Vera heard Adam’s screams. But she couldn’t leave her position. Opal was already treating her like a criminal. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t stolen from them. Hadn’t hurt anyone, either. But it wasn’t worth arguing. Opal wouldn’t see things from her point of view because she only wanted to protect her family. Vera needed shelter. And they were trapped. Opal knew it, too.
They had to work together.
Opal unplugged the industrial-sized dryer and disconnected the flex pipe to the natural gas line; then she and Vera frog-walked the front-loader over to the rear exit. But they had no time to move the washer before Adam cried out. Opal told her to stay there, keep working. If the Pitch broke down the door, they could dislodge the dryer and force their way to the second door, the one leading to the kitchen. The idea of them getting in the same room nauseated Vera.
She unhooked the washer hoses for the clean water and the drain, but she couldn’t get the machine to budge. It was heavy and wide, awkward to grab. She tried bracing her feet against the wall and shoving hard with her backside.
It moved a few inches. The utility room wasn’t insulated. Cold drafts swam around her. Her perspiration chilled.
Wyatt and Opal were yelling. They sounded panicked. And that frightened her. She heard someone slamming into a door inside.
Again and again. The entire motel seemed to quake. Were the Pitch breaking in? Is that why Adam screamed? Was he dead? Would Wyatt and Opal be next?
How long until the Pitch came for her through the dark?
A rapping on the storm door glass startled her.
She was crouched between the washing machine and the wall. If anyone saw her, all they saw were her feet. She tried to keep still. To breathe.
The rapping continued. Steady as raindrops.
She peeked around the corner of the machine. One quick look. Whoever was knocking stood on the snowy deck. She’d been out there herself. Not much room. No more than two adults could fit. She didn’t hear any talking. They weren’t bashing the door. So it was probably a lone person. What if it wasn’t the Pitch? What if it was someone who’d come to Wyatt and Opal for help?
Vera couldn’t leave them to die.
And what if it was Max? They didn’t know where he was. Only that it looked bad in the parking lot—the bodies, the blood— when he disappeared. He might’ve been hiding. He could be wounded. That might be him knocking.
She looked.
A shadow ghosted behind the frosty glass.
She ducked.
It wasn’t Max. Too tall, too much shoulder. It was a man, though. She didn’t notice any weapons. But she could only see him from the waist up. With the frost it was hard to tell much.
She studied the glass again.
The man had a hoodie over his head. Leather jacket, zipped. He hunched forward, one hand deep in his pocket. He dragged open the storm door. Wasn’t it locked? She paused, thinking. Bare knuckles drummed the frosty glass of the second door. Fingers scratched.
She hid.
Looked.
The man put his lips against the door crack, whispering.
“Vera? Is that you?”
She knew the whisperer.
“Chan?”
“Oh my God, it is you! Let me in, babe.”
Vera stood up. But she stayed behind the two machines.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to save you. Let me in.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“We don’t have time for this, babe. The Pitch are going to burn the town. Burn it to the ground. We have to leave.”
“Leave how?”
He jiggled the door handle.
“I’ve got a four-wheel drive. We can go over the border.”
Vera came around the washer. Chan sounded funny, like he did after a visit to the dentist. Words thickened in his mouth.
“There are other people in here with me. Three of them,” she said.
“We’ll take them, too. I promise.”
He was right against the glass. His breath smudged the single pane. He wiped it. Oh God. They’d beaten him. His face was lumpy purple. A shallow incision grinned across his throat. One eye puffed shut—a flaming velvet slit—but apparently he was able to see her.
“Are you helping the Pitch?” she asked.
An eyeball darted inside the slit. “Open up.”
“Chan ... I ... I don’t think I should.”
Vera glanced back. The apartment was quiet. That silence made her feel even worse. She called out, “I need help here!”
“What’re you doing?” Chan elbowed the glass. It spidered with cracks. “How ... (glass breaking) . .. hard is it... (shards tinkling on the floor) ... to open a fucking door?”
“Hurry up! He’s getting in!”
He grabbed the handle with both hands and shook it furiously. He tried to rip it loose. He smashed his fist through the broken window. Glass flew at Vera.
Chan’s arm came through to the shoulder.
He grabbed her wrist.
“You little fucking bitch! I’m going to cut your head off. Give it to the Pitch on a silver fucking platter.”
He dragged her toward the hole in the window. His fingers were cut, bleeding. He lifted her. She kicked air. He hauled her over the top of the dryer.
“Give me the stone.”
She slithered out of his bloody grip. Ready to bolt.
He fastened onto her hair. Digging his fingers into a handful. Jerking her off her feet. It felt like he was scalping her.
“Shit! Let me go!”
“Tear you up, bitch.”
The apartment door burst open.
Opal, wide-eyed, looking frail and exhausted, lost in her bundled layers of clothes. No Wyatt or Adam with her.
She wrapped her arms around Vera’s waist, and the tug-of-war began.
Chan grunted and tightened his fist at the back of Vera’s head. Vera locked her legs onto Opal. Opal leaned toward the safety of the apartment.
The women were winning. But Vera’s hair was ripping out. She could hear it. Feel the strands yanked by their roots. The skin on her cheekbones pulled taut. She couldn’t even blink.
Chan thrashed Vera’s head wildly, side to side. Her neck twisted and hot rapid tears spilled from her eyes. She unlocked her legs. She tried to pry Chan’s fingers loose. She scratched him.
He pulled harder.
Opal slipped from Vera’s waist to her thighs, knees. Ankles. She dropped low, used her body weight to anchor Vera.
Chan changed tactics. He was no longer attempting to extract Vera through the door. He was coming inside.
“Kill you both,” he snarled. His bruised face contorted.
He cracked away the last hanging corners of glass.
His neck wound—from the torture Whiteside administered in the abandoned house—wept. A blood-soaked V spread down the front of his hoodie. He lunged and clamped a second hand around Vera’s throat. His thumb buried into the underside of her jaw. He worked his fingers around her windpipe.
She choked.
Using both his arms, Chan had the advantage. He outmuscled the women.
Opal let go of Vera.
Chan lost his balance. But only for a second. He gathered Vera into his arms, barred his right forearm under her chin and squeezed.
Vera’s face went scarlet. She couldn’t breathe.
Chan was whispering vile obscenities in her ear.
Opal leveled the Bobcat she’d taken from Vera in the stairwell. She aimed the revolver at Chan and fired.
The blast was deafening in the small room.
Chan’s leather jacket turned slick and red.
He released Vera. Pawed at his injured shoulder. His fury increased. He scrambled in one final charge through the broken door. Oblivious to the glass shards puncturing his knees. To the gun pointed at him. His bloody open arms closing like a pair of enormous claws.
Opal fired.
Two. Three.
Four shots.
Chest. Head. Chest. Chan stopped struggling. He slumped halfway through the gap. Wind and ice chattered around him. Stained red, teeth bared, he looked less like Chan than a wolf fresh from slaughtering his winter kill.
Opal climbed on top of the dryer and planted her boot squarely on his forehead. She kicked his body onto the porch. The others— who were waiting below, out of sight, preparing for the ambush that would never come—scattered into the night.
Vera knelt on the utility-room floor. Breathing shallow. Touching her mauled throat. Listening to the thunderous rush of blood returning in her ears. Thanking God that she was alive.
“Let’s go inside,” Opal said, helping her to her feet.
“Thank you,” she tried to say. But her words were tiny croaks lost in the spiral of wind tunneling through the door.