Silent night, p.16
Silent Night, page 16
"Alright, just breathe with me, okay?" she said, trying to project calm despite the tremor in her voice. "Inhale...exhale. We'll be out of here before you know it."
As Heather attempted to follow her instructions, her breaths came in shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly. It was clear she was teetering on the edge of hysteria, and Sheila's concern only grew.
"Come on," Sheila whispered under her breath, her fingers flying as she finally managed to unravel the last of the knot holding Heather's wrists together. "Got it."
Heather's arms dropped to her sides, and Sheila quickly moved on to her ankles. She couldn't help but glance around the dark basement, her senses heightened as she prayed that Finn would return soon. They needed backup, and they needed it now.
Having finished untying Heather, Sheila straightened and looked around, searching for Finn. Should she shout to him, as he'd suggested? What if the killer was lurking nearby?
Maybe it would be better to go find him, she thought. Maybe—
Before she could finish the thought, the few overhead lights partially illuminating the basement went off, plunging them into an abyss of blackness.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The darkness swallowed the parking garage basement whole, leaving Sheila's heart pounding. She could feel Heather's terror reverberating through the air as the young woman began to hyperventilate, still cramped in the confines of the SUV's trunk.
"He's coming back!" Heather whispered, her voice cracking.
"Shh," Sheila urged, trying to steady her own nerves. "Stay quiet." The blackness was suffocating, yet she knew that any sound they made could be their undoing.
Closing her eyes for a moment, Sheila forced herself to focus and listen for any telltale signs of movement. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal of her cell phone in her pocket, and she considered using its flashlight. But she couldn't risk giving away their location. She bit her lip, adrenaline coursing through her veins like wildfire. Where the hell was Finn?
She cursed inwardly, feeling the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders. It was as if the walls of the parking garage were closing in, threatening to crush her. In this moment, she felt utterly alone, lost in a sea of shadows with only her instincts to guide her. Her heart raced, her breath coming in short, labored gasps. Was she in over her head?
But no, she had come this far, and there was no turning back now. Sheila gritted her teeth, clenching her fists as she steadied her breathing. She was an Olympic-level kickboxer, after all—she'd faced challenges before, and she would face this one too. For Heather's sake.
Sheila's heart hammered in her chest as she took a deep breath, trying to calm her fraying nerves. She couldn't let her fear get the best of her – not when Heather's life was at stake. "Heather," she whispered urgently, gripping the girl's trembling hand. "You need to trust me. Stay quiet and do exactly what I say, okay? We'll get out of here. I promise."
"Okay," Heather said, her voice barely audible through her sniffles.
"Good. Now let's get you out of this trunk." Sheila braced herself against the SUV, using her other hand to help Heather climb out of the confined space. Once they were both standing, she tightened her grip on Heather's hand, as if afraid the girl would slip away into the darkness.
The pitch-black basement seemed to stretch on endlessly around them, its shadows swallowing every sound, leaving only the pounding of their own hearts in their ears. Sheila strained to remember the way to the elevator, recalling the twists and turns she'd taken to reach this spot.
"Stay close to me," she murmured, guiding Heather forward with a gentle tug. They moved cautiously, each step a careful dance between silence and the need for speed.
The darkness of the parking garage basement seemed to swallow all sound, leaving Sheila and Heather in a cocoon of silence punctuated only by their own breathing. Sheila's heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears as she strained to listen for any hint of danger. Her fingers tightened around Heather's hand, willing the other woman to stay calm and quiet.
A sudden metallic clang shattered the stillness, making Heather jump and bite back a scream. Sheila's pulse raced even faster, her mind racing through possibilities—had the killer discovered their escape? Was he closing in on them?
"Shh," she whispered urgently. "Stay quiet, Heather. We can't let him find us."
They froze, holding their breath as they strained to hear the source of the noise. But all that met their ears was the eerie silence of the underground garage, the shadows pressing in from all sides like a vise.
Then, without warning, the unmistakable sound of footsteps broke the silence, sending a shiver down Sheila's spine. She gestured quickly for Heather to hide behind a nearby pillar, her eyes scanning the gloom for any sign of movement.
"Stay here," she whispered to Heather, her voice barely a breath. "No matter what happens, stay hidden."
With her gun at the ready, Sheila steeled herself for the confrontation that was surely coming. Every step the unseen figure took seemed to reverberate in her chest, and she found herself holding her breath, afraid even the sound of her breathing would give her away.
The silence that followed was both a relief and a torture. Sheila's heart pounded in her ears, drowning out any other sound as she strained to listen for the slightest hint of danger. Her fingers tightened around the gun, knuckles turning white with tension. She knew this moment was crucial—one wrong move could cost them their lives.
Please let it be Finn, she thought, praying for a familiar face to emerge from the darkness.
Suddenly, a man burst forth from the shadows like a specter materializing before her. His eyes were wild and desperate, darting left and right as he clutched a knife in his trembling hand. His unkempt hair framed an angular face twisted into a snarl, and a faded tattoo on his neck seemed to slither like a snake with each hurried breath.
Sheila's instincts kicked in immediately. She stepped out from behind the pillar, leveling her gun at the man's chest. "Drop the knife!" she barked, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her insides.
