Chapter 35

The Attack

Squirming and wriggling, I kick my feet backwards. Wishing I was wearing heavy boots, not sneakers, I try to connect. He grunts as my heel hits his shin. Loosens his grip for a second. Snatches up my left wrist and twists. Reaching back with my right hand, I claw at his neck. He flicks open a knife. Flashes the blade in my face.

I freeze and he twists my arm harder, sets my feet on the ground and pushes me toward the woods. Large, full pine trees and dense brush lurk at the edge of Jen’s driveway. Soon the forest will swallow us whole.

My attacker has obviously scouted out the setting carefully and he chose the wooded side of Jen’s yard for his attack. No one will hear if I call out. Everyone’s doors and windows are closed tight against the crisp cold of the late autumn afternoon. And we’re pretty far away from Jen’s neighbors, anyway. Even if they were outside, I’d have to scream really loud. But I can’t. That’s what the knife’s for.

He’s going to slit my throat. I can feel his hatred. And it doesn’t feel good. I’ve been in arguments before. I don’t like everyone and not everyone likes me. I’ve been the victim of cruel comments because I’m different. A few people called me “Ghost Girl” for a while last year, because of the film. They didn’t mean it as a compliment. One time during a cross-country meet, we were running through the woods and a girl shoved me off the path so she could pass me. But no one’s ever tried to slit my throat. This level of hatred dives deep inside of you and holds on tight, twisting painfully the whole time.

His hatred feels much more personal than it did the time he tried to shoot me.

Nauseating waves of hatred roll off of him, along with his body odor. He’s fogging up the air with his disgusting stench. Clutching me close to him, he wrenches my arm harder, up against my back.

Only a fragile layer of tender skin protects my jugular from his knife. The pulse in my neck beats hard and fast as his blade hovers, razor-sharp, above it. The first warm trickle of blood slips down the cool flesh of my neck.

If he slices open my jugular, will the blood pour out too fast? Will I bleed to death before the wound can heal? I try to remember the stuff I was supposed to pay attention to in Biology. I know that an artery’s worse. It spurts. There’s one on the inside of your upper thigh. But what about the jugular? It’s really a vein, right? I think I have a better chance with a vein. And how close is it to the surface? How deep will he have to cut? Where’s the carotid? Shit! The carotid’s an artery and I think it’s on the neck. Damn. I wish I’d listened more in class.

I slide a sideways glance back to the driveway, which I can still see pretty clearly from here and spot my cell phone lying on the asphalt. It’s vibrating and lighting up, which gives me hope. If it’s Wyatt, he’ll be worried that I’m not answering. He might not get completely freaked out, but he’ll be concerned enough to contact my mother, to make sure I’m okay. Whoever’s calling me will have to act fast, though. I don’t have much time. This guy’s hurting me and he smells bad.

I feel like gangrenous slugs on skateboards are using the walls of my stomach for ramps and jumps. Maybe if I puke on him he’ll let me go. I focus on the undigested mash of bread and lasagna that I just ate as it oozes up toward my esophagus.

Mike Donahue twists my arm so hard that I see black for a second or two from the pain, distracting me from the nausea. Another thin stream of blood trickles down my neck. The sharp pain in my shoulder eases to a persistent throb. He pushes me forward, holding the blade against my throat, just beneath my jaw. I stumble along, blinded by tears.

“Where are we going?”

“Shh! Unless you wanna die right now. It might be easier to drag your corpse, so don’t tempt me.”

He tightens his death grip again and I wince.

Dear god he’s evil smelling!

My knees fold under me. And the knife slices into my flesh. I yelp as I feel the sting. A stream of blood flows down my neck and starts seeping into my sweatshirt.

“I need to get you far enough into the woods so I can finish you off. Don’t want anyone to find your body right away. No guns this time, too noisy. Besides, I’m enjoying the close connection. So young, so sweet, so pretty…”

Those squirmy, skateboarding slugs reactivate in my stomach, but I force them to stay still so I can think. If I scream someone jogging by or riding a bike might hear me, but the road’s pretty far away. Also, if he thinks someone heard me, he might have to kill me fast and split. I decide to wait quietly and cooperate—someone might already be on their way.

Who called my cell? I keep hoping that if it was my mother she’ll have the good sense to send Uncle Johnny and not come here alone.

A creepy thought invades my fear-rattled brain. Was it really Jen who texted me earlier? A new fear slams through my panicked mind. What if he hurt Jen?

My voice is hoarse and I struggle to speak. “Where’s my friend?”

“Which friend?”

“Jenna. She lives here. She texted me to meet her.”

