Ripples (9 page)

Bryce

Sheriff said the neighbor’s some big shot banker. Must think he runs the whole damn country. Maybe so, but it sure didn’t take much for me to get the law on my side. Guess most folks find it easy to root for the little guy when some rich jerk tries to horn in on what doesn’t belong to him. Bet Tess’ll be surprised to see me so soon. Not expecting me for another couple of days—or longer. Just hope this Eric clown hasn’t blown it again and lost another one of my girls.

I pat the stock on my twelve-gauge. If he has, it’ll be his last screw up. Something snaps behind me. I’m being followed. I crouch and peer into the shadows all around me. Stay still … keep my eyes peeled for a couple minutes.

Nothing. Guess it was my imagination … either that or a deer. Sneaky bastards. Ya hear ’em, and the next second they’re gone. I get up and head to Eric’s place, listening for sounds that don’t belong.

Jacob

Almost an hour later, the firebreak opens up into a decent sized pasture—pretty well grazed from what I can little tell in the pale moonlight. At the end of the pasture there’s a ranch house—a couple of lights on—also a barn and corral. Someone’s walking up onto the porch, toting a shotgun. Must be the bastard I’ve been following.

I sneak up to some woods at the base of a ridge that borders the ranch to find a good vantage point—someplace where I can watch the front and back of the house as well as the barn. The pickup parked out back is the one from my neighbor’s shack. He must have left it here when he brought the girl. Didn’t want the sheriff to trace his license plate. Probably has a criminal history he’s hiding.

Mercedes

Never thought anything could get me back here again. Just seeing the ranch house down below makes my skin crawl. There's just one light on inside. The moon is little more than a sliver. I rub dirt on my forehead and cheeks. Should do the trick. That, and the black hoody, pants and shoes. Even if Tess and her fella come outside for some fresh air, they won’t see me. Not even RJ could pick me out of the shadows, and he knows I’m out here.

The mental picture of Tess and RJ’s uncle going at it—grunting and moaning on a squeaky bed frame—turns my stomach. Back when I escaped from under Bryce’s thumb, I made up my mind that from then on sex was going to be on my terms. Of course, it’s not as if I’ve been able to prove my theory yet. RJ’s the only prospect I have, and he won’t let me get close. And I’m not doing this for
him
. I owe it to Amy. I was a bitch to leave her behind with that bastard. We were like sisters. She’d never have done that to me. About time I did the right thing by her.

Finally. Three blinks from RJ’s flashlight. Coming, Amy. I slip down to the barn where one side of the double door is propped open, waiting for me—just like RJ promised. Heavy wooden door. It creaks as I pull it out wide enough to pass through. As I slide inside, a chain rattles at the far end. I move quickly past the stalls, toward the far end of the barn. Step lightly so I don’t startle her, hoping I don’t have to raise her from a dead sleep—that wouldn’t be good.

A blast of gunfire sends me darting into the open stall where RJ said I’d find her. She’s cowering—hands covering her head. I reach for the padlock hanging from the chain on her neck and fumble for my lock-picking tools.

She jerks away, whimpering.

“Shh… it’s me—Mercedes. We’re getting you out of here.”

Amy lurches back. “No. Mercedes is dead.”

“I’m not dead.”

Amy peeks up.

“See, it’s me.”

“Can’t be. You got eaten by coyotes or …. Bryce said so.”

I stick the pick in the padlock. “Almost. But I’ve got a place. An old hut a couple miles from here. It’s safe.”

She pulls away. “Can’t leave.”

Another loud kapow shakes the barn. I flinch. The horses paw the ground, snorting. I look at her. “What do you mean?” The pick slips out of my fingers.

“Just can’t.”

I fumble for the pick on the stable floor. “Once I pick this lock, you can go anywhere you want.”

“No.”

I find the homemade pick and start working it around inside the keyhole.

A third shotgun blast sends the horses bucking against their stall gates. That one was right outside the barn door. I keep my head down, maneuvering the pick until the lock springs open. I jerk Amy to her feet and drag her toward the rear door of the barn. “You can’t stay here. We gotta go.”

After a few steps, Amy drops to one knee and grabs her right foot.

“Damn. You’re not wearing shoes.”

She shakes her head.

I scan the barn … gnawing on my lower lip. The horses … snorting and squealing. Reminds me of when I met RJ. His horse had thrown him. He was lying on the ground half conscious. Right then I swore I’d never climb up on one of those beasts.