He froze, his gaze locking onto Sheila, but the knife remained firmly in his grip. The air between them crackled with tension, each second stretching out into an eternity.
"Drop it now!" she commanded again, her finger itching to pull the trigger. Desperation flickered in the man's eyes, but still, he didn't comply.
Is he going to attack? Sheila wondered, her mind racing through possible scenarios. She couldn't afford to hesitate—not with Heather's life on the line. She needed to make a decision, and fast.
"Last chance," she said, trying to inject authority into her voice. "Drop the knife or I'll have to shoot."
The tense standoff between Sheila and the knife-wielding man reached a boiling point. Without warning, the man sprang at her with a sudden burst of speed. Caught off guard, Sheila tried to fire, but her finger stalled on the trigger, unfamiliar with the pressure required.
He closed the distance between them in an instant, his arm swinging wide to knock the gun from her grasp. The weapon clattered to the cold concrete floor, skittering away into the darkness. Using his momentum, the man shoved Sheila hard, sending her sprawling to the ground.
Her breath whooshed out of her lungs as she hit the floor, the impact reverberating through her body. She tasted blood in her mouth, a coppery tang, and realized she'd bitten her lip during the fall.
Get up, Sheila, she told herself, groaning in pain as she pushed herself up onto her elbows. Her muscles screamed in protest.
She caught sight of the man hurrying away, and for a brief moment, she thought he was fleeing in fear. But then it dawned on her—he wasn't running away from her.
He was going after Heather.
A surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins, igniting a fire in her gut that overpowered the pain. "No!" she cried. "Run, Heather! Run!"
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
The dank air of the basement parking garage clung to Sheila's skin as she scrambled up, her heart pounding in her chest. Russel was charging at Heather, the knife glinting menacingly in his hand. Heather stood petrified, her back against a concrete pillar, and let out a blood-curdling scream.
Sheila's kickboxing instincts kicked in. She sprinted forward, adrenaline coursing through her veins. As she closed the distance between them, she launched herself at Russel, wrapping her arms around his legs with all her strength. The impact brought him crashing to the cold, grimy floor, the air whooshing out of his lungs.
Russel fought like a cornered animal, twisting and thrashing in an attempt to break free. Sheila clung tightly to him, feeling the sweat on his skin and the power in his muscles. Then, in one fluid movement, he turned toward her, swinging the knife wildly.
"Watch out!" Heather shrieked.
Sheila released her grip on Russel and threw herself backward, narrowly avoiding the deadly arc of the blade. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she could taste both fear and determination on her tongue.
"Run, Heather! Get out of here!" she shouted, her voice raw with urgency.
Heather hesitated for a moment, torn between the desire to help and the instinct to flee. Seeing the danger Sheila faced, she finally nodded and sprinted away.
With Heather gone, Sheila turned her attention fully on Russel. She circled him warily, her mind racing as she tried to figure out how to disarm him without putting herself in more danger. The seconds stretched on like hours, each one filled with the potential for life or death.
Russel's eyes, wild with fury and desperation, locked onto Sheila as he brandished the knife menacingly. The dim light of the parking garage caught the edge of the blade, casting a sinister glint across his face.
"Stay back!" he snarled, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. "You don't have any idea what I'm capable of!"
"Why are you doing this, Russel? Why are you hurting these women?"
"That's not my name! That was my father's name, and he—he was a monster!" Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. "I'm Jenson! Do you hear me? Jenson!"
"Okay, Jenson," she said, trying to calm him. "I'll call you whatever you'd like."
Jenson went on as if he hadn't heard her. "He beat me, every day, for the smallest things. I told my mom, but she always took him back, no matter what!"
This sudden confession surprised Sheila. It sounded as if he had been holding this back for years, wishing he could tell someone. Now that he had nothing to lose, it seemed he had found his voice.
"Jenson, I'm sorry you went through that," she said. "But hurting innocent people isn't going to make your pain go away."
His grip tightened on the knife, knuckles turning white. "They're not innocent!" he shouted. "That's what you don't understand—this is their own fault!"
As Sheila listened to Jenson's anguished words, her thoughts raced for a solution. Her kickboxing experience might give her an advantage, but she needed to be careful not to push him too far. She imagined herself lunging for the weapon, her muscles tensing in anticipation of the movement. Would she be able to knock the knife out of his hand? Or would it only escalate the situation?
"Jenson, I know you're hurting," she said, taking a slow step toward him. "But causing pain to others won't heal your own wounds. You can get help. There are people who understand and want to support you. You don't have to continue this cycle of violence."
His face twisted into a grimace, and for a moment, Sheila thought she saw something shift in his eyes—a flicker of doubt. She pressed on, hoping her words were reaching him.
"Think about what you're doing," she urged. "Is this really the person you want to be? Someone who hurts others because they were hurt themselves?"
Jenson's eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger replacing the doubt that had momentarily surfaced. "They chose this, just like my mother chose to stay with my father," he spat, his grip on the knife tightening. "They didn't have to date me. They knew who I was, what I'd been through!"
