The Girl in 6E
Page 36
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The first thing I notice is that Jeremy’s truck is low on gas, the fuel warning light illuminated. I glance at the dashboard clock. 11:46 p.m. I have slept for about fifteen minutes. I look at the GPS, doing calculations in my head. Getting back on the road now, I will arrive at about six in the morning. According to all of Mike’s updates, and the limited chatter on the police scanner, Ralph is down for the evening, and they are going to watch him all night. I assume he’ll head for Annie in the morning, if he hasn’t killed her already. If I can get there quick enough, I can have her out of harm’s way in time. I press on the GPS’s screen, looking for the next exit with a gas station. There is only one option, a gas station seventeen miles away. I cross my fingers and hope that it will still be open.
The station is pathetic and rundown, sitting alone at the exit, the flickering white lights announcing its availability. I pay at the pump, swiping my card and reaching for the handle, suddenly aware of the emptiness surrounding me. I look over my shoulder to find the clerk eyeing me, acne-covered skin surrounding beady eyes and a grinning mouth. Great. I hear the gas topping off and loosen my hold on the pump, watching the number slide past fourteen gallons before the pump clicks in my hand. I squeeze a little more into the tank, hearing the slosh of petroleum topping off, then withdraw the pump. I open the truck, hitting the lock button, my eyes on the black duffel that contains the gun and my cash. I have a moment of indecision, but then shut the door, striding for the convenience store, my eyes conscious of the surrounding emptiness, my good ear tuning to the ominous quiet of the lot. My tennis shoes crunch loudly on rough pavement.
I open the advertisement-riddled door, revealing a small, crowded store, the floors sticky and dark, the air stale. I glance at the fruit basket next to the lotto counter, the bananas browning and oranges hardened. I grab an apple, the skin too soft to be good, and move down the first aisle, snagging some peanuts and bottles of orange and apple juice. I avoid the eyes of the clerk, feeling his presence, even in the farthest reaches of the store. I duck into the bathroom, setting my items on the floor outside, finding no good place to put the apple, and finally carry it into the restroom with me, chucking it into the trash. I shut the door and lock it, squatting over the filthy toilet and trying not to pee on too much of the seat. I relax, the pressure on my bladder lessening, the relief wonderful. My eyes catch movement and focus, watching the handle twitch slightly, just once, and then return to place. The bastard is trying the door. I rip off a wad of tissue, wipe and yank my pants up, my mind realizing the next step before my thoughts do. A key. He’d have a …
The door shoves open, and he is there, inside the small enclosure, shutting the door behind himself with a metallic click, grinning at me with disturbing confidence. “Well, well. And I was just getting bored with my evening. What’s a tight little thing like you doing out this late?”
I meet his grin, my own stretching easily across my face, my hands sliding into my sweatshirt pockets. I wrap a hand around the handle of the stiletto knife, rubbing its grip, finding and fingering the release. Wait. If only he knew that he was prey, and I was the hunter. And he had made it so damn convenient for me.
My grin confuses him. I see the hesitation, the pause in his movement, and the flicker of uncertainty in his stare.
“Don’t stop,” I say. “Please. Whatever you had in your mind to do, I welcome you to try it.”
He starts forward, but then stops. He moves again, then pauses, his hesitation growing at my tone and lack of fear. I laugh, a sound he doesn’t like, and his fists ball while the dark look in his eyes returns. Hunger. Hate.
“Drop your pants,” he rasps, his eyes dropping to my waist and the open pants. “I want to see the little snatch I am about to—”
My hands reach out, my forearm against his throat; the speed of the motion catches him off balance, pushing him back against the closed door. The stiletto is freed, the flash of blade catching his eye. His body freezes in response. I bring it to his cheek, my eyes on his. I smile wider, cracking my face in two. I try to picture his death, to welcome the gruesome visions that constantly battle for entry into my mind, but can only see her—the tiny blond, grinning into the camera, white iced cake before her. Annie. GO.
I grit my teeth, grounding out words as I stare into his eyes. “There’s nothing I’d love more than to carve into that ugly shit that you call a face, and leave you bleeding and helpless on this filthy floor, scrambling to stand, your eyeballs cut out and squished beneath my feet. But I am f**king late, and I don’t have time for this bullshit right now.” I press the blade into the thin skin under his eyes, feeling the easy slide of it, blood swelling around the tip. His eyes flit from the blade to me in a panicked jerk. My eyes drink in the red liquid, unable to move from the drip, my fingers unresponsive to my desire to stop the pressure, and keep the blade from slicing deeper. I yank back, the blade catching a bit on his skin, and his hand jumps up to press against the cut, his face shocked.
Blood. “Get the f**k out of my way,” I spit out.
He reaches backward, stumbling ‘til he finds the door handle, his red hands slipping on it, then turns the knob, falling backward into the store, his hand returning to his face. I lean over, grabbing my items, and walk through the store, out the door, and to the parked truck. It comes again, louder. GO. Annie.
