The Girls I've Been(73)

Deputy Reynolds: We’ve got the hospital chopper scanning the area.

O’Malley: They need to hurry.

[4-minute, 21-second silence]

[Voices over police radio, indiscernible]

Deputy Reynolds: Okay! Okay. I need all available officers in the area. This is Deputy Reynolds. The white sedan we’re in pursuit of has been spotted at the abandoned Williams Farm, 1723 Castella Road. Hostage taker is armed and dangerous. He has two teenage girls as hostages. Proceed with extreme caution.

O’Malley: Go.

Deputy Reynolds: Lee, we need to talk about what happens when we get there.

O’Malley: You uncuffed me.

Deputy Reynolds: You punched me.

O’Malley: If I say I’m sorry, will you give me a damn gun and let me have your back?

Deputy Reynolds: Are you gonna follow my orders?

O’Malley: I’ll have your back.

Deputy Reynolds: That’s not an answer, Lee.

[Distortion for 2 minutes, 16 seconds]

[Car door slamming]

[Transcript ends]





— 59 —


12:32 p.m. (200 minutes captive)

2 safe-deposit keys, 1 hunting knife

Plan #6: Don’t die.



I ran from Duane’s car. Now it’s time to hide.

I dart through the barn doors and slam them shut. But there’s nothing I can see that’ll block the doors from the inside, and I don’t want him to lose interest and go back to Iris. I watch him walking toward the building through the slats in the door, my blood screaming at me to keep running. He’s not moving fast; the stab wound’s still bothering him, even if the initial pain’s faded. He’ll want to be careful. He needs to be in the best shape he can, to get me across the country. He can’t put me on a plane, and he might be the kind of guy who knows someone with a boat who’ll smuggle me, but does he have that kind of money?

My gut tells me no. Because he pulled this shitshow of a job with Red Cap. Duane’s desperate and broke and he’s going to try to hang on to me, risky as it is, because it’s the best payday he has now.

The barn’s dark, there are tarp-covered machines in the stalls that used to house horses. I tilt my head up; there’s a loft and a ladder, but the ladder’s wood and heavy. I wouldn’t be able to pull it up.

But I might be able to trap him up there. I just need to draw this out long enough for the car to be found. That’s all.

I’m trying to fool myself. It’s not working. But I keep going. I bend down and grab a handful of dirt from the ground before I clamber up the ladder. The hayloft is large, flat and wide across half of the barn, looking out over the stalls and the entryway, sunlight streaming in from a big window in the back.

I look around, desperate for some kind of long-range weapon. I’ve got very little hope against him with a knife, as I know too well. I’ll get one good stab in and then he’ll grab me. I need something bigger. A rake or shovel or something farmer-y and lethal.

The barn door creaks open, and I freeze in the loft.

It’s completely silent. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t taunt. I think it’d be better with his bullshit chatter, because I’ve gotten used to it, and the silence is . . .

Scary. Really fucking scary.

It’s just his footsteps and my heartbeat and the knowledge that I’m probably a couple of breaths from something painful. That’s what he wants. He wants me to rot in it.

He still hasn’t figured out who I am.

I guess that makes two of us, but at least I know what I’m capable of. I warned him, but he didn’t listen, so now I’ll make him hear.

Shuffling forward to the edge of the hayloft railing, I watch as he walks farther into the barn, waiting until he passes the farthest stall. Then I drop the handful of dirt right on the tarp, ducking backward before the spray of soil hits the plastic with a rustle-ping.

I’m already moving as he whirls toward the sound, crossing the loft as I search for something . . . anything . . .

There’s a broom. The bristles are rotted and the broom part’s just a stubby suggestion, but it’s a staff. Something to hit with. If I can daze him first, break it across his face or something, then maybe I can use the knife and run. Maybe he won’t follow this time. Maybe he won’t be able to if I yank the ladder down and trap him in the loft.

It’s an awful plan and it’s the only one I’ve got. My hand tightens around the broom handle as the ladder to the loft squeaks.

I hide as far back into the shadows I can, retreating from the sun spilling from the big window, but it’s not enough. His head crests the floor of the loft and he spots me immediately.

I wait until he’s stepped onto the hayloft floor, away from the ladder, and it’s a mistake, I realize it too late, because there’s not enough time to charge. I feint to the right, but he’s moving with so much purpose and that purpose is to hurt me enough to get me to finally break. Not just my bones. All of me.

Never going to happen.

Swinging the broom handle, I aim high, but he blocks it. The old wood snaps in half against his arm, and he howls because I got his elbow at least. I have just enough time to back up a few steps, out of snatching reach, and pull the knife out. I flick it open, putting it between us, and it’s déjà vu; here I am again, a girl and a blade and a bad man. It never seems to change, but I do.