| |
––––––––
Her head throbbed and September fought dizziness from the near scalping. Her jagged knife-cut hair fell in her eyes, blinding her as she clung to the horse panel. She’d lost her knife, but survived. Sunny had disappeared, swept away by the waters.
Seeing Shadow made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. Weak with relief and arms trembling, September dragged herself up the horse panel back into the loft. She had to reach Shadow, hold his solid warmth in her arms, and never ever let him go. September carefully stepped from the loft onto the ladder, just in time to see Shadow dart out of sight.
A heartbeat later, the strange car pulled up and disgorged her worst nightmare. The Doctor who haunted her nightmares yanked Steven from the car. September choked back a cry. Steven lived! She sank to her knees with relief. Maybe she wasn’t such a monster after all.
The real monster stood below. The Doctor raised the gun, and as he fired, Steven squirmed enough to skew his aim. A bullet splintered the cement block beside her.
She reflexively covered her head. He shot again, this time on her other side. Playing with her. September forced herself to stand. The moonlight shined the metal ladder, and water reflected its glow, illuminating her as clearly as a spotlight. If she tried to duck back into the loft, he’d kill her before she reached safety. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of cowering.
He aimed again, and then cocked his head and lowered the gun. "I'm going to kill you, September Day. No more interfering. Medicine must be delivered to save the children." He ignored Steven's struggles, the tiny boy less than a gnat of annoyance. He raised the gun again.
"I'll dump this ladder. Then try to get your precious poison." She could do it. September shifted her weight, and the ladder shuddered and clanged. The once horizontal ladder now canted at about a thirty-degree angle, barely clinging to the corner of the open dumpster at its midway point. Knocking it off meant there'd be no way to get to the loft until water receded.
"Sunny Babcock retrieved the product at my behest. She likes money. People do anything for money."
"Sunny failed, you miserable mental defective. I’ve got your product right here." Nothing to lose. "And you'll lose, too." If she could prod him enough, maybe he’d come after her and let Steven go.
"So the product remains in storage." It was a statement, not a question. September imagined his brain clicking away, mental gears calculating what that meant.
She shifted backwards a bit, so when she kicked away the ladder, she'd have a chance to pull herself inside. "Let Steven go, right now, or I'll take down your only chance to recover your product." She sneered the final word.
His bloodless smile chilled her. "I can make more. Delay means more children suffer. More blood on your interfering hands." He flexed the gun back and forth, back and forth. Stimming. The self-comforting repetitive behavior increased with stress. Maybe the Doctor needed another dose of his miracle drug.
She taunted. "It's not about the kids, it's never been about the kids. Or the money. It's playing god, turning people into puppets to make you important." C'mon, get mad. “You give nice, decent autistic people a bad name.” He might be brilliant, but his stunted emotions offered a weakness she'd used before. Get him riled enough, and like dogs and cats, analytical thought couldn't function alongside fear or fury.
She rocked the ladder, and it shifted closer to the edge of the dumpster. The green box rocked as water continued to surge around it. "You scared, Gerald-baby? Should be. I beat you before, put your sicko bag of scabs Mommy away. You're only brave shooting unarmed women. And abusing dogs. How's it feel, knowing you'll never see your Mommy again?"
The stimming grew worse. Steven squealed, his arm in a vise.
This time, she wouldn't let him get away, even if she had to use herself as bait. He vanished too easily, and had resources nobody could match. And by God, she owed it to all the lives he'd ruined, to Lenny and to Claire. To her sister, and Steven and Tracy, and so many more.
If she could get him into the loft, she could dump the ladder and trap him until the police arrived. When Combs arrived. She’d been wrong about him, wrong about so many things.
"What you going to do, you sick bastard? Son of a bitch, go on, make your move."
"Bad language, lazy language. Shut up shut up shut up!" He shook Steven into submission, steadied his hand and aimed the gun.
