Find Her

  There, I hear it. Footsteps, slow and shuffling down the hall behind me. Lindy is approaching. No doubt with the gun held before her, finger on the trigger.

  Resources? I have a sharp piece of glass, already wet with her blood. I have elbows and knees and an excellent kick. Glancing around the shadowed space, I don’t see any sign of furniture but dark piles of random garbage. Which could prove interesting. After all, trash has saved me before. I pull myself up, prepare to sort through the piles.

  I have it together now.

  I’m not tired, I’m not hungry, nor cold, nor in pain.

  I’m okay.

  And I’m about to do what I do best: whatever it takes to survive.

  * * *

  D.D. PULLED UP SHORT, her hand on Keynes’s arm as she turned toward the sound.

  “There,” she whispered as the sharp crack sounded again. “Gunfire.”

  “Second building to the right,” Keynes murmured.

  She illuminated it with her flashlight, a hulking structure of faded brick and boarded-up windows. She didn’t see any light peering around the plywood eyes, but then, just as she was about to turn to the next building, three more shots in rapid succession.

  “Definitely that building,” she agreed.

  She adjusted her grip on the .38.

  They made their approach.

  Chapter 49

  DID YOU EVER HEAR the martial arts master’s brag: I know ten ways to kill someone with a drinking straw, twelve if you include the paper wrapper?

  According to my instructor, this is more hyperbole than fact. What’s the point of being the master of anything if you can’t sound very, very scary?

  A plastic straw, however, can be a useful weapon. I found one in the pile of garbage closest to me. I bent it in half, then tucked it between the index and middle finger of my left hand. Folded, the straw is sharp enough and rigid enough to make a decent jabbing weapon. Catch an opponent in the eye or, better yet, slam into the hyoid bone at the front of the throat, and you can inflict some damage.

  How much, I’m about to find out. I can hear Lindy creeping down the end of the corridor. So close, I can make out the sound of her breathing.

  I picture her smiling, happy to be on the hunt once more.

  I never understood the full dynamics of her and Jacob’s relationship. He loved her. I could tell that just by watching. And Lindy?

  She was excited to see him. But love? I don’t know. I think of Lindy as a sleek, dark panther stalking the night, aroused by the scent of blood. Does such a creature truly love?

  I think she loved how special Jacob made her feel. How powerful and strong. When he appeared, hunting was twice the fun.

  I guess she thought the same of the bartender with the amazing pecs. Devon Goulding. The guy I watched burn to death in front of my eyes.

  The memory of which makes me feel powerful and strong.

  No one wants to be a monster.

  And yet here we are.

  I expect Lindy to lead with her weapon. The gun will appear first, followed by her arm. And in that unprotected moment, I will lash out with the glass, aiming for her wrist, the back of her hand. One deep slash, she’ll reflexively drop her firearm, and then we’ll be on a level playing field.

  Of course, she’s too smart for that.

  When she finally appears beside me in the doorway, she has her elbows glued tight to her ribs, gun tucked to her chest. A human wall, presenting only the side of her shoulder for attack. Even if I got her with my glass dagger, it would be a glancing blow, nothing serious.

  I hold my breath, will her to take one more step into the room. Then, I’ll kick out with my left foot, go for the side of her knee.

  I am not tired, not hungry, not cold, not in pain.

  I am in the zone.

  Where I can kill another human being and feel just fine about it.

  I think, in that moment, it would be best if my mother never touched me again. Because the daughter she misses is a happy girl who loves foxes. And I am someone else.

  I am something else.

  Lindy steps into the room.

  I kick just as she twists toward me, her teeth flashing white in the dark. She’s already bringing the gun forward, clearly having known exactly where I was standing, exactly what I was planning.

  What neither of us can predict, however, is that my missed kick throws me off balance, sending me careening into her, collapsing onto her form.

  We crash to the floor and I have a weird sense of déjà vu.

