“Jay. It’s okay. It’s me.”
Another tense moment, long enough for Darby to worry — and then finally the girl stirred, her fingers gripping the kennel bars for balance. The frame made a twanging noise, like taut cables. Darby reached into her jeans pocket for her phone, to turn on the LED flashlight, but it wasn’t there. She patted her other pocket. Also empty. She’d left her phone in her purse. On the edge of that porcelain sink, inside the men’s restroom.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Inside the van, she smelled the same odors — dog blankets, urine, stale sweat — and identified a foul new one.
“I threw up,” the girl whispered. Timidly.
“It’s . . . it’s alright.”
“Sorry. My stomach hurts.”
Mine, too, Darby thought. She leaned back and peered around the Astro’s icy taillight — yes, the building’s door was still shut. “I’m sorry, Jay. We’re both having a crappy night. But we’ll get through it. Okay?”
“I didn’t mean to throw up.”
“It’s fine.”
“I never throw up. Ever.”
“Believe me, Jay, that’ll change in college.”
“College makes you throw up?”
“Something like that.”
“I hate throwing up. If that’s what college is like, I’m not going—”
“Alright, Jay, listen.” Darby touched the kennel, and the little girl’s fingers squeezed hers through the bars. “I’m going to help you. And to help you, I need you to first help me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I need you to try and remember. The farting man . . . can you describe the gun he’s carrying?”
“It’s little. Black. He keeps it in his pocket.”
“Of course.” She leaned out and checked the building’s front door again — still closed — and asked: “Did you see him keep any knives in here? Bats? Machetes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any other guns?”
“One other.”
Darby’s heart double-tapped. “Where?”
“No, it’s not a regular gun—”
Her mind raced with possibilities — and she barely choked out: “Why? Is it bigger?”
“It shoots nails.”
“Like a . . .” Darby hesitated. “Like a nail gun?”
Jay nodded.
“And you’re . . . you’re sure?”
She nodded harder.
A nail gun.
Just like the cartoon fox on the van. Darby remembered the bandage on Jay’s hand, the bloody little smudge on her palm, and it all fit together. Punishment for an escape attempt, maybe? Or maybe this, this thing he called a yellow card, was just an appetizer for whatever horrific main course Lars had in mind for her once he drove her to his remote cabin in the Rockies.
Her hands were shaking again. Not with terror — rage.
A freaking nail gun.
That’s the kind of psycho we’re up against.
“And the nail gun is here?” she asked. “It’s in the van with us?”
“I think so.”
Darby doubted a power tool would be an even match against Lars’s .45, but it was a hell of an upgrade from a two-inch Swiss Army knife. She’d never operated a nail gun before, or even seen one outside of a Lowe’s Hardware store — but she hoped it would be simple to learn. How far could it fire a nail? Was it heavy? Loud? Would a nail to the skull kill the victim, or just maim? Point and click, right?
She touched Jay’s right hand through the bars, and found the seven-year-old’s fingers were slick with fresh, cold blood. The scab on her palm must have broken.
Point and click.
Darby vowed she’d kill Lars tonight. Maybe when she and Ashley finally cornered this sicko and pummeled him into a whimpering, broken heap — well, maybe she’d keep stabbing. Maybe she’d cut his throat. Maybe she’d enjoy it.
Maybe.
She leaned back and checked on the building again — still no activity. Now she was getting worried about Ashley, Ed and Sandi. Was Lars really just standing idly by in there, allowing Darby to poke around in the parking lot outside? After finding her Styrofoam cup in the snow? After stalking her and Ashley into the restroom? After she made knowing eye contact with him on her way out the door?
Jesus — what the hell was going on?
Bloody scenarios cycled through her mind like camera flashes. She braced, half-expecting the thump of a gunshot. But there was nothing. Only icy silence. Only the distant moan of the wind. Only Jay and herself, standing on shaky legs in that desolate parking lot.
The nail gun, she decided.
Lars’s nail gun was her new objective. She’d find it, figure out how to operate it, and then she’d run back inside the visitor center, kick open the door, and whatever was going on inside, she’d fire a nail right into Lars’s whiskery little face. Ka-thunk. Asshole dead. Innocent child saved. Nightmare over.
That would work.
She looked back at Jay, her teeth chattering. “Alright. Where do you think Lars keeps his nail gun? Back here, or in the front?”
“The other one keeps it in an orange box.”
“Keeps it where?”
“It used to be back here, but I think they moved it—”
But Darby wasn’t listening. Jay’s little voice bled away, and in a flash of scalding panic, the prior sentence snagged in her brain and echoed: The other one keeps it an orange box.
The other one.
The other one.
The other one—
Slipping, staggering back outside, she hit her kneecaps on hardened snow, steadied herself against the brake light, and peered around it— The building’s door was now open.
Lars stood in the doorway. Beside him, Ashley.
The other one.
They watched her, fifty feet away, framed by interior light. They appeared to be speaking to each other, in guarded whispers so Ed and Sandi wouldn’t hear from inside. Their faces were black shadow, unreadable. But Lars had his scrawny arm chicken-winged up inside his jacket, resting on the grip of his pistol. And Ashley had the rock-in-a-sock out, in his right hand.
He was swinging it.
Smacking it against his palm.
MIDNIGHT
12:01 a.m.
Two versus one.
She’d been right about that part.
Ashley was in on the kidnapping. He’d lied to her — about driving the other car, about not knowing Lars, about everything. He’d played along with her in the restroom. He put his tongue in her mouth. He’d been so authentic, so convincingly human and frightened. She’d believed it all. She’d told him everything. Her entire plan, all of her options, her thought processes, her fears.
She gave him everything. Including a new weapon.
She whirled to face Jay. “You didn’t tell me there were two of them.”
“I thought you knew.”
“How could I know?”
“Sorry—”
“Why didn’t you fucking mention it?”
“I’m sorry.” Jay’s voice broke.
Darby realized she was yelling at a seven-year-old girl who’d recently taken a steel nail through the palm. What did it matter? It was Darby’s fault. Her mistake. Her horrible, fatal miscalculation, and now it was two versus one, and they were both as good as dead. Or worse.
One of the silhouettes started walking toward them.
Her heart seized up. “Okay. Where’s their nail gun?”
“I don’t know.”
“Front or back?”