Ruthless (7 page)

With every yard it becomes clearer, and soon there's no hope, no denying what it is.

A concrete barricade. There's no way around it. No road beyond it.

This “road” I'm on is nothing but a firebreak. It's not a road at all.

When I'm finally turned back to the direction I came from, the fuel light blinks on.

It's too much.

The engine is loud, and when I pull the key out of the ignition, the silence is like a vacuum. I need to take a break, think.

But I don't think.

I feel.

I feel rage and hate, self-pity and sorrow; I feel soul-scorching waves of agony. I want to punch my way out of reality and into a different world, but instead I hit the steering wheel, because it's right there. I hit it as hard as I can, until I can hit no more.

And then words come, words to no one in particular, except to God, who I know can hear me.

“I need out!” I bellow, like a cow being slaughtered. I bellow again. “I need out; get me out of here, now!”

Nothing happens. Nothing comes to whisk me away. No guardian angels, no Good Samaritans. No one comes for me. I am alone. Completely alone.

I hit the steering wheel one more time.

“Please let me out!”

I have been forsaken.

Thirty-Seven Years Ago

IN THE LIBRARY THE YOUNG
man hovers over a cluster of open books. Next to him is a girl his own age, but she looks a lot younger. She is delicate, small, with black hair, dark brown eyes, and olive skin. Although she is quite pretty, there is a bookishness about her that hides her looks. The young man is eighteen but could pass for thirty. He is big and broad and has a five-o'clock shadow.

His eyes travel over the girl next to him, coveting her. She doesn't seem to mind the attention.

She points out a line in a reference book. “This is good. We can use this.”

He writes down the quote and where it came from with enthusiasm. “This is more than good. It's perfect. Boy howdy, this project is going to save my grade.”

The girl studies him as he diligently records the citation. She says, “It's nice when you talk, you know. You're always so quiet in class.”

He turns a few different colors, at a complete loss for words.

“Why don't you ever talk in class?”

“Most people aren't nice. Like you.”

It is her turn to change shades, but her tan cheeks give her camouflage. They both return to the books in self-conscious silence. His mouth works nervously. He has something he wants to say, but hardly the courage to say it. The girl sees his struggle.

“What?” she asks.

“I was wondering if you'd want to go to prom with me?”

He can see it's not an automatic no. Hope rises in the boy.

“But that's this weekend. I don't have a dress or anything.”

“Wear that. I don't care.”

He grins; she grins back.

“I couldn't wear this! That would be ridiculous.” But she's still grinning; she's considering it.

“It would be fun. Afterwards I could take you up to my cabin.”

“What?” There's a shift in her. Not a good shift. His eagerness blinds him to the change.

“Yeah, I have my own cabin. It belongs to me.”

“How do you have a cabin?”

“I inherited it. When my uncle died.”

“How did he die?” She shifts further away from him, but he doesn't feel it.

“Hunting accident. But don't worry about that; it's a great cabin. Up in the Blue Ridge. It's so pretty up there, you'd love it.”

“In the Blue Ridge? Jerry, that's got to be a two-hour drive, at least.”

“I ride up there all the time; it's no big deal. C'mon, really. You should come with me.”

“No, there's no way my parents would be okay with that. Let's just get back to work, okay?” She turns her body away from his, her gaze on the pages before her.

He doesn't return to studying. He sits, motionless, watching her.

She senses the silence. “Let's get back to work,” she says. She's about to say something else, but the words leave her when she looks into his eyes. The moment lasts far too long. The boy observes her expression travel from irritation to confusion to understanding and finally to fear. She has seen into him.

He always knew she was smart, but he didn't realize just how smart she was. From now on, the boy knows, she will be on guard with him. She will never be alone with him. She will protect herself from what she saw. He wants to tell her there isn't anything for
her
to be afraid of; she's different, special. But maybe she's not. Maybe she's right to be scared.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FOR SOME TIME I SIT
behind the wheel, hating the truck beyond all reason, trying to will a new reality into being. No matter how hard I curse the truck, or God, or how hard I try to will something new into existence, nothing changes. The old Chevy truck stays the same. The road stays the same. And I stay stuck.

My hate doesn't leave me, but I choose to leave this place. The fact I'm driving straight back to the Wolfman's lair is not lost on me. He's up in those ridges, waiting. Perhaps he knew where I was going before I did; maybe he's resting, knowing I'd be back. Possibly he knows exactly where I'll emerge from this firebreak lane.

As I drive, I try to think about my friends and family, about Caleb, about the other girls before me, but then I see the gas light glowing, I see how low the sun is in the sky, and rage kills these thoughts.

All I have now is rage.

But somewhere, hiding underneath it, is fear.

The fear is like a roller coaster,
click, click, click
ing upward as I drive toward him. My thick layer of camo mud has sloughed off, leaving a filthy residue. Underneath the dirt, my skin has broken out in hives.