  We are in her dingy little house. I have the kitchen knife.

  Gun, gun. She has the gun, trapped between us. Pointed at her, pointed at me. I’m not sure either of us know. I can’t afford to roll away, which would give her the room to aim. But tangled up in each other, I can’t effectively jab or stab. We wrestle instead, her determined not to drop the gun, me determined not to lose my broken glass or plastic straw.

  I smell blood. Hers from her slashed cheek. Mine from my lacerated feet.

  Then: pain, sharp and piercing. Her teeth biting into my ear, grinding, pulling, tugging. In response, I twist my right hand, rake the shard of glass down her side, then twist it cruelly.

  Neither of us gasp or scream or cry out. We are intent. This is serious business.

  But just for a second, I think I hear something in the distance.

  She bites me again. Chomps, chews, does her best Mike Tyson. I can’t afford to care about her teeth. The gun is the problem. I need to get the gun away from her.

  Rolling across the dusty floor. Trying to bring my left hand up. I still have the bent straw wedged between my fingers. Now, I punch it best that I can into her throat. We’re too close, inside each other’s kill zones. Once again, I dig in with my makeshift weapon. Even if I can’t take a backswing for effective strike force, I can poke, press, scratch, and claw. She gurgles as the straw jabs deep into her windpipe, interfering with her ability to draw air. I shove harder, determined to capitalize on the advantage.

  She wedges both hands between us, forcefully shoves me away. I fall to the side. Realize immediately I gotta move, move, move. The slightest twist on her part, a single pull of the trigger . . .

  I thrust with my right hand, scoring the shard of glass down her arm, the back of her hand.

  Us on the floor, fighting for the kitchen blade . . .

  She gasps, flinches. I slash again and again, my fingers growing slippery with blood.

  And she laughs. Breathlessly. Excitedly. Because this is what she likes. This is what she wants. There’s no pain for her, only pleasure.

  I am merely Flora 2.0.

  She is . . . She is . . .

  Beyond Jacob. Beyond any of us. The monster other monsters fear.

  She will get the kitchen knife. She will drive it deep into my chest, but only after having some fun first. Then my body will be fed to the gators. Never to be recovered. While Jacob goes out, snatches another girl, and starts the whole process all over again.

  Stacey Summers, collapsed upstairs in desperate need of medical attention.

  My mother, no doubt standing in my kitchen right now, baking, baking, baking, while she once again awaits word of her daughter.

  I don’t want to die in this house any more than I wanted to die in a coffin-shaped box. I accept that I’m not a good person, or a happy person. I realize I can’t find peace walking through the woods of my childhood. I understand that I no longer know how to return my mother’s hug.

  But somewhere deep inside, I still believe that one day I might be that person again. That just because I’ve turned into a monster doesn’t mean that one day I won’t change back again, and be the girl my mother and brother both miss.

  Someday, I might find myself again.

  Noises. In the distance. The groaning wrench of plywood, har
d pounding footsteps. Beside me, Lindy stills, listening as well. Her gunshots have drawn notice. Others are coming. Most likely the police, SWAT officers with tear gas. If I can just buy time, they will save me again.

  Except . . .

  Lindy twists back at me. I stare at her.

  And we both know what has to happen next.

  Because this isn’t about outsiders. This is, has to be, about her and me.

  My right hand slashes down with the shard of glass.

  Her arms pop up, absorbing the strike just long enough to level the gun.

  I follow with my left fist, plastic straw still tight beneath my fingers as I punch it hard into the side of her neck.

  Her wheezing gasp. A suspended moment of time.

  “I told him I’d kill you,” I whisper. “That last day. Tears and snot smeared all over his face. I told him I’d kill you next.”

  She opens her mouth. I think she’s going to laugh again.

  Instead, she pulls the trigger.

  I hear the sound as if from far, far away. I feel the impact, an explosion of pain.

  I am rocked back. I fall back.

  Just as twin beams of light come dashing into the room.

