Bone Cold. Erica Spindler
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and Monica dragged her to the kitchen. Harlow told herself to fight, but terror had leeched her of her ability to do more than beg. Monica forced her right hand out over the white porcelain of the chipped and stained sink.
“Ready or not, here I come.”
Harlow caught the glint of metal. Some sort of cutters or clippers, she realized, a scream rising in her throat.
He found her hand, closed the cutters over her right pinkie. First came the pain, hot, blinding. Then the pop of bone being snapped in two. The white sink turned red.
Harlow’s vision blurred, then faded to black.
Pain emanated from Harlow’s bandaged hand and up her arm in fiery waves. With each crest, a bitter, steely taste filled her mouth, all but choking her. She bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from crying aloud. She had to be quiet. Absolutely still. Kurt and the others thought she was asleep, knocked out by the pain medication Monica had given her. The medicine Harlow had only pretended to take.
The wave passed and Harlow experienced a moment’s respite from the agony. Tears flooded her eyes, tears of horror. Of hopelessness. With the emotion came another wave of pain. Light-headed, on the verge of passing out, Harlow struggled to breathe. She couldn’t pass out now. She couldn’t give in to the pain. Or the fear. Not if she wanted to live. Her parents were making the drop tonight. She had heard Kurt talking. He’d told the other two he would let her go when he got the money.
He was a liar. A filthy bastard liar. He’d killed Timmy even though the boy hadn’t caused any trouble. Sweet little Timmy. All he had wanted was to go home.
Dirty bastard was going to kill her, too. No matter what he promised. She might be only thirteen, but she wasn’t stupid—she had seen all three of their faces.
Harlow eased herself off the cot, careful not to cause the springs to squeak, and crept across the matted carpet to the door. She pressed her ear to it. Kurt was speaking, though Harlow couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying. It involved her. And the pickup.
It was happening tonight.
Harlow hurried back to the cot, lay down and closed her eyes. She heard the click of the doorknob being twisted then the soft whoosh of the door opening, of someone crossing to stand beside her.
Once again the door hadn’t been locked. Why would they lock it? They thought she was in a deep, drug-induced sleep.
Her visitor bent over the bed and Harlow realized it was the old woman, Sis. Harlow could tell it was her by the way she smelled—of roses and baby powder, sweet scents that only partially masked the gross smell of cigarettes.
Sis leaned closer. Harlow felt the woman’s breath on her face and fought to lie perfectly still, to not recoil.
“Sweet lamb,” the woman whispered. “It’s almost over now. Once Kurt has the money, everything will be all right.”
He had left to make the pickup. Time was running out.
“I couldn’t stop him before. He was angry…he…Your parents shouldn’t have defied him. It’s their fault. They’re the ones—” Her voice thickened. “I did the best I could. You have to understand, he…”
You didn’t do the best you could. You could have saved Timmy, you old witch. You made such a fuss over him but you didn’t do a thing to save him. I hate you.
“I’ll be back.” The woman pressed a kiss to Harlow’s forehead; it was all Harlow could do to keep from screaming. “Sleep sound, little princess. It’ll be over soon. I promise.”
The woman exited the room, closing the door behind her. Harlow listened intently for the telltale click of the lock turning over.
It didn’t come.
She cracked open her eyes. She was alone. Carefully, heart thundering, terrified of making a sound that would alert the old woman, she sat up. Too quickly. Dizziness assailed her and she grabbed the edge of the cot for support. She held herself perfectly still, breathing deeply through her nose, fighting to clear her head.
The dizziness passed, but still she remained motionless. She collected her thoughts. From what she had been able to ascertain over the past few days, she was being kept in a small, relatively isolated house. She hadn’t heard sounds of traffic or passersby; nobody had rung the doorbell. In the morning she had heard the twittering of birds and twice at night the lonely howl of a coyote.
What if she couldn’t find anyone to help her? What if she got lost? What if the same coyote she heard howling found her and tore her apart?
Act or die, she reminded herself, trembling. Kurt intended to kill her. At least if she ran she would have a chance.
A chance. Her only chance. Harlow climbed out of the bed, swaying slightly as she stood. She pressed on anyway, creeping toward the door. She inched it open. The room beyond appeared to be empty. The TV was on, sound muted. A cigarette burned in the ashtray on the arm of the easy chair, a curl of acrid-smelling smoke wafting toward the ceiling.
She had to go now. She had to run.
Harlow reacted to the thought, darting toward the front door. She reached it, fumbled with the dead-bolt lock, then grabbed the handle and yanked it open. With a small, involuntary cry, she stumbled out into the dark, starless night. And began to run. Blindly. Sobbing. Across scorched earth, through a thicket. She pitched headlong into a ditch, then clawed her way out and back to her feet.
And onto a deserted road. Hope exploded inside her. Someone, there had to be someone…
As the words made their way through her head, a car crested the hill ahead, its headlights slicing through the darkness, pinning her. She stood frozen, trembling, too weak and exhausted to even wave. The lights grew closer; the driver blew his horn.
“Help me,” she whispered, dropping to her knees. “Please, help me.”
The vehicle screeched to a stop. A door opened. Footsteps sounded on the pavement.
“Don’t, Frank,” a woman begged. “What if—”
“For God’s sake, Donna, I can’t just… Oh my God, it’s a kid.”
“A kid?” The woman emerged from the car. Harlow lifted her head and the woman caught her breath. “Dear Lord, look at her red hair. It’s her, the one they’re searching for. Little Harlow Grail.”
The man made a sound of disbelief, then apprehension. He glanced around them as if suddenly realizing he could be in danger.
“I don’t like this,” the woman said, obviously frightened. “Let’s get out of here.”
The man agreed. He scooped Harlow up, his grasp strong but gentle. “It’s all right, it’s going to be all right,” he murmured, starting for his vehicle. “You’re going home. You’re safe now.”
Harlow shuddered and slumped against him, though even as she did, she knew she would never feel safe again.
1
Wednesday, January 10, 2001 New Orleans, Louisiana
“Timmy! No!”
Anna sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in a cold sweat, Timmy’s name, her screams, reverberating off the walls of her bedroom.
With a squeak of terror, she dragged the blankets to her chin. She looked wildly around her. When she’d drifted off, her bedside light had been on—she always slept with a light on. Yet her bedroom was dark. The shadows in the corners mocked her, deep and black. What did those shadows hold for her? What could they hide? Who?
Kurt. He was coming for her. To finish what he’d begun twenty-three years ago. To punish her for escaping. For spoiling his plans.
“Ready or not, here I come.”
With a cry, Anna scrambled out of