An angry voice roars from just outside the barn door. A fourth blast sends the horses into full panic.

I kick off my shoes. “Here. Put these on.”

Amy hesitates.

I glare at her. “Do it.”

As soon as Amy’s feet are in the shoes, I yank her up and pull her through the back doorway and scour the area for someplace to hide. When the next shotgun blast rattles the barn, our only hope is to outrun the bastard. I shove Amy toward the woods and we race uphill.

Jacob

The first clap of gunfire stuns me as I crouch at the edge of the woods, watching the backside of the ranch house. A second blast sets the world around me spinning. My heart is still in my throat a few moments later when two people explode out the backdoor—one a few seconds ahead of the other. The first one activates motion sensor floodlights. He’s a lanky, redhead kid who limps for cover behind the pickup. The second guy is the creep from across the lake. He swaggers out toward the barn, waving a shotgun and yelling. I rattle my brain—what’s going down? Is the girl inside the house, shot dead or dying? Should I slip into the house to save her? Or rush the man headed for the barn?

Two more explosions from the creep’s shotgun rip the night, and a couple of small figures catapult from behind the barn. A girl screams. Another loud boom. The redhead kid behind the pickup takes off for the woods to my right, dragging one leg.

Screams fill my head. Echoes of Celine sobbing years ago when she reached out for help. My head throbs—a rapid fire string of stabbing pains arcs from behind my ear to the top of my head. A wave of nausea hits me. My lips quiver. I tuck my head between my knees.
Celine—cell phone—she’s gone.
I collapse.

Mercedes

My chest aches as I sit cross-legged on the floor of the hut cleaning sores on my feet. That finishes the night’s ration of drinking water. The chest pains aren’t from sprinting through the woods, halfway up the ridge, with Amy in tow—jerking her to her feet every time she stumbled. I’m still shaking from those shotgun blasts back at the ranch. Can hear them ringing in my ears. He probably killed RJ—my only friend in the world. That would make Amy hate me more than ever, and I wouldn’t blame her.

Since leaving his shack, I’ve tried to forget everything about him, but his voice won’t go away. It makes my skin crawl. Somehow my skin remembers things my mind wants to forget. Bryce had to be the one who sprayed the barn with buckshot as we escaped out the back door. And it was probably that damned shotgun I swiped from the men building the cabin across the lake. Bryce laid off me for a few weeks after I gave it to him.

He must’ve lost our trail after chasing us through the woods for about a quarter-mile. That’s when I pushed Amy across a rockslide and up the side of the ridge. After the rocks, there was the fall-down from recent windstorms. My feet got all cut up. We hid behind boulders and watched him fume when he lost us. He had no idea which way we’d gone.

God. It must have been terrible for Amy. Look at her, curled up in the corner, asleep. Sleep’s probably the only relief she gets from the torture of remembering the two years I left her behind. I wipe a tear from my cheek and dip a hand in a jar of honey I swiped from the fancy cabin on the lake. Honey’s supposed to help the cuts heal, keep them from getting infected—at least that’s what Bryce always said.

Amy used to nurse everybody. Started when she was little. Her touch was like being brushed with a feather. When she patched us up, you could see her eyes reflecting your pain. She worked on Bryce with the same tender care.

When my feet are all lathered up, I wrap them in strips torn from a ragged T-shirt and dig out a pair of one-size-too-large running shoes from a box in the corner. Even with the honey, I wince when I pull the shoes onto my raw, swollen feet. They sting worse when I stand. Each step sends the throbbing deeper into my bones. To discourage Amy from taking off if she wakes up before I get back, I slip off the shoes she’s wearing and hide them.

Pain or no pain, this has to get done. The nightmare’s not over ’til someone takes out Bryce.

On my way to the lake, an owl screeches. I shudder. It reminds me of Tess’s shrill voice and how bitchy she always was to Amy. The night shadows play tricks on me, too. I see Bryce lurking behind every tree. That confirms my mission. It all ends tonight.

I detour down to Eric’s ranch. After escaping that place, I swore I’d never go back, but getting a second chance to save Amy changed my tune. When I was a prisoner there I didn’t spend my nights in the barn, like Amy. Eric kept me locked in a bedroom, the window nailed shut. One day he hauled me into the kitchen to scrub the floors, walls, stove, sink―left me all alone. Only, he forgot to padlock the doors. When he rode off on the stallion, I bolted.

