Chapter Twenty-Five

Trapped

VINCENT BANGED HIS palms against the door. He was no longer trying to get James’s attention. He’d heard the car peel out of the parking lot minutes ago. Now, he was just trying to open this damn door before James got back. His wrist and chest begged for relief, but he kept hitting it.

A flash of Tyler’s blood on their front porch raced through his mind. The sound of the kid’s nose crunching filled his ears. When his palms grew hot and swelled, he resorted to pressing against it. The door bent, but it wouldn’t give way or break.

The walls were closing in on him, forcing what little air was left in the room out through the bottom of the door. Soon, they’d collapse against him until he was pressed into a small box. A present James could open when he returned. He didn’t know how he was going to break down this door, but he needed to get the fuck out of here.

He searched his mind for a solution, and the memory of James kicking in the door at the tall man’s house rose to the surface of his mind. Vincent wasn’t half as strong as James, but maybe one good kick could knock the chair out from under the doorknob.

He drew his leg back and landed a kick in the center of the door with as much strength as he could muster. Pain rippled through his body like electricity, flaring in his ribs. He stumbled backward.

The door stood impassively in front of him, unchanged beyond a black scuff mark.

“Fuck!” He sat down on the toilet, clutching his ribs. That door might be a thin piece of shit, but he wasn’t getting through it. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, and the back of his hand came back smeared with blood.

What the hell?

Vincent clambered to the mirror above the sink. James’s blood was still splattered across his face. Dark thick blood that had already dried to brown, crusting flakes where his sweat had not dampened it. He rubbed his face, and flakes drifted into the sink. He turned on the water and scrubbed his skin.

He’d be convinced he had imagined James’s bullet wound if he weren’t covered in his blood. Maybe James had somehow gotten lucky enough that the bullet missed every vital organ in his chest. Vincent doubted it. Even if that was the case, James should’ve lost enough blood from a shot to the chest to at least faint. But it had congealed almost instantly.

James was never injured. Not even when he’d first returned. His body had been spotless then as well. No patches of healing skin or even scars. Good as new. Maybe better. And Vincent had chalked it up to another aspect of that night he’d never understand until he’d watched a shot to the chest do little more than infuriate him.

Vincent washed his face with hot water until the only red thing on it was his irritated skin. It might take James some time to find the tall man, but it was only a matter of time. Then, James would be back to collect him.

James probably wouldn’t kill him outright. Somewhere in his delusional mindset, he still thought he was protecting Vincent. But what would happen the next time Vincent didn’t follow his orders? Would he crush his other wrist? Take the butt of Tyler’s gun to Vincent’s nose? Slowly destroy him until he begged for death?

He had to get out of here. The door wasn’t an option, so the next obvious choice would have been the window above the toilet if it were larger than a cinder block. A small child would have trouble wiggling their way out of it, much less Vincent.

He could just scream. The motel rooms were on top of each other. Someone would hear him and complain to the front desk. The only problem was that someone might also call the cops. They definitely would if they saw his bloody clothes, and after being an accomplice to two murders, the police were the last people he wanted to see.

You’re fucked.

He sat back down on the toilet. Tears welled up in his eyes. As much as Vincent hated to admit it, he was incapable of getting out of this bathroom on his own. Hell, if he was honest with himself, he was incapable of doing anything on his own. Nothing had changed since the attack in the tunnel. He’d only survived this long because James had been there to protect him. He was delusional if he actually thought he had a chance of saving himself. As always, he needed help.

He wiped away his tears and took out his phone. He had two missed calls from Henry and three voice mails from the detectives. Vincent deleted the voice mails before he did something stupid. He was so helpless he almost listened to what they had to say.

What if he came completely clean with them? Called them up and told them James was alive and on a murder spree because the police were incapable of finding three men who Vincent and James had tracked down without any formal training? They’d probably send him to the funny farm—if he was lucky. They could assume he was behind all the murders and lock him up. Trade one jail for another. James was dangerous, but the thought of jail with men like their attackers was a far worse death sentence.

Vincent looked through his contact list, hoping to find anyone other than the obvious choice to help him out. Alas, he reached the end of the list with no other options. The truth was there was only one person who could help him. One person who’d believe James was back and he’d murdered those people. She’d seen James and had figured out that something was wrong with him long before Vincent had even noticed.

Sam.

There was no way she’d answer his call. Vincent didn’t blame her. After everything she had done for him and James, they’d left her on their front porch alone.

He would also have to explain what happened to Tyler. He couldn’t tell her the truth. He could barely think about it himself.

