“How?” I asked.
He pointed to his phone. “I get a detailed bill on the phones by email every second of the month. That includes every number that she's called or texted in the past thirty days.”
“She was angry with me when she found out who I was. I wasn't trying to mislead her, but that first night, I didn't really know who she was either.”
I got off the Interstate and kept following the navigation. I knew at some point soon I'd have to keep my eyes open. The way Abby had described the house, the road likely wasn't going to be well-marked or even paved.
Patrick looked out the window, seemingly lost in thought before he spoke up. “After her mother and sister were killed, I only had Abby,” he said softly, looking out on the rapidly dimming evening sky. “If I was overprotective, it was because I couldn't stand to lose her too.”
“You won't,” I promised, turning right. “I think this is the right road. I see a house up ahead—see the lights?”
“No,” Patrick admitted. “You must have better eyes than me.”
The road quickly became rough and bumpy, and I wondered if we were on the right track. Still, the house grew closer and closer, and we were getting closer to Abby's car, too. I gunned the engine, not caring if we tore up the shocks on the truck. Patrick said nothing, putting his hand on the dash and hanging on grimly while we bounced our way down the washboard road.
The house was on the edge of the lake, a two-story job that looked like it wasn't quite good enough to be a permanent house, but had when it was originally built been a pretty good vacation getaway. On our left, I could see blue lights approaching, and I knew the cops were approaching on another road, probably one that ran along the edge of the lake. Still, they were a good distance away and weren't rushing the way we were. I couldn't trust that they'd get there in time, and I pushed the engine harder.
I skidded to a halt in front of the house, still a quarter-mile from the readout for Abby's car. Still, the house was the best chance for her location, and I was desperate, spraying gravel from the tires and leaping out. I immediately heard a sound that made my blood run ice cold, as Abby screamed as loud as she could. Running, I headed for the back of the house where I heard the sound coming from. It sounded like the garage, but there was no visible front door, with the garage door itself firmly padlocked shut. I went around and up the short stairs to the back porch, finding the rear entrance. This time, instead of kicking, I lowered my shoulder, hitting the door like I did back when I was on the high school football team. The old frame nearly exploded as I bulled through, looking for someone or something to fight. There was an open door leading down to the garage, and then a sound that again sent chills down my spine, as Abby's scream was cut off like a switch with a harsh, slapping sound. “Shut up, bitch.”
Ironically, what should have driven me to even greater levels of rage, instead pushed me all the way past my emotions, drawing me into the cold, calculated place that I had last touched nearly five and a half years ago in Iraq. The killer inside me, the one that had actually shot at people with intent—and been rewarded, not sent to jail—was loose, and glad to be out of his mental cell. Almost unconsciously, I reached out and scooped up a kitchen chair, brandishing the wooden legs in front of me like a lion tamer as I jumped the short three steps down to the floor.
The first thing I saw was Abby, trussed up and bound like a side of beef, her arms cinched above her head and her eyes half-shut, bruised and battered but still conscious, if only barely. She was alive at least, and I had to secure the area, so I turned my eyes away, scanning the rest of the room.
The next thing I saw was Chris, a knife in his hand, brandishing it toward me. Next to him, sagging in her bonds and moaning, was Shawnie, who'd been cut numerous times, the blood dark on her skin in the overhead fluorescent light.
“One more step, and I cut her fucking throat,” Chris said, quickly stepping behind Shawnie and pulling her hair, exposing her neck. “Don't think I won't do it, hero boy.”
“Drop the knife, Chris,” I said, lowering the chair. It wasn't an effective weapon anyway. I had used it just to shield myself as I came through the door. My killer side knew that right now, the best thing to do was to get him to talk. Killing could come later. “The cops are right behind me, and you don't want a murder rap on top of it all. Trust me, I know.”
Chris chuckled and pulled Shawnie's hair harder. She was obviously drugged, her eyes rolling in her head. Somewhere, deep down, I think she knew what was going on. “Don't think I can get any worse than this, Dane, my boy. Two kidnappings, assault, and of course, the testimonies you and Abby there will give against me? No way, that’s not looking too good at all.”