The Girl in the Box 01 - Alone (2 page)

And thus violated rule number three: don’t open the curtains or look out the windows. Most of them in the front of the house have heavy dressers and furniture blocking them, and all of them have bars on the exterior. The ones in the rear open to a backyard that has a fence eight feet tall all the way around and lots of old trees that pretty much blot out any view of the sun.

Don’t think I’m a perfect goody-goody – I’ve snuck a look out back lots of times. My conclusion – it’s a big, bright world out there. Really damned bright, in fact. Blinding.

I would have kept after him, but when the curtains fell the daylight streamed in and I couldn’t see anything for a few seconds. When my eyes recovered I found the old guy throwing the curtains off himself and he came up with a gun in his hand. I guess I shouldn’t have taken it easy on him.

The first shot would have gotten me in the face if I hadn’t already been moving. I dodged behind the couch as the shot rang out. Then another and another. They were loud but not deafening. The microwave in the kitchen took the first two; the next three hit the sofa and I heard the muffled impacts as stuffing flew through the air. I was crawling my ass off, heading for the door. I dodged under the coffee table, the one Oldie had hit on his way in, rolled onto my back and put my feet and hands on the underside of the glass.

I saw him emerge from behind the sofa and knew my time was limited. His gun was pointed at me, so I flung the table at him with my hands and feet. Kinda ugly, but it knocked him off balance as the glass shattered in his face and I heard the gun skitter from his hand back toward the dinette.

I didn’t take any chances; I was on my feet in a second and sprinting toward the front door. He got the gun back as I was making my escape and I heard three more shots impact behind me as I slammed the door to the porch. I reached down and hit the outside lock – I know it sounds weird, but I locked them in my own house. Locked them in, and me out.

For those of you keeping score:

Rule # 1 – Mom and I are the only ones allowed in our house.

Rule # 2 – I am never to leave the house.

Rule # 3 – Never open the curtains or look outside.

Sorry, Mom
, I thought.
We’re just breaking your rules all to hell today
. I heard the gunfire again and I ran, dodging out the front door of the porch. I’d seen this space a thousand times as Mom was leaving, but never what lay beyond it. My hand flew to the knob that opened the door that led to the outside world.

If it had been up to me, I might have wanted to reflect on what a momentous day this was, going outside for the first time in twelve years; on violating so many rules, the first three big ones, all in a five-minute period. As it was, the sound of gunshots chased me into the light of day.

The cold hit me as I ran out, breath frosting as it hit the air. Fortunately, I’m always fully dressed – down to having on gloves all the time. That’s rule four – always fully dressed, always long sleeves and pants, and always have your gloves on. I’ve asked why and Mom has declined to explain, answering with a simple, terse, “Because I said so.”

I guess it was in case I ever had to run.

My eyes scanned the landscape of the suburban street in front of me. Even though the sky was covered in clouds, it was bright. The smell of the air crept up my nose along with the cold, and it felt like the inside of my nostrils froze. It was beyond crisp, and it almost hurt when I inhaled it. The frigidness bit at me even through my turtleneck sweater, and I found myself wishing for a coat. The wind blew down the road in front of me – rows of ordinary houses, idyllic and snow covered, trees in the front yards, draped in a blanket of winter white.

I slipped on the front walk and felt my heart kick me in the chest in a sensation of gut-punching fear. My hand caught me and I bounced back to my feet.
So that’s ice?
I thought. Until now I had only seen it on TV and in the freezer. There was a black sedan in the driveway that looked like something I’d seen on a Buick commercial.

My hand brushed against it as I ran down the driveway and stopped at the end. I heard the sound of more gunshots and ducked behind the car. Clinking noises came from behind me as the shots bounced off their vehicle. Now what?

As if to answer my question a red SUV skidded to a stop in front of me. A small line of muddy snow splattered past me as the passenger door opened. Inside was a guy. Dark brown hair hung around his shoulders and his skin was tanned; I was not too flustered or in too much of a hurry to realize that he was not bad looking. His eyes broke the distance between us as he stared me down. His black coat ruffled from the open door and I heard his voice, raised to a pitch, and he spoke – something that should have sounded like a command, but was so gentle it came off as an invitation.

“Get in.”

 
I looked back and saw Oldie coming around the edge of the car. He had the gun up and pointed, and was almost to me. My only thought was –
Damn, he’s slow
. I blasted him with a roundhouse kick, minding my footing, and made solid contact, kicking his arm aside. I stepped in and delivered an elbow to his midsection, bringing my hand around with a perfect twist to pull the gun from his grasp. With a last effort I brought my knee up to his gut and then dropped him with an elbow to the back of the head.

He landed on all fours and grabbed at my foot, so I whipped him in the top of the head with his own gun, sending him facedown into the slush on the driveway. I turned back to the handsome man in the SUV and pointed the gun at him.

“Still want me to get in? Now it’s on my terms.”

His hands rose in surrender and a slight smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “Yes.”

I got in and shut the door. “Where to?” I kept the gun pointed at him.

Brown eyes stared back at me, the color of the dark cherrywood our kitchen table was made of. “Where would you like to go?”

“Away.”

His lips turned into a full-blown smile. He stomped on the pedal and we started moving. I’d seen a car move on TV, but it was nothing like the real thing. I felt the acceleration push me back into the comfortable seat. The whole car smelled good, with an aroma I couldn’t define but that reminded me very vaguely of the times Mother would bring home flowers on special occasions.