Sheila's brow furrowed as she tried to decipher his twisted logic. "How did they choose it, Jenson? They couldn't possibly know what you were planning."
"Like Lot's wife in the Bible, they looked back instead of focusing on the future. She was turned into a pillar of salt for her disobedience!" His voice rose with fervor, his body shaking with the intensity of his emotions.
The mention of salt brought Sheila a sudden clarity. Both victims had been found encrusted in salt—a symbolic punishment, just like Lot's wife. So that was why he'd thrown the bodies into the Great Salt Lake. As revulsion filled her at the thought of Jenson enacting his own twisted form of divine retribution, she forced herself to remain calm.
"That's what the nail was for," he went on. "Judgment! But nobody understood! Nobody even talked about it!"
"Jenson, don't you see?" she asked, her words measured and urgent. "You're causing pain to your victims and their families, just like your father did to you. You're becoming the same monster you hate."
"Am I?" he snarled, the knife once again steady in his hand. "Or am I simply giving them what they deserve for their choices?"
"Nobody deserves what you've done to them, Jenson. Your victims didn't know what was coming, and neither did your mother when she stayed with your father. No one can predict the future, but we can change our present actions."
His wild eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, Sheila thought she might finally be getting through to him. The air was heavy with desperation, and she could taste the metallic tang of fear in her mouth as she tried to appeal to the last shred of humanity within him.
"Jenson, you don't have to continue down this path. You can choose a different way, one where you don't hurt others and cause more pain. Your life doesn't have to be defined by your father's actions."
"You're right," Jenson finally said, his voice dripping with venom. "I am a monster, just like my father. It's in my blood, and there's no escaping it." He advanced toward Sheila, the wicked gleam of his knife reflecting her fear-stricken face. "And your death will be your own fault for interfering."
Sheila's heart pounded in her ears as she backed into a wall, the cold concrete pressing against her back. On one side was a van, on the other a large truck, the two of them effectively walling her in.
In short, she was trapped.
As Jenson continued to close in on her, the musty smell of the damp space invaded her nostrils and made it difficult to breathe. Her only chance was to disarm him, but how?
"Drop the weapon!" Finn's shout reverberated through the basement, followed by the illumination of a flashlight beam that momentarily blinded Jenson. Seizing the opportunity, Sheila lunged at him, trying to grab the knife. Jenson was quick, however, and he backpedaled out of reach.
"I said," Finn repeated, "drop the weapon!"
Jenson hesitated, glancing between his two adversaries before bolting into the darkness. Finn fired off a shot after him, the report reverberating throughout the enclosed space. With urgency in his eyes, he rushed over to Sheila.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I think he went after Heather," she said.
Finn clenched his jaw. "Come on!"
Without hesitation, they charged deeper into the shadows, their footsteps clapping loudly as they searched desperately for any sign of Heather or her would-be killer. The air grew colder and heavier the farther they ventured, and Sheila couldn't help but wonder if her own life had become a twisted game of predator and prey.
Finn's eyes locked onto a ramp leading upwards at the far end of the garage. "Over there! Hurry!" he shouted, already sprinting in that direction. Sheila followed close behind, but then something caught her attention—a door closing shut off to their right.
"Wait, Finn!" she shouted. "I think I saw—" But Finn had already disappeared around the corner. He must've heard something, given the acoustics of the open garage, but Sheila didn't have time to stick around and find out if he was coming back, not when every second counted.
Turning on her heel, she changed course, heading for the door she had seen closing. Her heart pounded in her chest as she approached, adrenaline coursing through her veins and sharpening her senses. The metallic taste of fear lingered on her tongue.
She reached the door, her hand shaking slightly as she gripped the handle and pulled it open. The small room beyond was dimly lit, the flickering fluorescent light overhead casting eerie shadows on the walls. It appeared to be a storage area for maintenance equipment; tools and cleaning supplies were haphazardly strewn about, creating an unsettling landscape of sharp edges and dark corners.
As Sheila's eyes adjusted to the gloom, she spotted Heather, her face pale and tear-streaked, pressed into a corner as if trying to disappear into the shadows. Jenson stood menacingly in front of her, his knife glinting cruelly in the feeble light. They both turned toward Sheila as she entered, their expressions a mixture of shock and desperation.
"Let her go, Jenson," Sheila said. She took a step forward, trying to draw his attention away from Heather.
"Stay back!" Jenson snarled, brandishing the knife with a wild look in his eyes. "You've interfered enough already!"
"Jenson—" Sheila began, but her words were cut off as he lunged at her, his knife slicing through the air.
Sheila's instincts kicked in, and she avoided the deadly strike by a hair's breadth. Her body shifted into a defensive stance, muscle memory taking over. She dodged another swing of the blade, acutely aware of the cold concrete floor beneath her feet and the stale scent of the room.
"Look," she panted, trying to reason with him. "It doesn't have to be this way."
"Shut up!" he hissed, lunging at her again. This time, the knife found its mark, nicking her forearm. The sudden sting of pain brought clarity, sharpening her focus.
Blood welled from the shallow cut, warm and sticky against her skin. A surge of anger overcame her fear, and she knew she couldn't let Jenson hurt anyone else. Not if she could help it.
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