Winter (Four Seasons #1) (38 page)

“
Ave? You
there?” Morgan’s voice fills the deadly silent house. “Ave? I’m
assuming this is you given the Wyoming number and all. Anyway, I
hope everything’s okay with your uncle. I’m seriously hoping you’re
gonna be back by Thursday. I don’t think I can handle the funeral
without you. Sorry, I know that’s really selfish, but still… Let me
know how you’re getting on. Love you.”

The answer
machine clicks off. And a gloved black hand grasps hold of the
door.

******

I’m lashing
out before I can even think properly. The baseball bat connects
with wood and then with something softer. A loud
‘
uffff
” comes out
of the figure as he staggers sideways, holding his arm, knife still
gripped firmly in his hand, which gives me enough time to raise the
bat over my shoulder and swing with all my might.

The white ash
contacts with the side of the figure’s head and he drops to his
knees, one hand on the floor supporting himself. I run then. Run
past the person who smashed their way into my house, heading for
the stairs. A hand reaches out and grabs hold of my ankle, though,
firm fingers digging into my skin, and I shriek.

I kick out, my
shoe landing a solid hit against his shoulder, and he spins and
falls onto his back, letting me go. Bat still in hand, I charge
down the stairs, racing for the kitchen. There’s a carpet of broken
glass everywhere, and the back door hangs off one hinge. The
thunder of footsteps behind me has me running again, and I don’t
think. I react, barreling out of the doorway into the
night.

My breath
blows in and out, in, out, short, sharp blasts of air over my teeth
as I run faster than I’ve ever run before. Past the beater and the
black SUV; past Mrs. Harlow’s abandoned house. My arms pump
furiously, bat still in my right hand. I know it’s stupid to look
over my shoulder, but I can’t help it. I have to know. I throw a
glance behind me and my attacker is charging out of the house,
barely twenty feet away. And he can run.

The snow that
has been falling heavily all day coats everything—the driveway, the
trees that surround the house, the road beyond, everything. The
world is white and grey and black as I run blindly, veering left
and then right, hoping to gain some cover in the trees. They’re
spindly and bare, however, and do nothing but get in the way. I
have to get back onto the road. I have to make my way down on the
highway that leads back into Breakwater proper. I’ll be safe if I
can do that. I dodge more trees and lift my knees up as the snow
gets deeper, setting like concrete around my lower body every time
I try to push forward.

The bat is
just getting in the way now, so I let it go, praying to God that
I’ll be okay without it. That I won’t need it again. That I can get
away from this crazy person and make it back to civilization before
I’m stabbed to death. I reach the small roadway leading away from
the house. My lungs are on fire. Luke. I have to get to Luke. I run
faster, an agonizing burn surging through my legs each time I force
them forward.

And then
suddenly my legs are no longer beneath me. Fire sings through my
nerve endings, a high-pitched chatter of pain that blinds me. The
next thing I know I’m falling, crumpling in a heap into the snow. I
can’t stop shaking. My back contorts, my body balking against the
alien, frightening, painful sensation coursing through it. A low
and fast
tick, tick, tick, tick,
tick
sound fills my ears. After that I hear
the creaking and crunching of boots slowly approaching through the
snow. And then blackness.

******

Humming.

The sound of
lapping water.

A familiar
whirring.

My head is
killing me. I struggle to open my eyes, instinct telling me that I
need more than my sense of hearing right now. Burning pain sears
through my head as I manage to crack my eyelids, the light flaring
into blinding brightness and then dulling a little. Not enough for
the pain throbbing behind my eyes to dissipate, but enough to allow
me to see.

I’m strapped
to a chair. And I’m in the basement. The pool cover has been
removed and the water throws marbling reflections of light up onto
the ceiling and the walls. My father’s projector sits on top of a
wooden chair—one of the breakfast bar stools from the kitchen. It’s
switched on, but there’s no film loaded and so a solid plain white
square is the only thing displayed on the wall at the opposite end
of the room.

