From Scratch (29 page)

“Well, Chief Taylor, you've finally decided to join us.” The voice echoed in the old theatre, but it sounded as if it was coming from behind him.

Sean lifted his head slightly and felt the rough burning of a rope around his neck. No sudden movements, Taylor. “Thanks for having me.” His voice sounded sandy and strained to his own ears.

“Wouldn't have it any other way. My love needs to close the chapter on that horrid little town of yours. Can't put the nail in the coffin without the body in the box, so to speak.”

“So to speak,” Sean mumbled. “Where's Maggie?”

“Oh, I am sorry. You can't see her where you're sitting, can you? What an awful host I am. You must have a good view for the performance.”

O'Donnell was beside him in seconds. He tilted Sean's chair backward, dragging him to the center stage. The chair scraped the century old wood planks and jerked to a stop, throwing him forward. His neck thrust against the rope. He gasped for air and tried to lean back to relieve the tension.

O'Donnell's hands tightened around his windpipe, his cheek pressed against Sean's. “Isn't she beautiful? My Mary Margaret.” His voice was low; his breath was steamy and laced with the acrid aroma of tobacco and nicotine.

Sean remained silent. His gaze shifted to the wrought-iron bed set in the middle of the stage; a vase of white lilies rested on a small table just to the right. Maggie was dressed in a white slip, a blond wig hiding her beautiful hair. Her arms and legs were tied to the bed posts. He couldn't tell if she was conscious. She wasn't moving but he could see the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
She's breathing. That's good. Need the breathing. Helps with the living.

O'Donnell walked to the bed and drew his hand slowly down her body.

“Get your hands off of her!” Rage exploded through Sean.

O'Donnell spun, his eyes dancing with anger. “You dare to tell me not to touch her? You, who had your filthy sinner hands all over my gift.” Closing the distance between them in a step, he grabbed Sean's jaw in his hand and squeezed, shooting bullets of pain ricocheting through Sean's body. “You have no right to her, and yet you presume to think you can warn me not to touch what is mine.” He shoved Sean and the chair over with a flick of his wrist.

Sean's head slammed against the stage and he felt the crack of wood near his back. With a wiggle he felt his ankles move freely.

~*~

Sean crashed to the floor and Maggie's heart dropped. “Don't hurt him, Mitchell, please.” Her voice was barely a whisper as she tried to yell.

Mitchell's footsteps were quick and heavy, closing the distance to the bed. “Why would you care about him?” He screeched, his spit hitting her face with each word. “He's nothing. Nobody. You are more than he'll ever be. Don't let yourself be swayed into sin, not again, Mary Margaret. There may be no saving you from it.” He sat on the edge of the bed; the frame creaked from the added weight. He reached out to touch her cheek.

Maggie jerked, tugging at the ropes binding her wrists and ankles, jostling the bed.

Mitchell clamped a hand on either shoulder.

She clenched her eyes shut as he lowered his face to hers.

“Stop,” his voice was low and controlled. “Mary Margaret, you must stop resisting your calling. You've turned your back on me for the last time. You will give up this life. Return to me. Return to God.”

Her eyelids fluttered open. She prayed to God for strength. “I never turned my back on God. And He never turned His back on me. You are the one who can't hear God anymore, Mitchell.”

He swung quickly, backhanding her.

Blood pooled in her mouth, tasting like sea water and metal. Reflexive tears raced down her cheeks. She shut her eyes as he raised his hand to strike her again.

Whack! Thud.

But nothing. No slap. No burning sensation on her cheek. The sound was there, but she didn't feel anything. She opened her eyes.

Sean towered over a crumpled Mitchell, a rail from the chair clutched in his hands. His wrists were still bound, but his feet were free. He dropped the spindle to the stage with a clatter. Sitting on the bed, his hands reached to Maggie's wrist to unbind it. “Are you OK?”

Tears cascaded down her cheeks. The moment both her arms were free, she lunged, wrapping her arm around Sean's middle and sinking into his protective warmth.

“Do you mind helping me out?” He chuckled and shrugged his bound arms trapped between their bodies.