I drive and drive and drive.

I'm amazed I haven't run out of gas.

Possibly the truck is fueled by my rage and fear. That's a renewable resource.

Finally a dirt lane comes into view. I get off the firebreak and head back into the maze, doing my best to avoid old mistakes, sticking strictly to new ones. Either way, I'm driving around the ­Wolfman's backyard, and it's as though the very air is filled with his stink. He's everywhere around me, inescapable.

I can't stop craning my neck, checking out the ridgelines. He's up there somewhere; there's no question. But the cover is too thick. I can't see him, but I also can't fight the compulsion to look, even though it's only adding to my anxiety.

The sun is about to set. Night will remove all hope of spotting him.

Yet another hairpin turn takes me to a new part of the valley. This is good. I definitely haven't been here before. Maybe I'm making my way out. Any bit of optimism makes me paranoid, and I immediately check the hilltops, looking for Wolfman.

That's when I see it.

A house on a hill.

There aren't any lights on, but even if it's empty, it's shelter.
Maybe food. Clothes. Possibly even a weapon. I head for it, like a beacon. Other forks in the road present themselves, but it's easy to make decisions now. I just keep heading for the house on the hill.

The sun drops below the horizon, and a miracle occurs. Lights turn on in the house on the hill. Somebody's home. Somebody is there. The closer I get, the worse I feel. I'm almost saved now, and as my adrenaline unclenches its iron fist on my body, every one of my injuries comes screaming to life.

My scalp, my right arm, my bullet wound, my feet. This is what I've been afraid of. I knew the pain was there, real and alive and just under the surface, waiting to get out, waiting for my mind to give up and set it free. The sight of the house has set all of my nerves free to scream.

The truck sputters to a halt. It's out of gas.

I don't know how I'll climb the steep driveway to the front door.

Lowering myself carefully to the ground, I see a portable gas tank stuck behind the bench seat. I shake it and find it's full. Gasoline was never a problem; it was just a problem I hadn't fully investigated.

I consider filling the tank so I can drive the final twenty yards, but the idea exhausts me. It seems easier to make the walk.

Up on this vantage point, I get a sense of just how short the distance I've traveled really is. Down below me is a squiggling valley, offering hairpin turn after hairpin turn. That is where I spent my day, lost. On this hill, though, I can see the shortcuts, the ridgelines that connect peak to peak to peak. That is where ­Wolfman probably spent his day, knowing exactly where he was.

An uptick of fear puts my painful body into motion. It hurts to move, but there's still enough adrenaline to get me to the finish line.

I stay focused on the house. It's a beautiful log cabin, new and expensive. It looks like a place my parents would rent for a family weekend.

These twenty yards are killing me, but then I hear movement inside. Hope spurs me on, as does relief. This is all about to be over. I'm about to be rescued. I'm about to win.

Climbing the porch steps takes everything I have. The front door is inset with a complicated pattern of beveled glass, and I can see warped fragments of the luxurious interior. Heart-of-pine floors, leather sofa. It's clean and neat and pretty.

I can also see shadows of my reflection in the glass door. It's only a hint of my appearance, but I avoid even that. It's too disturbing.

Now that I'm at the front door, I can smell food. Their dinner. My mouth waters as I knock on the beveled glass. Meat and corn on the cob. I'm salivating so much I have to swallow my own spit.

Next to the front door is a wooden sign that says
THE LOGAN FAMILY LODGE
.

A silver-haired man appears in the hallway. He stands stock-still and stares at me.

I knock again.

A woman joins the man. She's older, too, but her hair is dyed dark. They look like models from a Lands' End catalogue.

I knock a third time.

The silver-haired man barks at his wife. “Get back! It's a naked girl!”

She disappears around the corner, and I realize this isn't going to go as I imagined.

Knocking, I yell, “I need help!”

“Get away from here!” he yells back.

“I've been attacked. I've been kidnapped. I need help.” I want to sound calm, but I don't even get close to calm. Even to my own ears I sound like a wild animal.

The wife says something from her hidey-hole. The man turns his head and says, “Honey, it's one of these meth addicts. They'll do anything.”

“I'm not a meth addict. I've been kidnapped. My name is Ruth Carver. Please, you've got to help me.”

“Whoever you are, I'm giving you until the count of three.”

My ability to stay calm completely shot, I scream at him, “Please call 911! Tell them you have Ruth Carver at your house!”

“You need to leave right this second.”

Again the woman says something I can't hear from around the corner.

“You're right,” the man says. “Maybe it's some kind of trap.”

My pain disappears. Not out of fear this time, but out of angry disbelief. “A trap?
A trap?
How in the hell is calling 911 ever going to be a trap? God, you idiot! You stupid idiot!”

He stands there, silent.

“Please, call 911 and tell them you have a meth addict attacking your house!”

“You need to leave
now
.”