I spin around,
but I’m alone.

Terror rips
through me then. Whoever tied me to the chair has left me down
here, with God knows what in mind, and I have no means of getting
away. The bindings tying me to the chair are strong and tight. I
tug against them but the effort is wasted.

“
I’d save my
energy if I were you,” a low voice echoes off the walls. It’s
twisted at first, strange in my ears, until I work out that it’s
being distorted somehow. Leather boots complain as someone, my
attacker, makes their way down the stairs into the basement. My
body seizes as they walk slowly towards me, face and body still
entirely covered.

“
What are you
doing?” I hiss, paralyzed by panic.

The figure
holds a small black box to his mouth and presses a button. “Is this
where we cue the stupid questions?”

I don’t
answer. The figure doesn’t say anything else. He paces carefully to
the projector where he opens up an old film canister, not one of my
dad’s, and threads the film into the feeder. He works in silence,
cueing everything up until the job is complete.

“
I have a
video of your father that you probably haven’t seen yet,” he tells
me, speaking into the voice distorter. “I thought we could watch
together.”

I yank on the
restraints pinning my hands behind my back and locking them to the
chair. It feels like a zip tie, the plastic cutting into my skin.
The figure stalks towards me and strikes me across the face with
his gloved hand.

My cheek
stings with the force of the slap, and tears spring to my eyes.
I’ve always thought I would be more defiant in a situation like
this, but the reality of being held captive, fearing for your life,
is terrifying and I can do nothing but whimper. The man in black
moves back to the projector and pick up his voice distorter again.
“I told you not to bother, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t say
anything else. He sets the film rolling, and suddenly my father’s
face is on the back wall of the basement. His eyes are filled with
tears, and his lower lip is bleeding. A sinking stone of dread
pulls at my insides. “What…what is this?”

The man in
black strides towards me quickly and grabs a handful of my hair,
forcing me to look up at my dad. “Watch,” he growls into the voice
distorter. And I have to. Dad’s eyes are bright, like someone’s
shining a light into them. A male voice off screen begins to
speak.

“
You’re a very
lucky man, Max. Do you consider yourself a lucky man?”

My father
swallows. “Most of the time.” His voice shakes.

“
Only most of
the time? You have a beautiful wife, a beautiful daughter. A good
job. You’re respected in the community. You’re a goddamned saint,
in fact. Isn’t that so?”

“
I suppose
so,” he says softly. He sounds uncertain, like he doesn’t know if
he’s saying the wrong thing.

“
So what makes
you think you’re lucky only most of the time?”

“
Well, I
wouldn’t be
here
if I were lucky all the time,” he breathes out, his voice
hitching.

A person off
screen huffs out a burst of laughter. “Your presence here today is
very lucky, Max. You just don’t understand why yet.” The sound of
boots grinding on concrete fills the basement, and my dad’s eyes
move to the left. Someone is moving around him. “Do you want me to
explain why I say that, Max?”

“
Ye—yes.”

“
Okay, then. I
will. Here’s how it is. A hand appears on screen in front of my
father’s face, and in it is a rectangular piece of paper. I can’t
see what’s on it, but my father does. He lets out a pained cry, his
face crumpling into tears.

“
No! No,
don’t. Please!
Please!”
he begs. The hand spins the piece of paper over
and I see that it’s not a piece of paper but a photograph. Of me.
Fourteen year old me, smiling out of the glossy image. My stomach
rolls.

“
You see, Max.
One of our own wanted your little girl to be sitting where you’re
sitting right now. But you’re a special case. Your holier than
thou, virtuous personality has rubbed quite a few of us up the
wrong way, see. We voted on it, and we decided that you should be
given an opportunity here.”

“
Adam,
please,” my father whispers. “Please don’t do this.”