She swiped at her tears and smiled. “Of course.” She quickly undid the duct tape around his wrists.

“Oww.” He rubbed his skin before reaching to untie her ankles.

“You complain about that?” She rested her chin on his back.

He moved to her second leg. “Well, if you hadn't been so rough yanking on that tape.”

With both her legs free, she slid her knees under her and knelt in front of Sean. Her fingers brushed his temple where blood had clotted. Drawing her hand down his cheek, she barely brushed the forming angry red and blue bruise from Mitchell's blow. Fresh tears streamed down her face. “I'm so sorry. This is all my fault.”

He drew her gently into his embrace. “It's no one's fault, Maggie.”

“She's right.” The voice was deep and groaning. “It
is
her fault.”

Sean was ripped from her arms and tossed across the stage like a pillow.

Maggie scurried off the bed toward Sean. Her body screamed from the pain shooting through her head and down her back. “Don't hurt him, Mitchell. You want me, not him!”

Mitchell continued to stalk his prey.

She looked around the room for a weapon, anything she could use to stop him from hurting Sean.
Father, please help me. Please help us. I know You are here. Please help us.
Something glittered. Lying just steps from her feet was a camping knife. Mitchell's knife. She recognized it from previous experience.

He once bragged that he never left home without the multi-faceted tool—always prepared.

She reached for it and popped the blade. “Mitchell….” she yelled, her voice reverberating off the high ceilings. “Mitchell, you don't want Sean. You want to punish me. I've been a very bad student. Haven't followed any of your rules. Come and get me.” Ignoring the tremors of pain rolling through her body, she forced herself to stand—feet apart—her hands clasped behind her back, clutching the hidden knife.

Mitchell pivoted. His steps wobbled as he closed the gap between them.

Maggie slid back two steps, her bare heels grazing the edge of the stage to the orchestra pit, a dark chasm behind her.

“Why do you always have to make everything so difficult, Mary Margaret?” He tilted his head to the side. “Hmm…first with that football player, and then forcing me to chase you all over the country. And then prison?” He stopped just in front of her. “Prison is not a place for someone like me.” He grabbed her jaw in one hand, dragging her to him. “And you sent me there.” He pressed his cheek to hers. “But I've forgiven you. I've thought of myself as Paul, a great leader who was falsely imprisoned for his cause.”

The wretched smell of tobacco burned a path through her nostrils. His breath ran hot against her cheek. A wave of nausea rippled through her belly. The knife in her hand was cool in her grasp.

Sean stood and staggered as he began to move toward them.

“No…” She shouted through clenched teeth.

Mitchell's hand gripped tighter and she feared her jaw would break, but she held still.

He lifted her to her tiptoes.

If she moved, even a fraction of an inch, her feet would dangle over the edge.

His eyes, nearly black, bored into hers. “You dare to tell me no? When will you learn? I am the leader. You are the follower. You do what I tell you. Only God can tell me what to do.”

“Well, God told me to listen to Him.” She flipped the knife into her right hand. “And just say NO!” She thrust her hand forward, the knife grazed the side of his waist.

His face flashed shock as his hands released her and went to his belly.

She stumbled out of his reach.

Mitchell staggered forward, reaching for her. He tripped into the pit, crashing against cymbals and other instruments.

The main door slammed open and police poured into the great auditorium.

She let out a scream as hands reached from behind.

“Whoa,” Sean whispered in her ear. “Just me Maggie-girl. It's just me.”

She turned to him and clasped her arms around his waist. The real tears started. Her body shook with the release. She cried for Sean. For Sam. For the years of running. For Mary Margaret. And she cried for Mitchell, for the man she'd once known.

Heavy footsteps tromped onto the stage, shaking the floor beneath her feet, but she didn't release her hold on Sean.

“He's down here. He's still breathing. Get the medic.” The shout echoed off the walls.

She sucked in a quick breath and stepped back from Sean. “He's alive?”

“Seems like.”

“Good. Good. That's good…”

“Sweet girl?” She turned and saw her Uncle Jack running across the stage.

“Uncle Jack!” Maggie nearly leaped into his arms. “Uncle Jack, I am so sorry. I thought it would be OK. I really thought I would finally be safe.”

