiful face in the world.

The woman's eyes focus on me. “Good god, child, what have you done to your face?”

I cringe before I realize she means the cuts from the branches. “I was kidnapped three months ago. My name is Sarah Meadows.” I press my hand against the glass. “Can you let me in? Please? He's coming for me; I know he is. I heard his car pull up as I was running away.” I'm babbling, but I don't care. I'm so close to safety, but I don't have it yet.

The woman's hand flutters to her throat. “Kidnapped?” Her forehead crinkles.

“I must have been on the news. You can call the police, my parents, anyone, just please let me in.” I am crying again.

“Don't cry, child; of course you can come in.” Her hand fumbles at the door handle.

“Tessa? Who is it?” a throaty voice calls, and another face appears—a round, tanned face with squinting eyes and closely cropped white hair. Her stiff violet shirt is open at her neck, revealing a white undershirt, the kind men wear. “Who are you? What do you want?” the woman says through the glass.

“You've got to help me!” I rake my tangled, greasy hair out of my eyes. “I'm Sarah Meadows. I was kidnapped three months ago.” My voice cracks. “I heard his car as I was running away. Please, please let me in.”

The woman frowns, studying me, her lips narrowed.

I want to wrench open the door and shove past her, but I keep myself still, my body trembling. This might be my last chance. “
Help me!
Please! I don't want to die.”

Tessa turns to the frowning woman. “I love you to bits, Eliza, but sometimes you're exasperating. Now move over and let her in.”

The woman moves out of my sight, and Tessa opens the door wide.

I rush inside, and she slams the door after me, locking it. I stand there shivering in the shelter of their house. It smells good, like oranges and freshly baked bread. I feel like I've stepped into another world.

“Please call the police!” I twist my hands together. “He said he'd kill me tonight. And he doesn't give up.”

Tessa pats my arm. “All right, child; we'll call. Don't you fret.”

But they don't move. Eliza's nose wrinkles, and I know she can smell me. I flush hotly.

“Can you call? Now?” I say, my voice strained. I look over my shoulder. One door with a lock won't be enough to keep him out. “He'll be looking for me. I probably made a trail as I ran. All I was thinking about was getting away.”

Eliza nods curtly. “If you are who you say you are, we'll know right soon enough.” She strides out of the room, then turns around. “You know his name? His description?”

I close my eyes briefly. “Brian Gormley. He works for my dad.” I glance back at the locked door.
Don't let him find me. Please don't let him find me.
I turn back around to see Tessa staring at me.

“Dear, is that . . .
blood
. . . on your shirt?” Tessa asks, her eyes stretched wide.

“Yes.” I clench and unclench my fists. “It's from the last girl he killed. He put it on me—to get me ready.”

“Oh my,” Tessa says faintly. “What you've been through . . .”

Eliza's voice sounds from the other room, a deep mutter. I tighten inside.

Tessa pats my hand. “Don't mind Eliza; she's suspicious of everyone. Been hurt one too many times. Now you just come on in and make yourself at home.”

She walks ahead of me, and I follow her tentatively, an intruder on their peaceful evening. Soft classical music plays from the radio on a bookshelf. There's a plump green couch and easy chairs, and books on every table. A grandfather clock ticktocks softly in the corner. I should feel safe now, but I don't, not with Brian hunting me down. Me and my parents. God, what if he goes after them first?

Tessa turns to me. “You look fair starved. Guess you could use a good meal in you. You hungry?”

“I should be, but I don't think I can eat. Ma'am, he said he'd kill my parents if I ever escaped. I need to go tell”—I don't know what to call the other woman; they're clearly together—“her that.”

Tessa smiles. “Eliza, you mean. My honey. My partner. Whatever word you want to use is fine with me, so long as it's respectful. Go on, you tell her. I'll just cook you up something in case you get hungry.”

“No, Miss—Tessa, please, that's very kind of you. But if you could get anything you have that could be used as a weapon instead, I would be grateful. Like knives, or maybe a bat . . . We need to be ready in case he tracks me down before the police get here.”

Tessa squeezes my hand. “You poor girl. You're right. My Eliza's got a gun. But I'll go get the kitchen knives, and see what else we can use. We'll protect you, honey, you'll see. Now you go find Eliza and tell her what you have to tell her.”

I watch her go, gratefully, and then I run toward Eliza's voice. I find her in the alcove between the living room and the kitchen, an old-fashioned phone sitting on a narrow table against the wall. She hangs up the receiver just as I get there.

Eliza nods at me. “The cops were right glad you turned up safe. They're sending someone over to pick you up. Now, what about your parents? They have to be crazy with worry. You want to phone them?”

“Yes, but can you call the police back first? Tell them Brian said he'd kill my parents if I escaped,” I say frantically. “They need to protect them. And Tessa says you have a gun. Please, can you get it? He's not going to let me escape. He killed all the other girls he captured. I'm so sorry, but I might have put you in danger by coming here.”

Eliza stands taller, her eyes fierce. “Come on,” she says. She walks me to the door.

My heart jumps into my throat. “Please don't turn me out—”

Eliza takes a gun down from the closet near the door, opening the cylinder and spinning it. “What kind of person do you think I am? Of course I'm not putting you back out there. Not without the cops.” She takes a box of bullets from the shelf, shakes out a few, and loads them into the cylinder before snapping it shut. “If that man does come around here, well, I'm a damn good shot.” She holds the gun in an easy way. “That make you feel any better?”

“Ye-es,” I say. I gulp in air. I wish I had a weapon, too.

“We won't let that bastard in; don't you worry. Now come on.” She jerks her head. “Let's get the cops on the phone again.” She leads me back to the alcove and dials the police. “Yeah, is this the guy I was talking to earlier? Well, Sarah's parents need protection.” I stand there while she brusquely tells them why.

Tessa walks in with a wicker basket full of makeshift weapons—knives, screwdrivers, a poker, scissors, a hammer, even a golf club. “Take your pick,” she says, holding the basket out to me.

I reach out, my hand hovering over the basket. I've never had a weapon before. I hesitate, then grab a knife. Eliza nods approvingly and hangs up the phone, her gun still in her hand. “You want to call your parents now?”

“Yes. Please.”

I stand there, looking down at the phone. It's ancient—clunky and black, a rounded plastic dial with holes at each number, and a bulbous handset attached to the base.

Eliza quirks her mouth upward. “You stick your finger in the hole and pull the dial around for each number.”

“Eliza, leave her be,” Tessa says. She smiles at me. “We'll just be in the other room.”

I want to ask them to stay, but I hear Brian telling me I act like a victim. The words die in my throat.

Tessa and Eliza go down the hall, Eliza talking in a hushed, urgent voice. I stare at the phone. In a few seconds I'll be talking to Mom and Dad. I'll be able to hear them speak to me for real.

I am jittery and out of breath. I don't know what's wrong with me. Yes, I do. I'm afraid everything Brian said is true.

I take a shuddering breath, then another. My parents love me. They
do.

I set the knife down on the table and reach for the phone, then draw my hand back. I'm not sure I remember what their voices sound like. Will they remember mine?

This is crazy. This could be my last chance to talk to them, to tell them I love them. What am I waiting for? I pick up the receiver—and I can't remember our phone number. I want to scream with frustration as the dial tone bleats at me. I take another shuddering breath, picture Mom and Dad, and the number pops into my head. I dial the numbers as fast as I can, before they disappear.