The keep, p.23
The Keep, page 23
"With me?" Honey was so shocked by the question, she couldn't answer it.
"Yes," she hissed the word. "We were going to escape. Together. Then you take off and leave me alone with—" She pointed toward the couch and its burden. "He was crazy. I told you that. I did what I did for both of us."
The blatant lie was staggering. "For both of us?" Honey found herself repeating Angela's words because she had no original ones.
"I'm trying to get us out of here alive, then you tell Zach I killed his father. If he believes you, he'll kill me. Then how are you going to get out of here?"
Honey was reeling. Could this be true? Could it be that Angela was attempting to orchestrate their escape, and Honey ruined her plan?
Angela paced to one end of the living room and back again, hand on her chin. "Okay, okay. We can salvage this. When he returns you need to tell him you didn't see the whole thing with Rick. Tell him that you knew about me kicking Joe because the forensic guys could tell—there were broken ribs or something. You made it up to save yourself."
"What changed my mind?"
Angela stopped moving and glared at Honey. "I don't know. Do I have to do everything? You and I talked while he was gone, and I explained things, and you realized you'd misunderstood what you'd seen."
"But why would I tell him that? Angela, you are taking me somewhere at eight to collect a ransom for kidnapping me. You'll probably kill me after you get the money. There's no incentive for me to defend you."
In two quick strides she stood before Honey, her face only inches away. "Do you want me to get you out of this or don't you?"
Honey faltered. Was she wrong about Angela? Correction, of course she was wrong about Angela. She'd imagined the girl was like Willow. Hadn't she said that to anyone who'd listen? She'd used those exact words; Angela is so much like Willow.
She'd believed that because that's what Angela wanted her to believe. It was how the girl invaded people's lives. She was like the mistletoe in the woods, a parasite. She attached herself to her host and sucked their life into herself because she had no life of her own.
This didn't mean she wasn't sincere about helping Honey escape, however. She may very well want to leave this place with Honey so she could continue to cannibalize her. What was the best play? Was it better to create a rift between her captors, or trust Angela one last time?
Before she could decide, the front door slammed against the wall, and Zach entered with a blast of rage and cold air. "Why did you kill Charlie?"
Angela didn't speak. She'd obviously not thought through this part of her plan.
"Charlie wouldn't have hurt you. He wouldn't have hurt anyone."
"He heard us talking about Joe. He knew we killed him," Angela said.
"He wouldn't have said anything," Zach said.
There it was. They'd killed Joe. Honey had known it, but hearing it come from their mouths set her on her heels.
"But he was going to leave." Angela's voice rose to a screech. "Going to leave me." She said the last word as if Zach should understand.
"You still had me." Zach's voice was soft and sad. Honey noted he'd used the past tense—still had me.
Angela must have noticed it too. She gripped the front of his flannel shirt. "He was going to leave me." She repeated, her words low and guttural.
Three things happened in quick succession. A shot rang out. Zach's eyes widened in surprise. Angela caught him as his legs weakened and lowered him to the floor. His gun clattered to the ground next to him. "You're not leaving," she said.
Zach clutched his stomach with both hands. Blood oozed from between his fingers. Honey flattened herself against the wall.
Angela looked at the gun in her hand with a surprised expression, almost as if she hadn’t expected it to do the damage it had. She wiped it clean on the hem of her shirt, and wrapped Zach's bloody hand around it. Honey assumed it was Rick’s weapon, the one that had killed him.
Angela picked up Zach’s gun, and put it in the waistband of her jeans. Then she locked gazes with Honey. "Let's go."
"Ange." Zach breathed her name. She didn't seem to hear.
Honey stepped around the dying man and opened the door. Angela followed her into the cool night air.
5.6.3
Angela directed Honey to sit in the passenger seat of the truck and climbed into the driver's side. This was the second time Honey was held at gunpoint by a driver in this vehicle. Angela, like Zach before her, drove with one hand while the other held the gun on Honey.
Honey hadn’t belted in. If this were a movie it would have been her chance to escape. She’d reach over, grab the steering wheel, and send them into a tree. Or she'd grab the gun and wrestle it away. Or she'd pop open her own door, roll out of the moving vehicle and crawl into the cover of trees before Angela had time to take aim.
None of those things were going to happen. Honey wasn't a stunt woman. She was a middle-aged chef with too much padding. She was certain any of those actions would result in disaster. No, her best bet seemed to be to go along for the ride. If Booker was wherever they were going, it would be two against one. Even if the one did have a gun, it would be better odds than if she tackled Angela alone. Still, she felt better with her seat belt unlatched.
When they reached the fire road, Angela turned right instead of left. Left headed down the mountain to civilization. Right would take them farther into the wilderness.