  “Police! Drop your weapon!”

  The words are hard to hear through the ringing in my ears, but I think I recognize the voice. The female detective from Saturday morning, the one who doesn’t like me.

  I try to call out a warning. That Lindy’s armed and more than capable of killing again.

  But it turns out the detective doesn’t need any advice. Lindy turns toward the beams of light. She wheezes, probably the closest she can come to a laugh. Then she points her gun just in time for the cop to open fire.

  I watch Lindy collapse on the floor beside me. I think there should be gators. They should come and drag her body away, never to be recovered.

  Then Samuel is there, peering down at me with concern.

  “Hang on, Flora. Help is coming. Hang on.”

  I whisper back: “Stacey Summers. Upstairs. Help her.”

  Then the gators do come. Except it’s me they carry away.

  Chapter 50

  KEYNES SAT ON THE FLOOR in his ridiculously expensive jeans, holding Flora’s hand while D.D. called for EMTs, then for additional officers to search the complex.

  It took them a good fifteen minutes to work their way through the vast space. Devon Goulding, Natalie Draga had created quite the nest in the middle of the abandoned building. D.D. discovered a kitchen where the plumbing had been jury-rigged with an illegally tapped water pipe and stocked with various food supplies and alcohol bottles, obviously pilfered from the Tonic nightclub. Same with a downstairs bathroom, that, yes, contained tubes and tubes of glittery hair gel.

  The team spread out, searching room by room, floor by floor, until at last, an officer discovered Stacey Summers collapsed in an upstairs corridor, clearly in critical condition. More calls for medical assistance; then they had both Stacey and Flora whisked away to local hospitals.

  Keynes went off, talking on his cell phone to Flora’s mother, while D.D. finally made the middle-of-the-night phone call the Summers family had been waiting three months for.

  Then, she paced.

  Keynes hadn’t been lying. The paperwork for this kind of incident would be something else. D.D. was required to remain on scene to answer preliminary questions from independent investigators regarding her use of deadly force. As a restricted duty detective, not even cleared to carry a firearm, she would face further scrutiny, perhaps even disciplinary action.

  Maybe Phil would yell at her again. For behaving recklessly. For not trusting her team. For once more walking into a darkened building, whether it was a good idea or not.

  She should feel anxious. Stressed. Contrite?

  But she didn’t.

  She’d called for backup. She’d organized a team of officers to assist. She had approached the situation with the goal of containment, not confrontation, as befitted a supervisor. Then, when the situation had escalated to the point of immediate action . . .

  She’d performed as she’d been trained. Regardless of her injured left shoulder and physical limitations, she’d eliminated the clearly visible threat and saved a victim’s life.

  She felt . . . strong. Capable. Self-sufficient.

  She felt, for the first time in months, like herself again.

  She called home. It was 3:00 A.M., but Alex was familiar with middle-of-the-night conversations. Truth was, she needed to hear his voice. After a night like this, she wanted to feel at least that close to him.

  “I’m okay,” she started the call.

  “Good. Where are you?”

  “I killed her. Jacob’s daughter, Natalie. I shot and killed her in the line of duty.”

  A pause. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. She pointed her gun right at me, I had no choice.”

  “You had a weapon?” Alex had always been a smart one.

  “I borrowed one, to enter the property. We heard shots fired. We went in prepared.”

  He didn’t say anything, because going in prepared wasn’t the same as going in cleared for duty and they both knew it.

  “I was scared,” she whispered. “I’ve never been scared before. It’s always been just part of the job. But this time . . . All I could think about was my stupid shoulder. Could I aim fast enough, would I be strong enough . . . I did what I had to do, but I was scared.”

  “Cal Horgan—”

  “Is going to ream me a new one.”

  “With good reason?”

  “I don’t want to be scared. And sitting at a desk, that feels like hiding to me. Being on restricted duty, that’s being frightened. I want to be cleared. I want to be the detective I used to be.”