“Let me talk to your wife, please.” My hope is I can get her to understand. She is a woman. She has to understand.

“You're not talking to my wife.”

I yell loudly, so she can hear me. “Mrs. Logan, please come talk to me!” I hear nothing. “Please! Please just listen to what I have to say. That can't hurt you.”

Mrs. Logan edges out from around the corner. I press my hands and face against her expensive beveled-glass door, hoping she'll be able to look into my eyes and see I'm telling the truth.

“Mrs. Logan, my name is Ruth Carver. I'm seventeen years old. I live in Mauldin, South Carolina, with a nice family. I have no idea where I am right now. I've been taken by a man named Jerry Balls. He was a man my dad hired a year ago. Mrs. Logan, this man is a rapist. He is a murderer. And he is after me. He is after me, Mrs. Logan.”

The woman takes small steps toward me. I think she wants to get a better look at my face, see if I'm honest.

“You have to believe me, because I'm telling the truth. This man is out here, right now, in these woods, and he is after me. He is going to rape and kill me.” I find myself fighting back emotion, which only makes me angrier. “Please believe me.”

She turns toward her husband. They look into each other's eyes. I can't tell what's happening; all I know is that this is taking too long. More and more, I'm feeling the darkness of the night at my back. I'm standing up against a lit window like a moth, the Wolfman's truck is out front, and I'm a sitting duck for a long-range hunting rifle.

I hit my fists against the glass. “Please, let me in! He's out here with me!”

Finally Mrs. Logan speaks. “I believe her.”

Sinking to my knees in relief, I wait for them to come open the door.

The woman adds, “We have to get her out of here.”

Crumpling into a ball, I'm close to weeping.

“Get her out of here!” the woman says.

It takes several seconds for me to understand the meaning of her words. It's like she's speaking in a foreign language, but the tone cuts through to my heart. Her voice is like steel. There is no mercy in her words, only urgent self-preservation.

All the same, I say, “What? What are you talking about?”

She turns to me and says, “You need to go.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Go. Get out of here.”

It's too much. That this person—that this
woman
—believes me and still won't help is too much for me to take. I'm not scared of them, and whether they like it or not, they'll have to deal with me on the other side of the door.

“I am not going to die out here!”
I grab the doorknob with both hands and turn.

The husband disappears.

I expected the door to be unlocked, to swing open, but it doesn't. I fight with it, as though it's just stuck and not locked and dead bolted. Breathing hard, I give up on the door, but not on my cause. Looking Mrs. Logan in the eye, I sit down in protest.

“I'm not leaving until you call 911. I'm staying right here until you call them.” We stare at one another, and I find myself hating her almost as much as I hate the Wolfman.

“You need to leave.”

“I swear to God, I am going to sue the ever-living fuck out of you once this is all over.”

She says nothing, her eyes ice cold.

I believe mine are even colder. “Every person I meet for the rest of my life I am going to tell them about you and what you've done tonight.”

The meat and corn and potatoes hang heavy in the air. I swallow my spit once more. “Can you at least give me some food?”

She doesn't move, but then I didn't really expect her to.

Swinging around the corner, the man reappears, a handgun in his fist. Crazy-eyed, he marches down the long hallway toward me, looking dangerously incompetent. He holds the weapon like he's scared of it.

“Oh God,” I groan. Clambering to my feet, I somehow manage to run away from the front door. Skirting the edge of the house, I duck around to the side, pause, and listen. There is nothing to hear. Mr. Logan didn't even have the courage to open the front door, which doesn't surprise me in the least.

Despite their reluctance to call 911, my guess is that the Logans won't have the guts to leave their house until they get a police escort. When the cops do show up, I want them to find something important.

The side of the house has too many windows, so I sneak
around to the back and find a detached garage. It is nice and white, but it's also in the open. Wolfman's out here. I feel him. But this is something I need to do. Fighting back my fear, I get down to business.

A rotting pinecone seems like a good thing to try, and it works the way I hoped it would. Using the garage door like a piece of paper, I scratch
Ruth Carver taken by Jerry T. Balls
, followed by his address. It takes a total of three pinecones to complete. I can't pull up the zip code, but everything else remains in my memory.

I hear the sound of an engine and tires on gravel. It gives me hope. People live around here. This has to be close to civilization. Now all I need to do is fill up the truck and keep going.

Wary of Mr. Logan's incompetence, I take the long way back to the truck.

At first I think I've become disoriented.

Because I can't find it. I can't find the truck.

But I'm not disoriented. The truck is gone.

It has been taken.

I try to delude myself into thinking Mr. Logan took it, but I look up at the brightly lit house and see both the Logans looking out into the night. They saw the truck drive away and probably didn't have a good enough view to realize I wasn't the driver.

The engine sound I heard earlier wasn't a hopeful sound, after all. It was the sound of a noose tightening around my neck.