The truck bounced along the uneven surface, making Honey nauseous. She tried to focus on the night sky to relieve the symptoms. The only food she'd eaten in the past twenty-four hours was the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Angela had brought her that morning. She wouldn't eat or drink anything offered by Angela again. Despite the queasiness, the emptiness of her stomach made her feel light and alert. She told herself this was a good thing.
"What was in the stevia and the date bars?" she asked.
Angela didn't respond for a moment, then she said, "Caffeine. I bought capsules."
Honey was confused. "Caffeine isn't poisonous."
"Depends on how much you take," Angela said. "But I wasn't trying to kill you. I just wanted you to need me."
"Need you?" Honey didn't understand.
Angela's face softened into childlike lines. "When you were sick, you needed me. I helped you. Really helped."
Honey inhaled, attempting to control the rage that threatened to erupt from her. Did this girl have any clue how that level of anxiety made a person feel? It was a kind of torture.
It was cruel, but it was also ingenious. Honey had assumed the caffeine hit was another panic attack. Since panic attacks terrified her, it was enough to bring one on. "You put it in the chicken soup too." It wasn't a question. Honey was stating what she now knew to be the truth.
"Yeah. Seemed like a good way to keep you out of the shop for a couple of days."
"Why did you want me out of the shop?"
Angela's gaze slid toward Honey, then to the road. "I wanted you to see how necessary I was. I knew I could run your business better than you were running it. The changes I made were smart, efficient, even if you didn’t appreciate them."
The last sentence dripped bitterness.
"It's my business. I run it the way I run it."
"I liked the shop. I liked teaching the class. I thought maybe I could become a partner, maybe take things over one day. But,” she gave a small shake of her head, “that wasn’t why I was there.”
“Why were you there?”
“The money order. I needed Booker’s ID, his social, something, so we could cash it. I was trying to get close. Get inside your world. When Zach and I heard you found Joe’s body, we were sure you knew who it was, that you’d been looking for him. Zach panicked, tried to break into your house a couple of times, but your dog is really noisy.”
That explained the nights Fury had growled at the windows and the doors. The thought that Zach had been hiding in the shadows of her backyard raised the hair on Honey’s arms.
“Once Joe was identified, it wouldn’t be long before the police knew he had an Ageless account. We had to get out of town,” Angela said.
“So why didn’t you?”
“Leave?”
“Yeah, leave.”
“We were broke. Ralph took everything the Feds hadn’t and went to Mexico.”
The truck hit a rock. Honey placed a hand on the ceiling to keep herself from hitting her head. “But you emailed Booker asking for money before we even found Joe.” Honey was trying to sort this out. Angela seemed to be talking in circles.
"Yeah, I was grasping. I thought since Booker had given Joe money once, he might do it again. I’d have asked for it in cash this time, though.”
“We thought Joe was alive,” Honey said.
“That was a side benefit. Nobody was looking for him as long as they believed he was alive and well and running.”
Both women were quiet for a bumpy quarter of a mile. Angela spoke first. “You know what I regret the most?”
Honey couldn’t imagine. Killing Joe? Killing Rick, or Charlie, or Zach? The possibilities were endless, so she shook her head.
"That I can’t stay on at Sweeter.”
Honey had to stifle a laugh.
“No, really,” Angela said. “I thought we were a good team. I was good for you, for the business. Better than Willow ever was."
Better than Willow ever was? Honey wondered what would have happened to her daughter if things had gone on the way they were, if she'd never discovered who Angela really was. Would Willow have met the same fate as Charlie?
“For a while, I thought I might be able to make the police think Zach had killed Joe on his own, that I was an innocent victim.” Angela pulled a sad, pathetic face that made Honey want to slap her. She’d been taken in by that face once. No more.
"Doesn't it bother you? Taking what doesn't belong to you? Taking lives?" Honey said. It was a stupid question. There was something missing inside Angela. The something with a conscience. The something with empathy.
"The money Booker is bringing tonight is mine. I earned it." Her voice was clipped.
Honey didn’t bother stifling her laugh this time. "Booker's money, my money, is yours?"
"That money order should have been made out to me." She glanced at Honey again. "That's all I asked Booker for. Just the $50,000. I could have cleaned you out. Your husband would pay whatever I asked." She said it as if Honey should be grateful.
"I don't understand," Honey said. "Joe borrowed $50,000 from us. He was about to reimburse us, but somehow that money is yours?"
Angela grimaced, her lips thin and angry. How had Honey never noticed her incisors before? They were so prominent, like a wolf's or a vampire’s. "Joe promised me he’d take me away as soon as he could afford it. He knew how Ralph was treating me."
“Ralph?” Honey’s eyebrows arched. She’d thought Angela and Zach were lovers.