He tugged the wig off her head and stroked her hair, lightly patting her back. “You did everything right. Including, unless I missed my guess, falling in love with a pretty good investigator.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Your young man, that Chief Taylor.” He pointed to Sean who was talking with a policeman. “He orchestrated this whole bust.”

Sean winked with a quick grin. Her champion.

Shaking her head she turned back to her uncle. “But I don't understand. He didn't even know about Mitchell until a week ago. Didn't know I was taken until he called him.”

“Sweet girl, that young man of yours has been moving heaven and earth to protect you since you finally shared your story with him. He had every local law enforcement agency alerted to the potential danger. Even hired some private security firm to stake out the local theatres for the past week. He's been trying to track me down, not that he ever could, much to the chagrin of my superiors. He covered every base to keep you safe. He loves you that much. I think God finally heard your prayer.”

“Which prayer is that?”

He tweaked her nose with his finger. “Your prayer to find pure love, love with no strings attached, I recall you praying for that one thing all those years ago…when you didn't think I was listening at your door.”

“But I haven't prayed for love for years.”

“Doesn't mean God wasn't listening the first time you asked. He just works in His own time.”

With a soft grin on her lips, she wrapped her arms tighter around her uncle, and whispered, “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.”

“Oh, I wasn't thanking you, Uncle Jack. I was thanking Him.”

~*~

The EMT's loaded O'Donnell onto a stretcher.

Part of Sean wished they were zipping him into a bag instead of tightening safety straps across his body, but he was actually grateful the psychopath survived.

Maggie would gain justice without having to endure the guilt that would likely have buried her. God would have forgiven her, but he knew his sweet Maggie may have never found peace in forgiving herself.

He kneaded the knot at his neck, twisting his head toward Maggie and her uncle. Her arm was looped around his waist and her head rested on his broad shoulder. He couldn't hear what they were saying to each other, but Sean's heart steadied at seeing her in the safety of her Uncle Jack's arms.

Pain radiated through his body as a large palm thumped his back. He pivoted on his heel and felt a grin stretch his cheeks. “Man,” he smacked Chuck on the shoulder. “I can't thank you enough. Your timing was perfect. “

“Of course it was. Always is.”

“And so modest.” Sean chuckled.

“You know it, brother.” Riley shoved his hands in his front pockets. “Couple of D's are going to need to talk to your girl.” He looked over his shoulder. “You think she'll be up for it tonight?”

Sean raised his focus to Maggie and her uncle as they meandered across the stage in his direction. “You can ask her yourself.”

“She's a pretty tough woman. Caught a look at the slice she put in O'Donnell.” He let out a low whistle. “You definitely don't want to rile her up.”

Maggie closed the distance between them. Stepping out of her uncle's protective grip, she didn't hesitate as she walked into his waiting embrace. He hugged her tightly, ignoring his bruised body. His chin rested on her head.

“I don't know,” he said lifting his eyes to Chuck with a wink. “It's worked out pretty well for me, so far. Wouldn't want to spoil my average.” Lifting her chin with a touch of his finger, he locked his gaze with Maggie's. “And besides, making her mad keeps my life pretty interesting.”

23

Three days before Christmas, Maggie was hustling between boxing cookies and the final touches on a cake for Sissy Jenkins. The cake was a thank-you-and-sorry-I-brought-a-psycho-stalker-to-town gesture. In a thousand lifetimes, she couldn't have imagined being grateful to Sissy and her binocular-snooping behavior. But without her, Maggie would likely be dead or worse. Instead, she only had minor traces of her final encounter with Mitchell. Her stiffness was gone within a week. Her bruises had nearly all faded. Sleeping without nightmares would come. She just needed to be patient.

She closed the lid of the fourth box of cookies for the Smith brothers' office Christmas party and glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes to spare. She loaded a carrier and lugged the container through the swinging door.

The chatter of happy customers in varying states of eating and drinking warmed Maggie's heart. Everyone in town had heard the story within a week of Mitchell's arrest, but not one person had come to gawk or ask questions. They'd shown concern, but life returned to normal in Gibson's Run.