  “Honey, your injury—”

  “I did what I had to do. A suspect leveled a firearm at me in a life-and-death situation and I performed under pressure. I won’t be scared again, Alex. And I won’t stay chained to a desk.”

  “So, you’re not calling home to tell me I can get out the bubble wrap, roll you up, and keep you safe with me forever?”

  “I’m going to face disciplinary actions.”

  “Probably.”

  “I’m going to need your support.”

  “You have it.”

  “Then . . . I want to pass my physical. I want to be cleared for full duty.”

  “Is it okay if I’m scared? Because this call right now, my wife just faced an armed gunman, not my favorite middle-of-the-night conversation.”

  “I want to be the detective I used to be.”

  “D.D., I fell in love with the detective you used to be. I married the detective you used to be. You don’t have to change for me, or for Jack. We know the detective you used to be.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “Detectives don’t cry.”

  “But a restricted duty supervisor . . .”

  “Maybe.”

  “Thank you for still being alive.”

  “Thank you for having my back.”

  “Did you find the missing girls?”

  “Both Stacey Summers and Flora Dane.”

  “That’s great! Are they all right?”

  D.D. told him the truth: “We don’t know yet.”

  * * *

  I WAKE UP TO BRIGHT LIGHTS. I’m staring at white ceiling panels high overhead, a scratchy sheet tucked tight around my chest, metal bed rail clearly visible. I turn my head just enough to see Samuel sitting slumped in the chair, head in his hands. No suit this time, but a jet-black dress shirt and dark jeans that would be more appropriate for a nightclub than a hospital room.

  My mom is on a plane, I find myself thinking, then have to catch myself.

  I’m not in
Georgia. I’m in Boston. And I haven’t just escaped from Jacob; I’ve escaped from Jacob’s daughter. For a moment . . . there are so many thoughts in my head. So many memories, emotions. I’m not sure where the past ends and the present begins. I’m not sure who I was, and who I will ever be again.

  I’m in limbo.

  It’s not the worst feeling in the world. All the promise of a fresh start without the pain of actually attempting it.

  My shoulder aches. My head is fuzzy. My mouth is dry.

  Lindy with her gun. Me with my broken glass and plastic straw. She pulled the trigger. So did the detective. And we all fell down.

  She’s dead. I don’t have to ask to know. Lindy must be dead. It’s the only way to explain me being alive.

  I got out. I’m free.

  And just the thought makes me start to laugh, though it’s not a happy sound coming from my throat.

  Samuel appears immediately at my side. Offers me water, fusses with the edge of the blanket. I don’t see my mom yet, but she must be in the hospital somewhere. Even if she hates me, is heartbroken, furious, devastated, she’s not the type to back down from a fight. I guess I get that from her.

  I’m laughing again. Or crying. Because here I am, except who am I? A killer? A woman only comfortable in the dark?

  A woman with no promises left to keep. Except who is that exactly?

  I wish I could scrub my brain. I wish I could bleach my eyes. I wish I could take my entire body and empty it out. No more memories of coffin-shaped boxes, or Jacob’s tobacco-stained teeth, or exactly how it smells when human flesh bursts into flame.

  I would give it all up. Remember nothing. Know nothing.

  I would be simply a girl running through the woods of Maine, sneaking pieces of cheese to the foxes.

  Samuel is holding my left hand, as my right shoulder is heavily bandaged.

  “You’re a survivor,” he’s saying. “You’re strong. You can do this. You are a survivor.”

  “Stacey Summers?” I hear myself whisper.

  “Thanks to you, we found her and got her to the hospital in time. You did it, Flora. You did it.”

  I find myself smiling, but again, not the happiest look. Because I know better than anyone that this moment, right now, is the only easy one. This one second, where Stacey gets to wake up, finally free, with her parents by her side. And they cry, and she cries, and everyone is so relieved. Their wildest dream has just come true.