Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(90)

22

GWEN

Pain comes in a slow, thick wave.

It’s just a red wall at first, an announcement by my entire body that things are not okay, and then it recedes a little, and I begin to identify specifics: my right ankle, throbbing in hot pulses. My left wrist. My right knee. My jaw, and I don’t remember being hit there, but you don’t in a real fight; it all becomes a blur. My shoulders ache horribly.

There’s something in my mouth, tied tightly enough that it’s forced between my teeth. Cloth. A gag. That’s why my jaw hurts.

I remember . . . what do I remember? The motel room. The man in the Melvin mask. Taser. Van. It all feels distant and smeared, but I know it’s real, because it terrifies me. Nightmares aren’t frightening once you wake up.

Memories are.

I remember being in the van. Tied up with . . . something. I remember the rattle of chains. We drove, and then we stopped. The van went up a sharp incline, and then it was all very, very dark, and we started to move again.

I remember a flashlight in my eyes, so bright it hurt, and a sting on my arm. He’s injected me with something, I realize. Maybe more than once to keep me sedated. That accounts for the horrible, bitter taste in my mouth, like poisoned chalk. I’m so thirsty my lips are cracked, and my throat aches horribly. I can’t summon up enough spit to swallow.

I’m in the dark, and I’m so cold that I’m shivering convulsively, even though there’s a blanket wrapped around me. I’m not in a van now.

I’m in a box. I’m curled up, legs pressed against my chest, and my hands are still cuffed behind me. That’s why my shoulders hurt. My head throbs so badly that I wish someone would cut it off and spare me the agony, and I think that’s the aftereffects of the meds. It’s pitch black, and I can’t see the box I’m in, but when I scrape my fingers over the surface, I feel rough wood. Splinters. The air smells stale, but I feel a breeze coming in on one side. There are airholes, and when I twist and look in that direction, I can see a dim glimmer of light.

Funny how a little whisper of hope can steady you.

Okay, I tell myself. You’re cold, you’re hurt, but you’re still alive. First thing: get out of this box. I wonder if I’ve been dumped somewhere to die, a long and ghastly torture. But that isn’t Melvin’s style. If he can’t see it and can’t get his hands dirty, it won’t be good enough just to kill me. And I know this is his handiwork. If anyone intends to see me dead, it’s my ex.

I try bracing myself and pushing against the lid of the box, but I have no leverage the way I’ve been confined. I try working my feet up against the sides, but the box is just too small.

I try screaming. The best I can do is a broken, muffled cry that won’t be heard even a foot away, and I can hear engines and machinery.

Now that my head is clearing, I realize that I’m not near cars, though that’s my first guess.

I’m near airplanes. I’m at an airport.

I start shouting again, trying to make myself heard; I try rocking the box, but it’s heavy, and I don’t have much space in which to try to shift my weight.

My elbow bangs hard into the side of the box. It explodes a little stick of dynamite up my nerves and into my aching shoulder, but I do it again, harder. Maybe someone will hear me knocking.

Someone does. The top is pried off, and a flashlight glares in at me. I can’t see past it. I can only try to scream for help and struggle to get up . . .

And then I hear a male voice say, “Shut her up, and keep her out until we get there.”

“That’s a high dose.” Second voice. I don’t recognize either of them. “There’s a risk she could arrest, or stop breathing. If we kill her—”

“Shit. Yeah. Okay. Give her as much as you can. We can dose her once we land.”

No no no . . . My heart starts thudding faster, adrenaline kicks in, and I dig my shoulders back into the splintery wood and slither up, trying desperately to make it out of the box . . .

A Taser slams lightning through me, and I drop.

I barely feel the sting of the needle.

By the time the box closes again, I’m slipping away on a dark tide, and the last memories I hold on to, the only ones that matter, are faces.

My daughter. My son.

If they’re the last things I ever see, maybe that’s enough.





23

LANNY

I’m in the dark, and for a second when I wake up, I think I’m back in that cramped little cell in the basement of Officer Graham’s mountain cabin. I reach out for my brother.

Connor isn’t here.

My head is pounding, a sick, purple-red pulse that makes my stomach twist. I don’t remember what happened. I remember seeing Brady fighting with a man, and running to save him, and then . . .

Then what? I can’t grab the thought. It slips away. I remember the man shocking me, finally. And then hitting me because I kept trying to get up.

Brady! Is he okay? No, I remember, I can’t call him that. His name is Connor. Did I call him Brady when I was yelling for him? I think I remember that.

Someone else was there . . .

Kezia. I do remember that, all in a rush. The car jerking to a stop, me flinging open the door and running for my brother. Kezia—Kezia had her gun out.

I ran in front of Kezia’s gun. Mom’s going to kill me; she’s always taught me not to do something stupid like that. I realize with a sick surge that I want my mommy right now. I want her to hold me and tell me it’s okay, I’ll be okay.