CHAPTER 46
It is 6:04 a.m. when I pull off the highway, turning down the two-lane road. The road curves around on itself, taking me back parallel to the highway. The GPS indicates that I turn left, and I look in vain for a quarter mile ‘til I see a thin dirt road. I turn down the road, the ruts causing a vibration throughout the cab. Fog is heavy in the air, blanketing the fields in white clouds, all but obscuring my view of anything beyond the clay road with deep ditches on either side. I almost miss my destination, slamming on the brakes beside a white metal gate that is chained closed with a shiny new combination lock. A No Trespassing sign is visible, hanging from rungs on the gate. Bingo.
The station is pathetic and rundown, sitting alone at the exit, the flickering white lights announcing its availability. I pay at the pump, swiping my card and reaching for the handle, suddenly aware of the emptiness surrounding me. I look over my shoulder to find the clerk eyeing me, acne-covered skin surrounding beady eyes and a grinning mouth. Great. I hear the gas topping off and loosen my hold on the pump, watching the number slide past fourteen gallons before the pump clicks in my hand. I squeeze a little more into the tank, hearing the slosh of petroleum topping off, then withdraw the pump. I open the truck, hitting the lock button, my eyes on the black duffel that contains the gun and my cash. I have a moment of indecision, but then shut the door, striding for the convenience store, my eyes conscious of the surrounding emptiness, my good ear tuning to the ominous quiet of the lot. My tennis shoes crunch loudly on rough pavement.
I open the advertisement-riddled door, revealing a small, crowded store, the floors sticky and dark, the air stale. I glance at the fruit basket next to the lotto counter, the bananas browning and oranges hardened. I grab an apple, the skin too soft to be good, and move down the first aisle, snagging some peanuts and bottles of orange and apple juice. I avoid the eyes of the clerk, feeling his presence, even in the farthest reaches of the store. I duck into the bathroom, setting my items on the floor outside, finding no good place to put the apple, and finally carry it into the restroom with me, chucking it into the trash. I shut the door and lock it, squatting over the filthy toilet and trying not to pee on too much of the seat. I relax, the pressure on my bladder lessening, the relief wonderful. My eyes catch movement and focus, watching the handle twitch slightly, just once, and then return to place. The bastard is trying the door. I rip off a wad of tissue, wipe and yank my pants up, my mind realizing the next step before my thoughts do. A key. He’d have a …
The door shoves open, and he is there, inside the small enclosure, shutting the door behind himself with a metallic click, grinning at me with disturbing confidence. “Well, well. And I was just getting bored with my evening. What’s a tight little thing like you doing out this late?”
I meet his grin, my own stretching easily across my face, my hands sliding into my sweatshirt pockets. I wrap a hand around the handle of the stiletto knife, rubbing its grip, finding and fingering the release. Wait. If only he knew that he was prey, and I was the hunter. And he had made it so damn convenient for me.
My grin confuses him. I see the hesitation, the pause in his movement, and the flicker of uncertainty in his stare.
“Don’t stop,” I say. “Please. Whatever you had in your mind to do, I welcome you to try it.”
He starts forward, but then stops. He moves again, then pauses, his hesitation growing at my tone and lack of fear. I laugh, a sound he doesn’t like, and his fists ball while the dark look in his eyes returns. Hunger. Hate.
“Drop your pants,” he rasps, his eyes dropping to my waist and the open pants. “I want to see the little snatch I am about to—”
My hands reach out, my forearm against his throat; the speed of the motion catches him off balance, pushing him back against the closed door. The stiletto is freed, the flash of blade catching his eye. His body freezes in response. I bring it to his cheek, my eyes on his. I smile wider, cracking my face in two. I try to picture his death, to welcome the gruesome visions that constantly battle for entry into my mind, but can only see her—the tiny blond, grinning into the camera, white iced cake before her. Annie. GO.
I grit my teeth, grounding out words as I stare into his eyes. “There’s nothing I’d love more than to carve into that ugly shit that you call a face, and leave you bleeding and helpless on this filthy floor, scrambling to stand, your eyeballs cut out and squished beneath my feet. But I am f**king late, and I don’t have time for this bullshit right now.” I press the blade into the thin skin under his eyes, feeling the easy slide of it, blood swelling around the tip. His eyes flit from the blade to me in a panicked jerk. My eyes drink in the red liquid, unable to move from the drip, my fingers unresponsive to my desire to stop the pressure, and keep the blade from slicing deeper. I yank back, the blade catching a bit on his skin, and his hand jumps up to press against the cut, his face shocked.
Blood. “Get the f**k out of my way,” I spit out.
He reaches backward, stumbling ‘til he finds the door handle, his red hands slipping on it, then turns the knob, falling backward into the store, his hand returning to his face. I lean over, grabbing my items, and walk through the store, out the door, and to the parked truck. It comes again, louder. GO. Annie.
CHAPTER 46
It is 6:04 a.m. when I pull off the highway, turning down the two-lane road. The road curves around on itself, taking me back parallel to the highway. The GPS indicates that I turn left, and I look in vain for a quarter mile ‘til I see a thin dirt road. I turn down the road, the ruts causing a vibration throughout the cab. Fog is heavy in the air, blanketing the fields in white clouds, all but obscuring my view of anything beyond the clay road with deep ditches on either side. I almost miss my destination, slamming on the brakes beside a white metal gate that is chained closed with a shiny new combination lock. A No Trespassing sign is visible, hanging from rungs on the gate. Bingo.