Besides, she didn’t need to be further involved in this mess. The police might be watching her, and she could lead them to the motel room. The reasons not to call her went on and on, but the prospect of waiting for James without exhausting every possible option compelled him to at least try.

He called her. The phone rang. One ring. Come on. Pick up. Another ring. Please, Sam. Just pick up your damn phone. It went to voice mail. Shit! He hadn’t realized how desperately he wanted to hear her voice until she didn’t answer. He hung up and tossed the phone. It bounced across the room, landing facedown near the door.

Fucking useless. He could do nothing but sit here and wait for James to get back. He should just take the grocery bags off the floor and chow down on some chips because it was probably his last meal.

What a fucking way to go.

Vincent buried his face in his hands and cried. His sobs echoed in the empty bathroom, and hearing how pathetic he sounded made him cry harder. If he hadn’t stopped for air, then he might not have heard his phone buzzing on the floor. Clutching his ribs, he leaned over and grabbed his phone.

He turned it over in his hand. A crack snaked down the center of his screen, and the right side was now black. Still, on the left side, he could make out the beginning of a number. Maybe Sam was using her house phone or something. He answered the phone and put it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Vincent?”

He knew the voice, and it didn’t belong to Sam. Tillman. He needed to hang up. He didn’t know if detectives could track telephone calls or if the scope of his case warranted such efforts, but talking to them wouldn’t do him any good. He pulled the phone away from his ear.

In an urgent voice, like she sensed he was going to hang up, Tillman said, “Vincent, listen to me. We can help you. Just talk to us.”

Vincent hung up and set his phone on the counter. His heart pounded in his chest.

The phone vibrated again. Undoubtedly another call from the detectives. He only wished they had worked this hard to track down their attackers in the first place. He let it ring. The point where they could’ve helped him had come and passed a long time ago.

It kept ringing. He should probably lift the seat and toss his phone in the toilet before the detectives tracked him down. But then he wouldn’t have any chance of getting a hold of Sam, and as unlikely as it was, she might call him back. This could be her now. He was acting like an idiot. He grabbed the phone. The incoming call was coming from one of his contacts. There was an S just before the point where the screen wasn’t working. He answered the call.

“Sam?” He didn’t hear anything. Hopefully, the audio wasn’t broken. “Can you hear me?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I wasn’t sure if my phone was working. I’ve—”

“I meant why are you calling me? I assume you need me, or you wouldn’t call.”

She wasn’t wrong. “Sam, I wanted to—”

“What is it?” There was an edge to her voice.

He should say how sorry he was for deserting her, but he had a feeling she’d hang up on him any second now if he didn’t get to the point. She was, after all, right. He needed something from her. “I’m in trouble.”

“Is James busy or something?”

Vincent tried to think of the simplest way to explain everything, but he couldn’t tell her everything. At least not over the phone.

“You were right. Something’s wrong with James. He’s done terrible things. He trapped me in the bathroom of our motel room, and I don’t know what he’s going to do to me when he gets back.” He tried to breathe. He felt tears coming, and he tried to hold them back. Saying it aloud had somehow made everything more real. All the pain and death of the past week flashed before his eyes. “I’ve been an awful friend, and I don’t blame you if you never talked to me again, but I need you.”

Sam didn’t say a word. Vincent looked at the half of his screen that was working. She was still on the line.

Finally, she said, “What’s the address and room number?”

Vincent managed to give her the information before the tears started. “Thank you.”

Sam hung up.

Vincent set his phone on the counter. At some point, the tears became ones of relief. Sam was coming for him. She’d help him escape.

But then what? How was he going to tell her what James did to Tyler? How was he going to protect himself? He needed to take each problem as it came. Getting out was the first step. However, not thinking through what would happen next was what got him here in the first place.

By the time he heard the front door opening and Sam thanking someone for letting her into the room after she’d foolishly locked herself out, Vincent had decided he would tell Sam everything. She deserved the truth. It was the least he could do before they parted ways.

There was an exasperated grunt outside the bathroom door before the clattering of a chair on thin carpet. The door swung open. Sam stood in the doorway. He wanted to hug her, but her cold stare stopped him in his tracks.

“You look like shit,” she said.

“Feel way worse,” he said, trying to smile.

Sam’s expression didn’t soften. “You all right?”

“I’ve been better.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

“Couldn’t agree more. How are you?”

Sam sighed. “Okay—all things considered.”

She looked about as okay as Vincent, with puffy red eyes and a raw nose, but something about her demeanor made him believe her. Like an old lighthouse, she was weather-beaten but strong.

