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CHARLIE STUMBLED OUT of the house and nearly fell down the front steps, sliding in her threadbare canvas shoes. A pool of light spilled out of the door like a spotlight in the night. Snow sifted in powdery gusts and danced in the shaft of light like dust motes. Off to one side sat his car, a dark four-wheel-drive SUV well suited to the worsening weather.
She shuddered with adrenalin as much as the cold, jacket abandoned in the rush to escape. Why hadn’t she grabbed the old woman’s car keys from the desk? Was better than her own banged up beater, and for sure more valuable than the mysterious thumb drive.
Charlie felt for her pocketknife. She wanted to stab his tires, but couldn’t risk the delay.
Sherlock clung to her neck like a furry stole, his weight making her top-heavy. Charlie still clutched Sissie’s thumb drive and ran in an awkward shamble to reach the nearby storage building that sheltered her old car. She should’ve left Sherlock behind in Sissie’s house—oh God, Sissie!—but she couldn’t leave him behind, with that monster. Nobody had ever liked her...loved her...for herself until Sherlock. To free her hands, Charlie looped the lanyard over the big cat’s fluffy white head and increased her pace.
She craned a quick look over one shoulder and nearly fell, breaths rasping and turning the air white. She froze for a lifetime, watched him stride out the front door, deliberate in his pursuit. Time stopped, then sped forward. She bolted.
Charlie slalomed the last few feet into the pitch-black storage building. In seconds she debated and rejected the option of hiding. Bags of cat litter towered in stacks nearly to the low ceiling. Between them, hay bales, grain barrels, and more unnamed containers jumbled like a child’s giant building blocks. A one-time working hobby farm with chickens, goats, and a pony—Charlie had oohed and ahhed appropriately over pictures—Sissie still stored much of the feed and supplies although her passion now focused on her cats. No easy place to hide in there. Better to make a run for it.
Her heartbeat thrashed in her ears as she rushed to the battered car pointed nose-first into the debris. The rear car seats held three black garbage bags filled with all her worldly possessions, which she’d not bothered to unpack. Only cardboard covered the missing passenger-side window.
The car’s rusty door hinges screamed when she yanked it open. She tossed Sherlock inside and slipped behind the wheel. The cat leaped from the passenger’s seat and slunk immediately to the floorboards to begin sniffing. The floorboards were rusted through in places, held together with rubber mats covered with electrical tape.
Charlie moaned and whimpered, snagged keys from her pocket, and jabbed them into the ignition. The car growled and sputtered but refused to wake up. Hyperventilating, she twisted the key again and again, compulsively watching for her stalker to appear. His flashlight stabbed the darkness, sniffing after her, his figure a dark silhouette in the doorway. Charlie hit the steering wheel and screamed, “Turn over, damn you!”
As if understanding the threat in her voice, the car roared to life. Charlie shoved it into reverse and bald tires spun against frozen hard-packed dirt before grabbing purchase. Headlights, one skewed off plumb, lit up the storage building. The gas indicator barely registered, but with fingers crossed, it would get them away from immediate danger. The car backed out of the building, slid, and stopped for three heartbeats as she shifted into drive.
Black glove-covered fists smashed through the cardboard window cover. Charlie shrieked, not recognizing the primal scream from her own throat. She shrank from his clawing hands.
Sherlock crouched on the floorboards, green eyes glowing. He stared at the man’s flailing arms, spit once, twice, and launched himself with a snarl.
Cursing, the man tried to yank his arm free. But Sherlock’s claws hooked his sleeves, and the cat climbed up his arm, nearing his face. He flung the cat away, other arm still reaching through the open window. The white wraith lunged again, biting his glove, sharp teeth piercing leather and flesh.
She gunned the engine, swinging it around, dragging Sissie’s killer. Her tires spun, and the car fish-tailed, until they caught the gravel beneath the powdery white.
He yanked himself free of the window, but Sherlock refused to back off. Ears slicked back, eyes dilated, a low keening growl grew to a scream. The cat leaped out the window, and raced after at the retreating man.
“No!” Charlie stomped the brakes. She watched the Maine Coon cat attack his leg, swarming upwards while adding vicious bites.
Sherlock’s weight tripped him and he fell hard into the snow. The cat arched his back, fur bristled, stalking the man as he scrambled to his feet.
Charlie debated only a moment whether to go after Sherlock. He slept with her, loved to snuggle in her wet hair after a shower. She couldn’t bear to think of him out here, in the weather. But his heavy fur equipped him for the cold. She could come back for him.
But only if she escaped. Because this time, it wouldn’t end with a beating.
