So her soul isn’t dead. Whatever’s happening inside her body, she’s still human. She can feel shame and revulsion even moments after savoring his fear. This is a good thing, she realizes.
Then, for the first time, she notices the slender gold chain around Jason’s neck. Inside the tiny medallion attached are the stylized, painterly outlines of several flames. Flames for Burning Girl, she thinks. It’s a goddamn token celebrating the fact that together she and Abigail Banning burned the belongings of a dozen raped and murdered women, and this fucker wears it on his neck. To see her. Suddenly his agonized wails don’t make her feel so ashamed anymore.
“Where’s your phone?” she asks.
He answers with sobs.
Slowly, she lifts one foot and hovers it over the center of his chest. It’s justified, she thinks. It’s justified because she needs information. She needs help.
“Where is your goddamn cell phone?”
“M-my car. I-it’s in my car. In the a-a-a-arroyo.”
About fifteen minutes later, after grabbing a holster for her Beretta and attaching it to her hip, her flashlight beam finds the edge of the arroyo, then glints off a windshield at its bottom. She hits the key fob. Headlights flash and a car horn bleats—a combo that seems both absurd and somehow hopeless out here in the desolate darkness. It’s a Honda Civic, black, the doors caked in sand from days of desert driving.
She’s about to descend the slope when she hears a sound like buzz saws approaching through the night. They’re coming from the north, from the direction of Fisher Pit. On the horizon, headlights widen like bioluminescent fish emerging from the deep.
Motorcycles, eight of them in all.
There’s no chance these new bikers can see her way out here; the house sits between her and the highway. Still, she doesn’t want to risk being spotted, so she gets down on all fours and slides backward until most of her body is hidden. She can still see across the cactus-studded earth.
One after the other, the bikers zip past the house, headed south, toward the scene of bloodshed she’d left behind earlier. Did one of those guys manage to get off a distress call before he became cheeseburger? Or is the rest of their crew checking in on schedule? What will they do once they find those bodies? Fan out in search of anyone in the area? Will that bring them to her door?
There’s not much inside Jason’s car, but she does find a cell phone sitting inside the cup holder next to the gearshift. He probably left it because he didn’t want to run the risk of it ringing or buzzing or lighting up while he was lying in wait for her. It’s a cheap disposable. It’s got plenty of juice.
She turns it over in her hands slowly and delicately, as if it were made of crystal. After several deep breaths, she starts searching its menu options with the gentlest of button presses.
The contact book is empty. So’s the call history. There’s only one text thread, and it’s between Jason and an unidentified phone number.
The day before, Jason texted: Hi Savior, it’s J. New phone. Leaving now.
The response: E-mail when you reach Flagstaff.
Jason: Can’t e-mail. Switched to a disposable phone. Only text and call.
The response: Smart. Text when you reach Flagstaff. No calls.
He’d done exactly that at about eleven o’clock the night before.
Then, that morning, he’d texted again.
Getting ready for the last leg. All good?
The response: Everything’s good. Will let you know if her schedule changes.
Her heart hammers. So whoever this Savior person is, they’ve been watching her throughout the day. Longer than that, if they knew she was out here.
Where were they now? Why hadn’t they come to Jason’s rescue?
The next text turns her stomach. It’s from Jason.
Code is 1986474. Thanks for the tips.
What could that even mean, thanks for the tips, aside from the fact whoever this fucker is, he’s got the alarm code to her house now, too?
Call the police, she tells herself. But just thinking these words reminds her of her one trip to the Scarlet police station to register her alarm system: two deputies, a dispatch officer, and a weary-looking sheriff, none of whom seemed ready for a short jog, much less a biker gun battle.
And whoever’s helping Jason, their phone number’s right here.
If they come out now, maybe she’ll be able to deal with them as effectively as she’s dealt with Jason. Whoever they are, they’ve lost the element of surprise.
Jason texted once more. I hope I’ll make you proud.
“Jesus,” she whispers.
Proud. What could Jason have planned to do to her in her own house that would make this monster proud?
Later, around evening time, the Savior texted, She’s on her way back.
The text was sent at almost the exact time she left Dylan. She scans her memory for any lurkers outside his office. The bikers, maybe. Were the bikers a part of Jason’s plan? Did that even make sense?
She dials the number.
There’s an answer after three rings.
“I said no calls.”
The breath doesn’t leave her; instead it’s as if the air inside her lungs simply ceases to exist. Like the last breath she took was some childish idea she was foolish to put faith in. She wants to say his name, but now she wonders if it even is his name. If anything he’s told her about himself is true. If a single word he shared in that cramped second-floor office that smelled of coffee from the AA meetings downstairs was anything more than a prelude to this night.
“You’re the Savior,” she hears herself say.
“Charley?”
“You told Jason where I lived. You helped him break into my house.”
“Charley, I need you to listen to—”
“Go to hell.”
“I need you to tell me how you’re feeling.”
“Are you kidding? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re gonna try to be my therapist now?”
Cool as ice, Dylan says, “No. I want you to describe what you’re feeling physically. I don’t know if you’ve been injured, but my guess is that if you’re alive, you haven’t been. So please, Charley, tell me how you’re—”
“You drugged me. You gave me a goddamn Valium and sent me home to be raped in my own house by that sick fuck.”
“No. No, Charley. I didn’t. That’s not what Zypraxon does.”
“Who are you?”
“Just take a deep breath and tell me what you’ve done, Charley. Tell me if you can believe what you’ve done with your own two hands.”
At first she thinks he’s accusing her of something, but there’s wonder in his tone, as if the fact that they’re talking to each other at all in this moment is a magical thing. Nothing about him sounds guilty or even hostile. Instead he sounds animated by a higher purpose.
He knows. He knows that she’s capable of crushing metal in one hand, that she can throw a grown man several feet in the air. That she can snap bone without meaning to.
“What did you give me?” she asks. “What the fuck are these pills?”
“A miracle. You on Zypraxon is a miracle. I saw what you did to those two bikers, Charley. You’re the first person it’s ever worked on.” Those two bikers. How long has he been following her? “Trust me. I didn’t want it to happen this way, but—”
“You helped Jason find me and break into my house. What was the point of our sessions? Just to figure out what kind of security I had?”
“You needed a trigger. Charley. Please. Listen to me. I’ll take care of Jason, and I’ll explain everything. But you have to trust me. This is bigger than you.”
“A trigger? What the hell does that mean? Are you completely insane? What did you give me?”