MOVE! Jeremy gave him his walking papers—they’re back-dooring him out of here.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins like dirty motor oil as I rush toward them. I won’t allow Donny Ray to leave this building alive. I cannot. My son’s life depends on it. I’ve got to keep him safe.
They continue walking him forward. I pull out my gun and spring toward them, heart jackhammering against my rib cage as the distance between us narrows.
At about eight feet away, I raise my weapon, but one of the thugs locks onto me.
“He’s got a gun!” the man cries out and points.
From behind me, I hear a stampede of feet beating a path my way. I aim my gun at Donny Ray, spit my words out like poison. “YOU’RE NOT LEAVING HERE! I’LL KILL YOU FIRST! DO YOU HEAR ME? I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”
Just as Donny Ray and his clan duck for cover through the doorway, I get a clear line of sight to him. I firm my hold on the trigger, but before I can pull it, an overpowering weight against my back hurtles me forward. My gun accidentally goes off, then I rapidly and repeatedly keep squeezing out more rounds.
A volley of gunfire flies across the room, ricocheting off the floors, the walls, everywhere. Plaster and tile crack and explode all around me. As I crash facedown, the gun flies from my hand and slides across the floor. Not a second later, I feel more crushing weight barrel down on me, so heavy it knocks the wind from my lungs. My forehead and cheeks are throbbing and numb, my nose and mouth oozing with blood. I hear frantic commotion, footsteps and voices all around me. A few heartbeats later, someone roughly yanks my arms back, slaps cuffs on my wrists, then pulls me sharply into standing position. Two men grab hold of each arm and fling me forward, and I stumble along with them.
“Sure!” I shout at the men. “Let a child killer walk the streets, and take me away! That makes a hell of a lot of sense! You people are depraved! You’re a disgrace!”
The men answer with a backbreaking jerk as they fling my body forward.
Then, with a face full of blood and chuffing for air, I at last get a glimpse of Donny Ray Smith.
Lying motionless on the floor.
Face to tile.
A puddle of blood rapidly spreading around his body.
Dead as dead can be.
80
Wake up, Christopher. Can you wake up?
I have to wake up. Someone is telling me I have to wake up.
I blink a few times, then look down at myself. Lying in bed, I examine the Posey Net that covers my entire body. Arms, neck, and legs pulled through the openings. Ankles and wrists secured with loop straps. I’m sweating, trembling with fear.
Footsteps move toward me, and I lurch back against the bed, hands clenching the guardrails, biceps flexing, breaths speeding. My restraints clatter; perspiration slides from sodden bangs down the bridge of my nose.
I raise my head, and the first thing I see are those evil eyes coming at me.
What the . . . Didn’t I just . . . ?
My vision wanders.
His room. What the hell am I doing in his room?
Donny Ray now stands a few feet away.
“Why am I being restrained?” I shout at him.
“You’ve been deemed a danger to yourself and others,” he explains.
I release an angry howl and violently try to jerk myself free; the bed rattles, squeaks, and shimmies. Recognizing my efforts as futile, I let out a tiny, helpless moan.
“It’s okay,” he tells me, keeping his body still and voice level. “Nobody’s here to cause you any harm.”
A low and inarticulate sound escapes through my chattering teeth.
He waits in silence and watches me. A few moments later, my breaths slow and my jaw relaxes, but I turn away to refuse him eye contact. Hearing him move closer, I react instantly, shooting my terrified gaze directly at him, but now Donny Ray is the one who seems startled, staring into my eyes with what can only be recognition mixed with curious confusion. He examines my other features.
I keep hopscotching through time, don’t understand how I landed here, but one thing is absolutely certain. The man who’s been turning my world into an empty shell has now drawn me to the heart of the whirlpool, the epicenter of evil. The man who keeps broadening his web and pulling me deeper into it. I have no idea what he’s doing, but there’s not a doubt in my mind that Donny Ray has taken over complete control of this hospital. That there is only one way out of Loveland, and he’s holding the key.
“You have to take me out of here!” I blurt, voice fraught with desperation, eyes begging.
“I need you to try and calm down,” he says. “Do you think you can do that for me?”
A slow nod. A vulnerable expression.
A phone rings from somewhere off to the side. I jerk back. He raises a hand of assurance.
I settle.
Still mindful of my overall appearance, Donny Ray says, “I need to ask you a few questions.”
I’m fearful but compliant.
“Do you know where we are?”
“We’re at Loveland.”
“Do you understand why we’re here?”
“Please!” I shout. “Help me!”
“We’re going to find the truth. Whether that helps you or not remains to be seen. Are you able to tell me your name?”
“But you already know all this! What does it have to do with—”
“I need your name,” he says, this time as a firm mandate.
“Yeah . . .” I surrender. “Okay. It’s Christopher Kellan.”
“What’s your date of birth?”
“June twenty-ninth, nineteen seventy-six.”
“Can you tell me where you were born?”
“Johnson City! Why are you doing this to me?”
Donny Ray circles back to the original question I failed to answer. “Do you understand why we’re here?”
I look down at my bound hands, look up at him and feel my expression change—something like nervous confusion diluted by distress. “I think . . . I mean . . . I just don’t know anymore! As many times as I’ve turned things around in my head, I can’t make sense of them. And then I keep forgetting things, and everything around me doesn’t fit, and that just makes it worse . . .”