She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, and when he didn’t, she said, “So, what the hell is going on?”

James could be back soon. “How about we talk in the car?”

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere that’s away from here.”

 

“SO?” SAM SAID when they had put a few blocks between them and the motel.

Vincent turned away from the side mirror where he’d been watching out for any car that looked like his 1995 Ford Escort. “Yeah?”

“So, talk.”

Where should he even start? Sam looked over at him, and she blew through a red light. His body tensed, waiting for a car to smash into the side of them. Thankfully, the road was clear.

“Can you park somewhere?” he asked.

“Why? Are you going to vomit or something?”

“No, just to chat.” Nothing good would come out of her receiving the news while driving.

She pulled over to the side of the road. “Talk.”

He told her everything. From the attack until the bathroom. “And then he just left. I’m so sorry, Sam. I would have tried to stop all this if I had known where he got the gun, but everything got out of control so fast.”

Sam stared straight ahead. He kept waiting for her to scream or cry. Demand that he get the hell out of her car. But she just sat there. No tears. Nothing. After several minutes of silence, in which Vincent realized there was nothing he could say, Sam opened the car door and left.

Vincent unhooked his seat belt. “Where are you going?”

She walked around the front of the car and continued down the side of the road. Someone beeped as they flew by, but she paid no attention. She’d get herself killed at this time of night. Vincent took the keys out of the ignition, got out of the car, and followed her.

He clutched his aching chest as he walked through the puddles on the roadside. “Sam, come back!”

She kept walking.

Another car shot past them.

He picked up his pace. He was only a few feet behind, but he couldn’t catch up. Breathless, he pleaded, “Stop. Please. I can’t breathe.”

She stopped.

He walked up to her, sucking in air, but she didn’t acknowledge him. Even with him at her side, she continued to stare down the road.

“It’s not safe out here,” he said.

She opened her bag, took out her pack of cigarettes, and lit one. The embers glowed orange in the darkness surrounding them. She smoked it clear to the filter and lit another. After exhaling a plume of smoke, she said, “James killed Tyler.”

She seemed to be saying it for her own benefit. Like she was testing out the idea. She stood there, continuing to smoke.

“Want to go back to the car?” he asked.

“I knew something was wrong with him. Knew it from the moment he came back.”

“You did.”

“I just never imagined…”

“I know.”

“I should have done something.” Her hand shook as she raised the cigarette to her mouth.

“You couldn’t have. I was with him every day, and I didn’t know.” He wanted to hug her. Comfort her. But she didn’t look sad; she looked pissed.

“I’ve known him since fourth grade. Practically my whole life, and I knew something was wrong, and I did nothing, and now Tyler’s dead.”

“You couldn’t have stopped him. If anyone could, it’s me, and I didn’t. So, if there’s anyone to blame, it’s me.”

He hadn’t realized how culpable he was until he said it. A part of him always knew something was wrong with James. Something far worse than the aftereffects of shock. But he’d ignored it until Tyler was murdered, that little girl watched her father die, and that kid had his face smashed in.

James had wielded the gun, but Vincent had helped him every step of the way. He was just as guilty as James. Ralbovsky and Tillman would probably be more than happy to lock him up.

Sam took another long drag, quickly burning down her cigarette. “We have to run.”

“We? There is no we. James isn’t after you. I wouldn’t have even involved you in this mess if I wasn’t trapped. You need to drop me off somewhere and get back to your life. This isn’t your problem.”

“What do you plan to do?”

Vincent hadn’t gotten that far yet. “I’ll figure something out.”

“I have a gun.”

“What?”

“Tyler got it for me. After what happened with James, he started carrying his with him. I already had a stun gun, but he said he’d feel better knowing I had something with a little more power to protect myself when he wasn’t there. It’s in the glove box,” she said, motioning back to the car with her cigarette.

She wasn’t understanding him.

“Sam, I’m not dragging anyone else into this, and it’s not like a gun is going to stop him. A bullet to the chest didn’t even slow him down.”

“Maybe one to the head will.”

The coldness of her words took him aback.

“What?” Sam asked.

James needed to be stopped. Something deep inside him had soured after the attack, but they couldn’t just kill him. “It’s James.”

She tossed the cigarette into a puddle, and it fizzled out. “This just doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“Sam.”

“Don’t fucking ‘Sam’ me! He didn’t have a scratch on him after the attack, and now, what, he can take a bullet to the chest without even blinking?”