Adam?
Adam Bright
? Like the
movement of an old pocket watch, the gears and cogs of my mind
begin to turn. Mayor Bright’s brother, Breakwater High’s basketball
coach, Maggie’s father is the person threatening my dad? The man in
black pinches hold of the back of my neck, digging his fingers
deeper into my skin. I wince, staring at the video unfolding before
my eyes. Adam moves into the shot fully as he leans forward and
punches my dad in the jaw, hard. His rocks back with such force
that I cry out. Adam remains on screen now, a familiar face,
Maggie’s dad, my father’s work colleague.

“
So, this is
your opportunity, Maxwell Breslin. You’re being given a choice. You
can take your daughter’s place. You can remain a sanctimonious
asshole and kill yourself with this,” he produces a gun from the
back of his waistband, shoving it into Dad’s face so he can see
every gleaming black inch of it, “or you can let your daughter be
our sacrifice. What d’you say, Max? Are you willing to make the
trade?”

Oh,
God.

The
trade.

“
NO!
” I scream so loud it feels like
my vocal chords are tearing in half. No. No, no, no! This is what
my father had meant—this is the trade he made. My life for his. He
died to save me. Bile burns the back of my throat, my eyes filled
with tears. My father’s shoulders sag. He exhales heavily, and then
leans forward and spits blood onto the floor.

“
I’ll do it.
I’ll kill myself.”

Adam turns to
the camera, a hundred watt smile grinning right out at me, a
specter from the past. “You heard the man, Jeff. He’s making the
trade.” Adam seems over the moon that my father has agreed to his
sick ultimatum. Jefferson Kyle, one of the other men my father was
accused of killing, speaks, his body out of sight.

“
Wouldn’t
gloat too much, Adam,” he snaps. “You know Chloe’s gonna be pissed
about this. She has her heart set on the Breslin girl.”

Icy cold
fingers of alarm grip hold of me. Chloe?
Chloe!
No. No, how can that be? But
sure enough, when I jerk my head back to look at the person digging
their fingertips into the back of my neck, the ski mask has been
removed and Chloe Matherson is staring down at me.

Thirty One

Unexpected

CHLOE HOLDS a
Taser in her hand, pressing the trigger so that an arc of
electricity fires between the two conductors. The expression on her
face is deadpan, completely flat.

“
The boys had
no right to make that deal,” she says evenly. “It was my turn. I
was supposed to get to pick who and how, but no. They switched
everything out, picked your dad up while I was working. That wasn’t
fair. That wasn’t how it was supposed to work.” I’m too stunned by
the news that Chloe is involved in this
,
is a killer
, to say anything. She seems
content enough that her captive audience is listening, anyway. “I
only got to plan two. Jeff planned three. Sam planned three. Adam
got to do
seven
.
Psychopath,” she spits. “He chased those girls around with a blunt
machete. What was so smart about that? He thought he was fucking
Picasso.” She drags her hands back through her cropped hair,
inhaling a huge breath. She seems to calm down a little.

“
There’s
nothing clever or beautiful about drowning someone or setting them
on fire, either. That just makes a mess. Everything should be neat
and tidy. Yes, that’s right, neat and tidy. You can appreciate
that, I know you do.” She paces up and down along the edge of the
pool, scratching at the same spot on her head over and over.
Suddenly she turns and pins me under a fierce gaze. “You have to
treat them kindly. Make them look pretty. Brush their hair.” She
stands directly in front of me and reaches out, her hand trembling.
She brushes a lock of my hair out of my face. The reverence behind
the action betrays a disturbing darkness. “You have such pretty
hair,” she whispers.

I immediately
start strategizing, trying to figure out how I’m going to get
myself out of this situation. Because this situation is grade A
fucked. Chloe crouches down, staring straight at me. I get the
feeling it’s not me she’s seeing, though. “You looked just like her
back then. Now, well, your coloring’s a bit darker, yes, but I
think that’s okay. It’ll still count. She would have looked like
you now, just like you looked like her then. Does that make
sense?”