“Several cars got mysteriously broken into today, after school, in the parking lot over by the gym.” His voice is gravelly and low and his breath and body odor stink so bad I wish I could faint just to avoid the stench.

He has such a tight and painful hold on me I can’t budge to move away even a little.

“I took a couple of cell phones from different cars, because I needed to make sure no one would figure out which car I was targeting. I don’t want anyone to connect the break-ins to me. Your pretty friend left her nice new phone charging in her car while she was at volleyball practice. Very careless. She’s down at the police station now, reporting the crime.”

“So you texted me on her phone?”

“I had to come up with something. You have better security than the president. I just stayed patient and hidden, hoping an idea would come to me and then bingo, it did.”

It’s true. My antsiness combined with my mother letting up for just a minute, allowed his simple scheme to succeed. He continues to repulse me with his claustrophobic body odor and rattle me with his gross, phlegmy voice.

“Your friend Jen won’t be home for a while. Filing a report about the missing cell phone should take about an hour.”

“She’ll be gone for an hour?” I try not to sound scared.

“Yes. At least. Her mom met her down at the station, because poor Jen was so upset. Her life is on that phone and it’s a brand new one, too, all shiny with a pretty blue cover and tons of apps, such a pity. From my hiding spot, behind a van in the school parking lot, I could see her tears. You know what was really hilarious?”

I don’t answer his ridiculous question. Of course I don’t know. How could I? Whatever it is, I’m sure I won’t think it’s funny.

He ignores my hostile silence and keeps talking. The only good thing about this situation is that I can’t see his face. If he looks anything like he smells, his looks might paralyze me and I need to be able to react fast if I want to escape.

He taunts me again.

“The big, long-haired dude you’re always with? The tall one who drives that old Land Rover?”

He means Wyatt. What if he hurt Wyatt? I hold my breath and wait for him to say more.

“He came to Jen’s rescue. What a hero! He dried her tears and gave her a ride to the police station. She used his cell phone to call the cops and her mother. That’s how I know that no one will be home for a while. I figure I have at least an hour with you while they fill out a report and answer the cops’ questions.”

“A whole hour.” My hopes are sinking.

“Yes. Then Jen and her mom’ll come home. See your car in the driveway. No sign of you around. They’ll call your mother and she’ll call the police. Unfortunately, it’ll be too late. I wish I could hang around and watch all the excitement, but I have to get going. My car’s on the other side of the woods, parked on a dirt road. If we keep heading this way, we’ll be able to see it soon. I’m gonna finish up with you, jump into the car and head out. Leave this stinking state. Maybe go to Florida.”

He pushes me forward, toward his intended destination. He seems so sure about where he’s going. Suddenly it occurs to me that the night of the campfire, behind Jen’s house, that was him. Out in the woods. Spying on us and planning my abduction. A raccoon didn’t make those noises. Mike Donahue did. I shiver in his grasp.

“Are you cold, Annabelle?”

I hate the way he says my name, as if he’s so clever to have found it out, as if knowing my name gives him more power over me. Then I notice something that I hadn’t noticed before. I’m so busy feeling repulsed by him I didn’t realize that it’s grown much colder. Colder than when I got out of my car. About fifteen degrees colder.

“Anthony.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

I didn’t realize I’d spoken his name out loud. Even if Anthony can’t do anything to protect me from this pig, I feel better just knowing he’s here.

“You were in the woods that night weren’t you? The night when Wyatt went running out into the forest to see what was making the noise.”

“He almost found me, too. Then those other two idiots went running back to the fire and he followed them. He turned around just in time.”

“What would you have done?”

“I couldn’t shoot him. That would make too much noise. But I had the knife with me.”

I shudder, wishing I could control it more.

“There you go again, shivering. Poor little Annabelle, she’s cold.”

He taunts me and continues to shove me ahead of him down the overgrown path.

We flounder our way through the brambles because I’m trying to slow our progress down as much as I can. He’s pressed close against my back; pushing me from behind with my painfully twisted arm. If I walk too slowly he twists my arm harder. If I quicken my pace, the knife presses into the skin on my throat. So I move carefully. I’m not in a hurry to discover what he has planned for me. Together, but not in sync, we edge closer and closer to my fate.

I step over an exposed tree root. My captor, however, trips on it and curses. I feel the knife blade at my throat and another hot trickle of blood. When he pauses, tightening his hold on my wrist again, I fight down a gasp of pain.

Suddenly, he halts our awkward progress through the woods. We both hold our breath and listen but hear nothing. He releases his held-in air with a hiss. I release mine, stifling a sob. No footsteps. No one’s sneaking through the forest to rescue me.

