The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller (27 page)

CJ took a crack at it. “What about Nancy Skinner?”

A light bulb seemed to go off in the young guy’s head. He leaned forward, slowly raised his hand, and pointed up the road.

“Okay. Thanks,” I said with a smile and a wave, then pulled away.

“I swear,” CJ said. “It’s like Valley of the Dolts in this place, starring Loose-Brain and Lunk-Head over there.”

A few miles up the road we came to Nancy Skinner’s street, although, it was hardly a street, more like a dirt trail about ten feet wide with ruts so deep it forced the car into a tumbling motion. Scrub oak overgrew both sides, their branches whipping against our windows. No sign of a house.

“This doesn’t look right,” CJ finally said.

“It’s what Sully gave me.”

“Where’s she living these days, in a lean to?”

“It has to be somewhere,” I said, leaning forward slightly and looking from side to side through the windshield.

“Hold on,” CJ said. “I think I see something.”

I strained to look ahead. Off in the distance was a house, or something that looked like it might be one. As we drew closer, I could see the front door wide open, swinging back and forth to the commands of a howling, angry wind.

“Okay,” she said, staring at it, “definitely not cool.”

We pulled up a very rocky, very bumpy path leading to the house. As we got out of the car, CJ said, “I’m not loving the atmosphere around here.” She put a hand into her purse.

“Not sure I am, either.”

“And it’s not abandoned.” She had the gun out now and was using it to point at the front door. “I can see furniture.”

“Would you put that thing down?”

“What? We may need it.”

“It’s not the needing part I have a problem with. It’s the waving it around
part.”

She rolled her eyes, lowered it to her side.

We made our way toward the front of the house. I thought about Bill and wondered if CJ’s gun would be enough to defend against a man like that.

The wind whistled loudly, and I felt something tug at my leg. I lurched back, startled, then kicked away a dead branch that had blown against me.

Then we heard a loud bang.

Both of us jumped, then looked toward the house just in time to see the wind grab the front door and blow it shut again. Even though we saw it coming this time, we both still jumped as it slammed. CJ looked at me, palm flat against her chest. I breathed deep. If houses had minds and mouths, this one would have warned us to get the hell away.

But instead, we moved forward, CJ holding the gun out in front of her, finger poised on the trigger, ready to fire at the first sign of danger. When we got to the porch, she turned and stared at me.

I motioned ahead to her. “You’ve got the gun…”

“So I get to have all the fun? Is that it?”

“That’s how it goes when you’re the one packing heat.”

She aimed the gun at the door, spared me a glance, then said, “So be it. Locked and loaded.”

“Okay, Ms. Oakley.”

She climbed a few steps, then without looking back, said, “You know, most men would feel emasculated letting a woman take the lead.”

“Not me. I’m an equal opportunity masochist.”

I caught an acerbic smile, then she placed a palm against the door and held it there.

“What are you doing?”

“Feeling for vibrations.”

“What kind?”

“A TV, stereo, even people talking inside will cause them.”

“Feel anything?”

She held her hand there a bit longer, shook her head, then said, “Ready?”

“Yep. Let’s do it.”

Rolling a sleeve over her hand, she turned the knob ever so gently, and pulled the door open.

She moved forward into the entryway, gun extended, gaze sweeping the room. I followed. She was right: furniture and pictures on the walls. Somebody still lived here.

We moved first to the kitchen. Freshly-dirtied dishes in the sink. Then we moved out into the hallway, toward two more closed doors.

CJ eased open the one on our left. “Holy shit.”

She stepped aside to reveal a woman laying in bed. Well, sort of: she was on her stomach, lower body under the sheet, upper body hanging over the edge. Her arms dangled loosely, and her head barely touched the floor.

We moved in closer, and CJ pointed to a syringe next to one hand.

“Looks like Nan fell off the wagon hard this time.”

“Doubt she ever got on,” I said, then placed two fingers on the woman’s neck.

“Dead?”

I nodded.

We moved into the other bedroom, and it didn’t take long to figure out whose it was: a mattress on the floor, a pair of jeans, two pairs of cowboy boots, and an empty pack of Marlboro Reds beside an ashtray overflowing with butts.

