CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE NOW

Steve flicks off the scanner.

I almost fall over, leaning with my ear right up to the box. “Can you turn it back on? So we can get the prisoner’s name?” I ask, a shrill note to the question. “Or the prison at least?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“Yeah, but … do we know if the escape was from around here?” I ask, inches away from turning the box back on myself.

Steve scratches his chin, his hand rasping against the stubble. “Nah, it could be from anywhere. Scanner picks up lots of stuff. Pennsylvania, New Jersey …” He puts one of his hands across the back of the seat, uncomfortably close to me, and I shift over.

“Listen,” I say, deciding to lay it all on the line. “I work at Crimeline. As an intern. And I’m interviewing a prisoner for a profile. And the prisoner that I’m interviewing is Eric Myers.” I pause for him to register this.

He switches lanes. “Am I supposed to know him or something?”

“He’s the 666 Killer,” I say, my patience thinning. “And I’ve interviewed him. A lot. So that prisoner escape on the scanner, that could be him. And if it is, he might have returned to the murder site. And he might be taking this very personally.”

This provokes laughter. “Which means what … he sped off to the Hobbes Lodge to attack your friends and kidnap them?”

“Yes,” I answer, weakly. Put that way, it does sound far-fetched. But is it any more far-fetched than the alternative? That I committed this atrocity? Or Chris did?

Or Adam Redmond or Ryan Johnson?

“You know what I think?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I think you’re seriously disturbed.”

I take a breath. “And I appreciate that opinion, but—”

“You know what else I think?” He sizes me up, then seems to make a decision. “I think this is what we’re gonna do.” Out of nowhere, he makes a skidding U-turn, and I grimace as my hip slams into the console. The car righted, he turns back to me with a chilly smile. “We’re going to drive back to the lodge. And see if you’re telling the truth.”

He tucks his phone back in his pocket, and my heart falls to the floor. But at least we’re going to the lodge. Maybe he’ll finally help me then. And if the killer is there, at least I’ll be with someone with military training.

“Because if you’re lying to me,” he says, an edge to his voice. “I’m going to be very, very angry.”

We seem to be going in slow motion though, with Steve in no hurry to get back to the lodge.

“Hey, listen …” I move my arm, hitting my elbow against the console with an electric shock of pain. “Maybe we should call the police in the meantime. They can meet us there.”

“No. I want to see this place first,” he says. “Then we’ll call the cops. I’m not getting the police out in a blizzard if it’s not worth it.”

I don’t say anything in answer, and we continue to crawl ahead. He puts on the radio to a Classic Rock station, and Lynyrd Skynyrd sings out, while I impatiently drum my fingers on the console. After a few minutes, he looks at them and scowls.

The minutes keep ticking away. But I can’t easily grab his phone out of his pocket. At least we’ll be there soon enough. Maybe it’s the best I can do for the moment.

I stay on guard, watching outside for landmarks. I don’t know the area at all but vaguely remember an old tractor by the side of the road, snow piling on the seat. I remember a huge white cross with a carefully written “Jesus loves you and I do too.” The snow blanks out everything. We might not even be going in the right direction for all I know, but I’m afraid to take out my compass in case he takes it. Despondent, I stare out at the snow, while Steve Miller urges us to take the money and run. Then we pass the old peeling vodka billboard, and I sit up straighter. I definitely remember that one. We are probably only a mile away from the lodge right now. The turnoff is just ahead. For the first time since getting in the car, my body relaxes a millimeter.

But then we pass the turnoff to the driveway.

“I … I think we missed the lodge, actually,” I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

Steve glances in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, I wanted to take care of something else first.”

My heart thumps hard in my chest. “Listen,” I say. “You know what? I’m good. I don’t even need the phone. You do your thing. I’ll get going. I know my way from here.”

He doesn’t slow down though. “It won’t take long,” he says. “I have some friends nearby. Figure we can pay them a visit before we go to the lodge.”

This does not sound promising. “Yeah, but I really need to help my friends out,” I insist.

“We will,” he says. “Eventually.” He shifts lanes to find dry pavement. “You got drunk. You smell like weed … so obviously you like to party. My friends like to party too. I think you’ll get along with everyone really well.”

My stomach dips.

He chucks me on the chin. “Relax. It’ll be fun.”

But right then, the wheels hit a patch of ice. He yanks on the steering wheel, hitting the brakes, as we skid several several feet ahead. Then we finally stop, the wheels thudding into a snow bank.

“Fuck,” he says.

Without a second thought, I whip myself over and open the door. A frigid wind blasts inside the cab area.

“Hey,” he barks. “What do you think you’re doing?” He lunges toward me, and I kick out, hitting his testicles as hard as I possibly can. The effect is immediate. “Argh,” he cries, sounding like a wounded animal. His face shrivels in pain.

“Thanks for the ride,” I yell, while he’s otherwise occupied, grabbing my mittens and tumbling out of the truck. My knee hits the footrail, sliding off, and my coccyx slams against the pavement. I scramble myself up.

“Fucking bitch,” he wails, climbing out of the car. “Get back here right now.”

I start running.

“You get back here,” he screams.

The words echo into the night.