A blast of music shatters the silence. I snap my head to the right, barely escaping another nick from his blade. Somewhere in this forest, Rihanna is singing her latest hit song. Then I realize it’s Jen’s ringtone, coming from inside the villain’s pocket. He forgot to turn her phone off. Maybe there’s a GPS that can be activated and traced.

In one quick motion, he lets go of my wrist and, with his left arm, he wraps me up close against his chest, pinning my arms to my body. My feet are off the ground again. His right hand flips the knife closed and dives into his pocket. He drops the knife in there and grabs Jen’s phone.

“Forgot to turn her damn phone off.”

After turning it off with his thumb, he whips Jen’s precious new cell phone toward the sky. The shiny blue missile flies a few feet, in a high arc, for an impressive distance and then descends swiftly, bouncing off the bark of a soaring pine tree, slipping and crashing down through its branches in a shower of dry needles. Finally it lands with a soft thud on the forest floor.

“Hey, dumbass, you almost hit me with that stupid thing!” Uncle Johnny steps out from behind the ancient pine, his gun aimed at my abductor’s head from about fifteen feet away.

“Put the gun down or I’ll slice her open like a…” Mike Donahue grabs the knife out of his pocket in a flash. But never gets to flick it open. As hard as I can, I kick backwards and connect with his shin. When his hold on me loosens, I shove my elbow up into his right arm. Within a second the knife flies high into the air. Flipping end over end. And then I’m free. Sprinting away from him like a jackrabbit. Falling to my knees in a patch of scratchy wild blueberry bushes, I gag, wretch a couple of times and finally vomit. Wiping my mouth with my sweatshirt sleeve, I look over at the spot where Mike Donahue was standing about two seconds ago.

My captor’s lying face down on a patch of leaves and pine needles. One of Wyatt’s knees is on his back and the other one’s on his neck. Uncle Johnny runs over and cuffs his wrists and ankles. As the last plasticuff is zipped shut, Wyatt leaps up and runs to me. Even though I’m sure I stink like puke, he hugs me. I wince from the pain in my left arm.

“Did he hurt you? What happened? You’re all bloody.”

“He twisted my arm; I’ll be okay. The cut’s just a small one. I want to go home.”

“You’re still bleeding. Officer Blake, I’m taking her to the hospital.”

My uncle looks worried. “Do we need an ambulance?”

“Yes.” Donahue’s voice is muffled because his face is smashed into the ground.

Uncle Johnny nudges him in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. “Not for you, dirt-bag. Shut up.” Wisely, the prisoner does so.

I try to bargain with Wyatt. “No ambulance, no hospital. Call my mother. She’ll bring me to the doctor’s. His office is probably still open. Look, I can move my arm. I don’t need an x-ray and the bleeding’s almost stopped. He barely nicked my neck. I don’t need to go to the emergency room. I feel much better already.”

It’s true, too. My wrist, arm and shoulder feel all tingly and not very painful anymore. Also, the slices on my neck are hardly bleeding at all. If they call my mother, my secret healing talent can stay a secret. Mom and I can pretend to go to the doctor’s office, but we’ll go home instead.

Uncle Johnny relents, but Wyatt insists on carrying me to the Land Rover even though I can walk. He’s pretty pissed off that I went to Jen’s house alone.

“Annabelle, I don’t know whether to hug you or scream at you. I’m relieved that you’re alive. But I’m pissed off that you went out alone.”

He sets my feet gently on the ground, but keeps one arm around my waist.

“I thought it would be okay because her house is right down the street.”

Wyatt points his thumb at Uncle Johnny and his prisoner, to illustrate why it wasn’t okay.

“I called your cell and when you didn’t answer, I called your house to make sure you were safe. The second your mother told me Jen had texted you I knew something was wrong because her phone had been stolen. When your mother said that you went to Jen’s house, I hung up fast and called your Uncle. Then I felt the cold.”

“Anthony.”

“Yes, he confirmed that you were in danger.”

Uncle Johnny walks over to us, pulling along his stumbling prisoner.

“I was on patrol in my black and white when I heard the news about the car break-ins at the high school. I thought Mike Donahue might be involved in some way. I was on my way to your house to check on you when I got Wyatt’s call. Instead of stopping at your house, I drove past it to Jen’s.”

“Your uncle arrived two seconds behind me. I was standing in the driveway, looking at your cell phone. Officer Blake can move silently through the forest so he led the way. I followed right behind. We snuck up really close to you guys.”

“I quietly found my way to a hiding place behind the huge tree. Wyatt snuck up behind you and Donahue. He crouched down, in the underbrush, waiting to spring out at the right time. Then he took his phone out of his pocket and called Jen’s phone, hoping to startle Donahue when the ring tone went off. And it worked.”