Sherlock crouched low, stalking, ready to launch another attack. When Charlie saw him point a gun at the cat, she screamed. Nostrils flared as she stomped the gas and honked the horn in a long, drawn-out blat. She aimed the car toward him. He would NOT shoot her cat!
He leaped aside into the growing drifts of white. Charlie cheered when Sherlock dodged away and raced back to the storage building. He’d be out of the weather until she could return and collect him. And the computer thumb drive was around his neck.
Charlie scrunched her head down between her shoulders, muscles so tense her whole body hurt. She pressed the accelerator, zoomed away from the isolated house, and slid onto the county road. Keeping one eye on the mirror, she switched off the headlights. Snow fell heavily, and lights made it harder to see, and also let the killer track her. Besides, the moon’s reflection on the white gave more than enough illumination, as long as the road stayed deserted.
She’d have to wait until she was sure he’d left before circling back. He wouldn’t expect her to go back. For years she’d taken whatever he dished out, but her mousy days were done. Plus, he didn’t know Sherlock had the thumb drive, something he’d been paid to recover. Charlie knew about his so-called clients. They had no patience with failure. Maybe he’d be out of the picture for a while—or even for good! And once she retrieved the thumb drive, she’d call the cops—anonymously, of course—about what had happened to Sissie.
Then she’d figure out how to cash in. His clients didn’t care who delivered the goods, just that the job got done.
Now that the adrenalin had waned, Charlie’s bare fingers and face felt the full brunt of the icy wind pouring through the open passenger window. She fiddled with the heat. A lost cause. The heater hadn’t worked in ages. She checked the gas gauge again, and bit her lip. Enough to get to town on fumes. She’d meant to fill up the tank from Sissie’s car, siphon some out the way she’d done the past several weeks. Again, time got away from her. She’d grown complacent.
The snow clouded the windshield and her breath fogged the inside. She switched on the wipers, but without heat, ice formed under the blades. She leaned forward, rubbing the inside of the windshield to clear a spot.
Charlie gritted her teeth, concentrating on keeping her car in the middle of the two-lane. If the snow kept up, they’d close roads all over the county by morning. Good, that ought to slow him down, too. Hopefully Sherlock had found a nice cozy cubby in the shed and hunkered down.
Crash!
Her head smacked the windshield. A spider web pattern blossomed in the glass. Charlie clutched the steering wheel, eyes glued to the mirror.
His SUV bashed her a second time. Charlie yelped and whimpered. She didn’t dare go faster. She couldn’t outrun him on bald tires. But she couldn’t stop and wait for him to shoot her, either.
They drove in tandem on the long uphill, him tap-bumping her battered car until eventually making constant contact, pushing, pushing faster and faster like a rhino bullying a puppy. They reached the crest of the gentle incline, and she cried out, face clammy and hands slick on the wheel. A steep, twisting slope led inexorably to the quaint bridge a quarter mile ahead. The water, frozen on top, wore the same sugar-white shroud that deepened by the moment.
His car paused as if relishing what was to come. He gunned the powerful engine, bashed her bumper hard, and followed close with repeated bangs down the slope.
Charlie knew she couldn’t keep her car on the road. She was going too fast. She’d spin out. Go into the water. Drown. But if she could choose her spot, maybe she’d survive the crash.
The curve loomed near. Now, commit to a choice. Pray for a soft landing...
A big black and white dog, curled tail a bushy exclamation, dashed into the roadway. He stopped, well ahead of Charlie’s planned crash site.
She stomped the brake. The car skidded into a tight 360-spin. Charlie covered her face. Jaw clenched, her stomach flip-flopped when the car launched off the road. Her teeth jarred. Salty blood filled her mouth when it landed, hit something solid, and flipped.
She came to seconds later. Pain radiated from her chest, her head. The car hiccupped and guttered in place. Her foot, still jammed against the gas, kept wheels spinning in the snow-clouded air. Hot liquid spilled from her nose and brow.
Boots squeaked on the snow, stopping near her head. Charlie squeezed her eyes half closed, peering through lashes, but couldn’t stop the trembling of her chin and lips. She held her breath, playing possum.
He reached in through the passenger window and grabbed her hair. She screamed when he lifted her head. He let her go. Charlie’s head clunked down again.
“Please.” She hated the whimper in her voice. It echoed all those times before when she’d pleaded for mercy that never, ever came. When she ran away the last time, she’d told herself she’d never beg again. Staying with Sissie in South Bend—dear, sweet, clueless Sissie—made her hope things could be different. But now...
“Please!”
He smiled, and left without a word. She breathed again, at first thinking he’d shown her mercy. But then she realized he didn’t need to shoot her. That would cause questions. And his employer hated questions.
The cold would kill her soon enough, if she didn’t bleed out first.