My eyes stayed on him, even as we turned a corner. I darted a look out the window and then back to him. He kept that same faint smile but he watched the road. Houses passed us on either side in a blur of colors overwhelmed by the white of the snow. We shot through an intersection and the traffic light made me stare. I turned back to him. “What’s your name?”

He looked over at me for a flicker before turning back to the road. “Reed.”

I nodded. It was a nice name. I was suddenly conscious of the fact that Mom must surely have had a rule against talking to strangers, but we never discussed what to do if you’re driven out of the house by men with guns. My hand ached where I had landed on it after my slip. “I’m…Sienna.”

“Nice to meet you, Sienna.” He moved one of his hands off the wheel and proffered it to me.

I shook it. “Thank you.” It was the first time I had been out of my house since I was five years old. I hadn’t talked to another human being besides Mom for that long. I wondered if this was how people talked? Had conversations?

“Where should we go?” His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, and I could see the knuckles of his darker skin turn white from the pressure.

My head was still spinning from all that had happened in the last ten minutes, but I had an idea. “Somewhere public. With lots of people. A grocery store.”

“Fair enough.”

We rode in silence. I studied him, looking at the lines of his face. He couldn’t have been much older than me. Other than through TV, I hadn’t seen another living soul in years except Mom. When your only human experience in life is through the TV, it warps your sense of reality. The people on TV are so flawless that you don’t see the little blemishes on the skin; the little mole below his eye, the freckles that barely showed on his cheek.

We pulled into a parking lot and I marveled at the size of the sign out front. I stepped out of the car and the bite of the chill hit me. My black turtleneck didn’t do much to protect me against the deep freeze that was the outdoors. I knew it had to be cold outside from the draft through the windows at home, but I didn’t know it was this cold. My leather gloves felt like they weren’t even there and the clouds covered the sky above, bathing the scene before me in a dull light.

The melted snow under my feet in the parking lot surprised me. Now that I wasn’t having to run, I took my time, listening to the oozing, splashing sound it made as I brought my shoes down into it, then felt the cold of the icy slush go into my socks. I cringed. Not exactly how I pictured my first time out of the house: I assumed I would run barefoot through a meadow, with the sun shining bright above, the warmth on my skin, bright colored flowers and green fields around me. Silly, clichéd, I know. But that’s what I wanted.

If I ever could have gotten out of the house.

We walked to the front doors and they parted for us. An involuntary grin split my face. Very cool.

Reed laughed. “Never seen an automatic door before?”

“Nope.” I stared at them, almost afraid that if I took my eyes away they’d vanish and I’d be back in the house, alone and dreaming.

“Come on.” His hand wrapped around my upper arm with a gentle pressure and I felt a slight tingle as he guided me inside – not pushy or demanding, but with…care. I could feel the warmth of his hand through my sweater and the weight of the gun in the front waistband of my jeans. The heated air of the store blew down on me as I walked through the entry, a pleasant feeling to counteract the chill.

We stopped inside and the smell of roasting chicken hit my nose. My mouth started to water; Mom hadn’t shopped for at least a week before she disappeared. Last night I picked at the remainder of what was in the fridge. It was a little desperate; I was over ramen noodles and ketchup.

A big counter of clear glass stretched across the wall of the store. I could see a huge selection of meats and cheeses waiting inside it. My eyes wandered to the big freezers with boxes and bags of food, and I felt like I was going to start drooling. There were booths arranged near the deli counter – like a restaurant right there in the store.

“You hungry?” Reed’s eyes found mine and I nodded. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

I stopped him. “Why are you being so nice to me? It’s not like you pick up strangers on the side of the road every day who have someone pointing a gun at them.” I paused. “Or do you?”

He blinked. “It’s not a usual thing. But you have to understand…there are a lot of people looking for you.”

“For me?” A doubt caused me to shiver. I hadn’t believed he was someone driving by my house at random, but having the gun made me feel like I was still in control when I went with him. Still, it worried me when he confirmed what I suspected.

“Yes, you.” He looked to either side. “Let me get you something to eat. I doubt you have any money.”

“I don’t.”

He bought one of the big chickens that came in a cardboard box. I ate without consideration for how it looked, and he watched.

“Who are you?” I asked him between bites.

“Reed.”

“Smartass.” I glared at him, but it lacked intensity. I had a hard time being mad at someone who was feeding me.

He shrugged. “It’s true.”

“Beyond that.”

“Someone who’s concerned about you.” His face grew serious. “There are dangerous people after you, Sienna.”

“How do you know?” I sighed. “Beyond the obvious fact that they shot at me.”

He hesitated. “Those guys…the young one’s name is Zack Davis; the older one is Kurt Hannegan.” He must have seen me stiffen in surprise, because he leaned back from the table. “I wasn’t sitting outside your house by coincidence.”

I felt the flush of blood running to my cheeks. “Are you with them? Are you one of them?”

“No.” He shook his head, hot with indignation. “I’m not. But there are worse things after you than those two.”

“Who are they?” I asked. “Who are you?”

He placed his palms on the table. “That’s not the question you should be asking.”

“Oh?” My eyes narrowed. “What question should I be asking?”

“The question you should ask is ‘What am I?’“ His eyes darted left and right. “Do you think it’s normal for a mother to lock her child in a house and not let her out for years? Even in your limited experience, that can’t seem quite right—”