Wyatt’s pissed. “Damn it, Annabelle. I’m so thankful you’re alive. I love you, even though you’re a stupid, reckless jackass.”

I have a special talent for inspiring conflicting emotions in the people who care about me.

Suddenly, my mother arrives on the scene, slams her car into “Park,” leaves it running and flies over to me. Flinging her arms around me, she starts crying.

“Get in the car. This is all my fault. I never should have let you talk me into this.”

I climb into the passenger seat of her car and try to act frail and injured when all I really want is to get home, clean up and eat some lasagna. My injuries are pretty well healed already. And I’m not even nauseous anymore.

Mom tells Wyatt he can come over later after I get home from the doctor’s. He leaves, and shortly after his Land Rover’s out of sight, a few more cops arrive to help Uncle Johnny escort the prisoner to the station.

Mom and I head home. My arm still hurts, but not horribly and the cuts on my neck aren’t bleeding anymore. We park in the driveway and my mother looks over at me.

Gently, she touches my chin and tilts it up so she can check out my neck. Even though the cuts are almost healed, she starts hyperventilating, which is so unlike her. It’s my turn to calm her down.

“Open the car door, Mom. You need some air.”

After climbing out of the car, she stands there, leaning against it, with her mouth open; gulping in cold air.

“Take it easy. I’m all right, Mom.”

As soon as she can talk she says, “I’m fine. You were right. I needed some air.”

Her breathing finally quiets to something resembling normal and I put my arm around her. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”

When we walk into the kitchen, she drags me into her pantry and gets to work with the herbs and flowers. She soaks some cotton balls in a solution made from herbal tea and washes my neck with it. Then she puts on some band aids. The cuts aren’t bleeding and they don’t hurt anymore, but I let her do all this because it’s calming her down.

“I’m putting your arm in a sling, too.”

I draw the line. “I’m not wearing a sling, Mom. I’ll just say that my arm’s wrenched or sprained or something; that it’ll be kind of sore for a few days. You’re known for your healing. You can say you fixed me up with the right herbs so I’m not in much pain.”

She doesn’t argue with me, which is good because she’d lose. I refuse to wear a stupid-ass sling. My arm’s fine now.

“Wyatt looked about ready to die from worry.”

“Well, I’m fine, so he can relax and I’ll tell him as soon as I see him.”

“You’re fine no thanks to me.”

“Mom, you’re not allowed to feel guilty. I pressured you into letting me go.”

“I should never have listened to you. I’m the parent and you’re the child. I should’ve insisted.”

“I’m not a child anymore. It’s hard to tell a stubborn eighteen-year-old what to do.”

“You’re still only seventeen and I’m your mother. I could’ve stopped you. I forgot that for one moment of insanity and I never will again. You could’ve died out there in those woods.” She’s crying again and she never cries.

“But I didn’t. Nothing even hurts anymore; except my stomach feels empty. I threw up. He scared me and he smelled horrible.”

The queasiness caused by my close brush with death has disappeared and hunger has taken its place. All I want is a hot shower and some lasagna. I run upstairs to the bathroom, ripping the stupid band aids off my neck on the way. First I brush my teeth and gargle with really strong mouthwash. Then I hop into the steaming shower and, in a cocoon of fragrant suds, scrub the dirt of the forest and the stink of my captor out of my hair and off of my skin.

After, I towel dry and head downstairs for some food. My hair’s still dripping, but I don’t care. My dad, Oliver, Jackson, Nathaniel, Jeff and Wyatt are all waiting for me, gathered around the table in my mother’s candle-lit kitchen. Mom heated up a whole pan of lasagna and my dad picked up some pizzas.

After I shovel down a ton of the warm food and sit back with a cup of hot chamomile tea in front of me, I relax and bask in the glow of friendship and love that surrounds me; safe at last. The bad guy’s behind bars, caught in a horrendous act red-handed this time. All we need is to get a confession out of him about the night Daniel and Anthony died.

The dangerous part is over. I can go where ever I want, alone, whenever I want to go there. I feel exhausted, contented, thrilled to my bones and triumphant. After kissing my mom and dad, I excuse myself to go up to bed, shooting Wyatt a look that says follow me.

He walks over to the bottom of the stairs with me and we fall into each others’ arms. Gently and carefully he kisses me over and over, lightly then deeply. Backing up to lean against the wall, he pulls me up against him. With his lips to my ear he whispers, “Good night, you dumbass.”

“Sweet talker.”

He’s right, though. I’m an idiot.

However, we wouldn’t have caught the bad guy, in the act of committing a crime, so quickly and effectively if I was more cautious. But this is probably the wrong time to point that out to him. So I keep my mouth shut and tip-toe up to bed.