The only reason I went back earlier tonight was to set Amy free. The only reason I’m back again is that I need to fetch some serious firepower. My crossbow will be too clean, too quiet when I face off against Bryce. His death has to be as savage as he is. I remember a gun rack over the fireplace in Eric’s living room―two shotguns and a hunting rifle.

At the edge of the meadow, I kneel. The haze around the ranch house reminds me of a graveyard where Bryce took me once to see the headstone of a girl my age—proof, he said, of what could happen if I disobeyed. The air that night at the graveyard was misty, just like now. Quiet. Not a light anywhere. I grit my teeth and limp down to the house. The closer I get, the faster my heart pounds. Where’s RJ? I hope to God he made it out alive.

To be sure no one’s guarding the place, I circle to the front of the house—no motion lights there—and creep up onto the porch. The curtains are drawn shut, except for a small opening at one edge of the window. I peek in. Don’t see any signs of life, there. I sneak along the side of the house, checking each window as I head for the kitchen around back. The drapes in Uncle Eric’s bedroom are closed. I listen for a minute. Not a sound.

What must be RJ’s window is wide open. Only piles of clothes and stuff on the floor this side of the bed. The knots in my shoulders unwind for a second. There’s a chance he’s alive. But then, he could be lying dead on the other side. When I get around back, I move slowly around the corner until the lights come on, then dart back to the side of the house and wait for someone to come out. After a couple of minutes, nobody appears. I ease up to the back door.

I turn on a light inside the kitchen as I step through the backdoor. This is where I made the choice to run. There were lots of times I thought about Amy. Knew I should’ve gone back to the shack and set her free. Guess that’s part of the reason I’ve hung around for two years, trying to get up the nerve. Should have done it a long time ago.

I rummage through the kitchen, making mental notes of supplies we can come back for. In one of the drawers I find some shells for a twelve-gauge. Stuff several in my pocket, go straight to the living room, and take one of the shotguns off the rack.

I glance down the hallway at three doors. They kept me locked up in the first room. Must be RJ’s, now. How ironic. But, what if? I take a deep breath and inch toward the doorway. A chill runs up my spine. Is he in there? In a pool of blood? Dead? There’s only one way to know. I swallow hard and peek in. No RJ. I lean into the door jamb. Dizzy.

When everything stops spinning, I move to the bathroom, flip on the light. It’s clear.

I step back into the hall and stare at the open doorway to Uncle Eric’s bedroom. Did RJ try to be a hero? Stop Bryce from killing the only one in his family who gave a shit about him? I have to know.

As I cross the threshold into the bedroom, I fight back the urge to puke. My knees wobble. I drop to the floor. Uncle Eric’s stiff, naked body and mangled face are too much to take. I shut my eyes and try to replace the gruesome sight with any other picture I can imagine. I remind myself of the other times I’ve had to suck it up to survive.

Slowly, I get back on my feet and step around Uncle Eric’s corpse to check out the bathroom on the other side of the bed. No sign of RJ. My body goes limp. I drop to my knees next to the toilet and let the vomit rush out. When I’m done retching, tears roll down my cheeks. There’s still hope RJ’s alive.

RJ

Before all hell broke loose at the ranch, I heard footsteps coming down the hallway and ducked behind my bed. The footsteps didn’t stop at my room—the intruder didn’t check there, kept going. I let out the breath I’d been holding onto. When someone started yelling from Uncle Eric’s room, I knew things were getting ugly. I slipped out into the hall and made a mad dash for the kitchen. I’d only taken a couple steps when a shotgun blast roared in my ears.

My heart stopped. I froze. Tess shrieked from Uncle Eric’s bedroom. A split second later the intr
uder yelled, “Come back here.” I bolted. Just as I got to the end of the hall a second blast was deafening. A spray of buckshot ripped my leg. I dove into the kitchen. Fear must have blocked the pain. I sprang back to my feet
—knew I had to get the hell out of there, or I’d be dead. As I lunged toward the backdoor, I snatched up Uncle Eric’s shotgun that was propped against the wall. Outside, I took cover behind the bitch’s pickup. The man followed me out, but headed for the barn, firing his shotgun a couple more times. The first chance I got, I made for the woods, dragging my leg.