I run for my life.
Doorway to the right. I careen through it without a second thought, intent on getting out of the line of fire. Only afterward does it occur to me it might be a bedroom or, worse, a bathroom. A room with no exit where I’d be trapped.
But in this case, it appears to be yet another common room. I’ve given up on my theory of being trapped in a traditional Boston triple-decker. The structure is too vast. Too many hallways, too many rooms. Not a warehouse or commercial building because the rooms are small. Maybe a group home? Abandoned, undergoing renovations, something.
I should stop, get my bearings, but I can’t think anymore. I sprint down dark hallways, leap through dark spaces, like a deer through the woods.
I might be crying, which is stupid. Last thing I need to do right now is make any undue noise.
I crash through another doorway, step on something sharp, and feel it slice deeply into the ball of my foot. I can’t help myself. I draw up short, hopping on one leg, biting my lower lip against the scream.
Belatedly, I flatten myself against the wall. Will myself to stand still.
Breathe. Think. Breathe.
I can’t keep running pell-mell through a maze of sharp objects and unknown spaces, waiting to become trapped, shot, killed. I need to come up with a strategy. Something worthy of taking on a homicidal maniac armed with a gun.
A woman who’s been waiting five years to destroy me.
Though, to be fair, I’ve been waiting five years to kill her too.
My breathing is ragged. I force myself to inhale deeply, try to smooth out my racing pulse so I can listen for the sound of approaching footsteps.
Then, I concentrate on thinking.
Lindy. She’s here. In Boston. She tracked me down. Visited my mother’s farm. Found me at Devon Goulding’s house. Then followed me back to my highly secure apartment, where she broke in using my landlord’s keys. Neat trick, that. It had never occurred to me that for all my extra bolts, my landlords would remain the weak link. But yes. Their own approach to locking up is haphazard at this stage of their lives. And once she had their keys . . .
Lindy. In my apartment. Lindy bringing me back here to finish what Jacob had started.
I want her dead. The flatness of the thought, the direct, compelling need, grounds me, further calms my breathing.
I’ve hated her since the first time I saw Jacob watching her. Since she threw her arms around him in welcome. Since they sat on the sofa, heads nearly touching.
Then, her forcing me to go out, approach that woman in the bar.
I don’t think about that night, or any of the others that followed. I don’t talk about her, Jacob, what they made me do. No, I save those memories for my nightmares, where all these years later, I still wake up screaming.
Jacob made me roll the bodies from his rig to the marshy grass alongside the road. Then he made me sit and watch till the gators discovered the unexpected treats.
He never said a word. Just watched me with eyes that told me someday this would be my fate. Except Lindy would be the one to roll my body out the door, and she’d be clapping gleefully as the local wildlife came to feed.
Lindy. Here in Boston.
Lindy. Somewhere in the dark behind me.
When I took the first self-defense class, I’m sure my mother assumed it was the Jacobs of the world I was practicing taking down. I never corrected her. Never told her that every time I blocked and kicked, it was a slightly older, astonishingly beautiful opponent I pictured in my head. That when I handled my first firearm, it was her face I imagined as the target.
I’ve been practicing killing Lindy for five years now. Each time I set out on a mission, I even told myself that if I could pull this off, maybe it would mean I was ready for Florida. Except, of course, I never quite accepted that answer. There was always one more thing for me to attend to up here, then, of course, Stacey Summers. I couldn’t just leave Stacey Summers.
Now, here I am. I don’t have to find Lindy after all. Lindy has found me.
And I’m a shaking quivering mass all over again. She has a gun. I have a jagged piece of window glass. She is . . . Lindy. And I’m . . . not Molly, I have to remind myself. Not Molly, not Molly, not Molly.
Except, of course, I feel that helpless all over again.
I need a plan. Kill Lindy, slay the beast, and maybe, maybe, I can come home again.
And bring Stacey Summers with me.
I don’t think of the motel room anymore. I don’t think of that final day, the weight of Jacob’s gun in my hand, the echo of my promise in his ear, or the sticky feel of his brains in my hair.
I picture my mom. The way she looked standing in my kitchen the other morning. Proud and resigned, caring and reserved. The mother who still loves me, even knowing her daughter has never truly returned.
I want to go home now. I want to throw my arms around my mother and her ridiculous flannel shirts. I want to hug her, and even if it doesn’t feel like how it felt before, I want to appreciate how it feels now.
I don’t want to survive anymore.
I want to live.
There, I hear it. Footsteps, slow and shuffling down the hall behind me. Lindy is approaching. No doubt with the gun held before her, finger on the trigger.
Resources? I have a sharp piece of glass, already wet with her blood. I have elbows and knees and an excellent kick. Glancing around the shadowed space, I don’t see any sign of furniture but dark piles of random garbage. Which could prove interesting. After all, trash has saved me before. I pull myself up, prepare to sort through the piles.
I have it together now.
I’m not tired, I’m not hungry, nor cold, nor in pain.
I’m okay.
And I’m about to do what I do best: whatever it takes to survive.
*
D.D. PULLED UP SHORT, her hand on Keynes’s arm as she turned toward the sound.
“There,” she whispered as the sharp crack sounded again. “Gunfire.”
“Second building to the right,” Keynes murmured.
She illuminated it with her flashlight, a hulking structure of faded brick and boarded-up windows. She didn’t see any light peering around the plywood eyes, but then, just as she was about to turn to the next building, three more shots in rapid succession.
“Definitely that building,” she agreed.
She adjusted her grip on the .38.
They made their approach.
Chapter 49
DID YOU EVER HEAR the martial arts master’s brag: I know ten ways to kill someone with a drinking straw, twelve if you include the paper wrapper?
According to my instructor, this is more hyperbole than fact. What’s the point of being the master of anything if you can’t sound very, very scary?
A plastic straw, however, can be a useful weapon. I found one in the pile of garbage closest to me. I bent it in half, then tucked it between the index and middle finger of my left hand. Folded, the straw is sharp enough and rigid enough to make a decent jabbing weapon. Catch an opponent in the eye or, better yet, slam into the hyoid bone at the front of the throat, and you can inflict some damage.
How much, I’m about to find out. I can hear Lindy creeping down the end of the corridor. So close, I can make out the sound of her breathing.
I picture her smiling, happy to be on the hunt once more.
I never understood the full dynamics of her and Jacob’s relationship. He loved her. I could tell that just by watching. And Lindy?
She was excited to see him. But love? I don’t know. I think of Lindy as a sleek, dark panther stalking the night, aroused by the scent of blood. Does such a creature truly love?
I think she loved how special Jacob made her feel. How powerful and strong. When he appeared, hunting was twice the fun.
I guess she thought the same of the bartender with the amazing pecs. Devon Goulding. The guy I watched burn to death in front of my eyes.
The memory of which makes me feel powerful and strong.
No one wants to be a monster.