“I don’t know what to make of it either.” His head swam every time he tried to think about it. “But I saw it with my own eyes.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t, but I went to his funeral. Watched them bury his casket. Then, he was just back, and I guess I was too fucking happy to ask too many questions, but I should have.”

“Something else is going on here. I mean, someone in law enforcement pronounced him dead. And his father lied about identifying his body.” The implausibility of what he was saying only hit him when he saw the confusion on Sam’s face.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “Why would the police do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“And his father wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Vincent wouldn’t put anything past either of James’s parents.

“Don’t get me wrong. They’re fucking assholes. They treated him like shit when he was alive, but they acted like they were burying a saint. His mother barely got through the service without wailing, and his dad acted like he just had a lobotomy.” She grabbed another cigarette, but she dropped her lighter on the ground. Vincent started to bend over to grab it, but she waved him off, saying, “I got it.”

“If they aren’t lying, then how is he still alive?” He didn’t know James’s parents well enough to say what they were capable of doing, but Sam couldn’t argue with facts.

Sam put the cigarette back in the pack. “Does it really matter? He’s a fucking murderer.”

“You’re talking about shooting him in the head. I think it fucking matters.”

“Did you know the only reason Tyler could afford to go to Pitt was because he got a hockey scholarship? His loans wouldn’t cover tuition without it.”

Vincent had to stop himself from asking what that had to do with anything.

“His parents are loaded, but they wouldn’t give him a cent for college. They didn’t think it was a ‘wise investment.’ He struggled, but he was always good at math. He wanted to become a teacher and coach at some high school. He said hockey had gotten him to this school, and I’d met him at a game, so he even credited it with bringing us together.”

“I didn’t know that,” Vincent admitted.

“Why would you? You always hated him. So did James.”

“Hey, I—”

“He’s dead, Vincent. His whole life fucking gone before it started. If everything you are saying is true, then you can’t help him. You need to come with me and let me do what I have to in order to protect us, or you’re going to get yourself killed.”

Vincent couldn’t. “There’s more to it. You said yourself this doesn’t make any sense. The funeral. The way he healed. Don’t you want to know what’s actually going on?”

“He locked you in that bathroom. Look at your wrist. Why are you defending him?”

“I just want to know what happened.” He couldn’t tell in the dark if she believed him, but he didn’t have another answer. Despite all the terrible things James had done, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing him again. There had to be another way. “What if something happened to him between the attack and when he showed back up? Something that made him this way.”

Sam lit another cigarette, and in the flame light, he could see pity in her eyes. He wasn’t sure who it was for: him or herself. “Let’s run through this. You’re attacked. He’s pronounced dead. His dad identifies the body. He shows back up at your apartment, uninjured and not acting right. Then, he starts killing people.” She stopped. Not to take a drag, but to collect herself. “Our James would never do something like that.”

“I know. He’s changed.”

“But…what if he hasn’t?”

He wasn’t following her. “What?”

She sucked on her cigarette. The embers burned in her frantic eyes. “Think about it. There are two possibilities. Either something happened to change him completely. Or…”

“Or what?”

“Or he isn’t James.”

Maybe she needed more oxygen. “What are you talking about?”

“Either he has changed into this psycho killer, or this psycho killer isn’t him.”

Had she lost her mind? “Sam. That’s crazy.”

“Crazier than being bulletproof?”

“He was shot. I think he just got lucky.”

“Bullshit.”

The gunshot wound was unbelievable, but that didn’t mean everything unbelievable was possible. James couldn’t be someone else—Vincent would’ve noticed. And this wasn’t some soap opera. James didn’t have an evil twin. He wasn’t some sort of robot or clone. He had just changed.

“Look, you want to know the truth. There’s only one way to figure out what’s actually going on.”

“The casket.” It was the last piece of the puzzle. The only way to know who they’d buried. It wasn’t James, but his father had identified someone, and they had buried that person in the ground. Vincent had already tried and failed to dig it up once. But then, he’d been alone and drunk. And the ground had been frozen. Now, he had Sam, and the warmer weather had thawed out the earth.

“If someone else is there, or it’s empty, then you can do whatever you want to do. But if not, you’re coming with me. And we are going to kill him.”

Sam was angry and grieving and probably still in shock. Digging up the grave, if they could even manage it, wasn’t going to change what happened to Tyler or anyone else. But Vincent wanted to know who was in that casket. He wanted to know the truth. “Fine, but I’m driving.”

Sam put out her cigarette on the road. “Why?”

“Because your driving is going to get us both killed. And I know the way.”