Between the mattress and the wall was a duffle bag.

I clambered across the mattress and began digging through the bag.

“
Hurry
,” CJ said.

Inside and beneath the layers of clothing I found a receipt for a box of .40 caliber rounds from Dolittle’s Gun Exchange. Next, a cell phone bill with a string of calls to Black Lake, Georgia. I recognized at least one of the numbers: Warren’s cell phone.

I swallowed hard, then to CJ, “It’s him.”

She motioned for me to keep looking through the bag.

I shoved the bill and receipt into my back pocket, continued rummaging.

Then I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. I looked at her. My face went bloodless.

“
What?”

I
shook my head. “We’re not the hunters anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re the hunted.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

The Jackets’ laughter echoed in my head all the way home. I was fighting dizziness, fighting nausea, and fighting mad—or sad; I wasn’t sure which. All I really knew was that if there was a breaking point I’d reached it.

I flew through the front door and into the kitchen. No sign of mother anywhere. Ran upstairs to my bedroom, slammed the door. Grabbed my notebook.

And started writing
persecute
over and over.

Not right. Ripped the page out.

Desecrate
.

Still not right. Ripped it out.

Violate
.

Ripped.

And then, finally…

monster
monster monster monster…
.

Filled the whole damned page with it.

Threw the notebook across the room, and then the lamp, the desk chair, my books—anything I could get my hands on.

And I screamed.

The Jackets’ laughter roared through my head once more, louder now. I put my hands over my ears, shook my head back and forth, but I couldn’t make it stop.

Make it stop!

Everything was spinning around me, then came the cold sweats, the nausea.

Ran to the bathroom, threw up. Cried with my head in the toilet, tears dripping off my nose and into the water.

What is she doing to you?

Tracy’s words ran through my mind, and something clicked. A low guttural moan started inside me, then came out as a full-blown, agonizing scream.

I stumbled from the bathroom, headed downstairs and into the kitchen. Started opening cabinets, pulling things down. It was here, somewhere, and I had to find it. HAVE TO FIND IT. Took out a box of rice and dumped it onto the floor. Spaghetti, tossed. Can of coffee, dumped. All of it into the sink.

Nothing.

To the pantry. Dumped the flour, dumped the cookies, dumped whatever I could find. The place was a mess, the sink, the floor, everything, filled with food and empty boxes. Didn’t care. DON’T CARE. Moved on to the next set of cabinets. Pulled down a box of cereal, a bag of oatmeal, all the contents, spilled into the sink.

And there it was: Something wrapped in a paper towel, inside a plastic bag. Two plastic vials, one with capsules, another with finely ground white powder. Both read:

Camilla Bannister

Diazepam 2 mg. capsule

Valium.

Take one to two pills daily as needed for back spasms

I continued searching some more. Found a total of six vials, all strategically hidden throughout the kitchen.

I held up one of the bottles and stared at it—just stared—tears streaming down my cheeks. Then, in a soft, broken whisper, I said, “You’re supposed to love me.”

More tears came; I wiped them away with my sleeve, then, through my sobs, almost pleading now, “Why can’t you just love me?”

Because, Patrick, quite simply, you can be rather unlovable.

I slid to the floor and sat, hugging my knees, rocking myself. Then I buried my head and began to cry, a sadness, dark and profound, rising up through me. Sadness that now owned me, more powerful than any I’d ever felt and from the innermost part of me. Sadness over a life filled with the deepest of hungers, one I knew would never be fed. If my own mother couldn’t love me, no one ever would. I lifted my head, and through my sobs said, “Unloved isn’t living
.”

I pulled myself slowly to my feet, turned toward the counter, and picked up one of the vials. I removed the cap. I poured all the capsules into my hand. I washed them down with Gatorade.

And went into peaceful sleep.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Bill Williams had photographs.

Lots of them.

All of me, all taken during my time in Corvine: going to and from the motel; knocking on Jerry Lindsay’s door; waiting outside Dennis Kingsley’s house; walking in and out of Glenview; sitting in Penfield’s car at the rest stop; leaving Jackson Wright’s office; talking to Baker outside Newsome’s trailer; and even one of CJ and me eating dinner together.