“Ralph was mean.” She glanced at Honey like she was looking for sympathy. “Joe said he’d rescue me as soon as he could afford it.”
But Joe had decided to reimburse his brother instead of making good on his promise. Knowing what she now knew about Angela, Honey realized that was his fatal decision. “Why did he change his mind?”
Angela lifted one shoulder and let it drop in a half shrug. “He found out about the business. That it wasn’t what Ralph said it was.”
Honey waited several beats for Angela to continue.
“He got all mad and stuffy and said how we were ruining people’s lives, and he couldn’t believe he’d been a part of it. He was going to tell the Feds everything he knew.”
“But the company had already been shut down, hadn’t it?”
“Yeah, but Zach and I were still under investigation.”
“So, you killed him?" Honey's words were soft.
Angela pulled to the side of the road and turned off the engine. She didn't answer the question. Instead, she said, "Get out."
Honey gazed out the window. There was nothing but dark sky and empty land. She couldn't see anyone or anything that warranted stopping. Fear slid down her backbone, through her loins, and made her thighs feel weak. Was Angela going to kill her here? "Why are we stopping?"
Angela opened her door and climbed out. "We have an errand."
Honey exited the truck, her eyes scanning the terrain for a way of escape. It appeared they were in a meadow, only a handful of trees sprinkled the landscape. Not enough for cover.
Angela was next to her, poking the gun into her ribs before she could form a plan. They walked off the road onto a footpath, followed it for a short distance, then came to an area of large flat rocks.
Honey recognized the place from pictures Booker had shown her when he was trying to get her interested in hiking. It was a historic site called The Indian Village, famous because of the massacre that had taken place here decades before. This was the hub of the ghost stories that revolved around Black Star. Honey hugged herself.
From a distance, it almost seemed the area was paved, but she knew from things she'd read it was covered with flat boulders. When they drew close to the largest of the rocks, she could see deep holes dotting its surface. This had once been the Natives' kitchen. The women had used natural divots in the rock to grind acorns and other seeds. Over time, the motion wore away the stone, creating the deep, smooth cup-like impressions that were there now.
"Stand over there." Angela gestured toward a lone tree. Honey obeyed. She leaned against the trunk for support and felt the itch of bark through her shirt. It was uncomfortable, but she wanted to be uncomfortable. She needed to remind herself of the danger she was in.
Angela's mood had turned. She acted as if they were two friends on a nature walk. It was easy to accept the fantasies Angela projected, but Honey had seen what happened to others who'd done that.
Then Angela pulled a pair of handcuffs from the backpack she carried. The illusion of friendship was shattered. “Wrap your arms around the trunk.”
Honey did, and Angela slid the cuffs onto her wrists and clicked them shut. She walked away when she was done, disappearing into the tall brush behind the stones.
Honey inhaled the sage and dust of the area, listened to the night birds call to one another, and tried to calm herself. Booker would come, and they’d most likely die, but at least they’d die together.
It was lonely here. The abandoned workspace pried open hollow places in Honey's heart. She felt a kindred spirit with the women who'd worked with their hands to feed their families. Sensational stories were spun about this site, but it didn't feel sensational to her, only sad.
The mountain men who had opened fire on the men, women, and children were the pirates of their day—pirates without ships. Their god was their belly. They were unscrupulous, willing to do whatever was necessary to fill the emptiness in their guts from the long months in the wilderness.
She could imagine the Native Americans screaming in fear, running for their lives, falling to the ground with the grease of horse meat on their chins. Honey shivered.
The sound of booted feet crossing the sand snapped her to attention. In the light of the rising moon, she saw Booker. He walked in slow, deliberate steps to the flat stone.
“Book,” she said.
He raised his hands as if to show whoever was watching, that he had no weapon. He stepped onto the flat rock and placed a hand into his jacket pocket. Honey could see the roll of bills from where she stood. He knelt and shoved it into a grinding hole, then repeated the process four times with four more rolls of bills. When he was done, he walked toward Honey.
Angela scurried to the rock as soon he stepped off it. She pointed her flashlight into one of the grinding holes, then moved to the next, then the next.
Booker reached Honey and wrapped himself around her. She said his name, but he shushed her and repeated the shushing sound as if he was comforting a crying child. Honey thought he was comforting himself.
Angela crouched low, held the flashlight between her teeth, and unrolled a wad of bills. She counted the money and, seemingly satisfied, rolled it up again. She did the same with the four other rolls.
A wave of nerves and nausea washed over Honey. Angela had her ransom; therefore she and Booker no longer had value. Honey began to slide around the tree, hoping Booker would follow. It was scant cover, but she wanted to put something between her and Angela.
Angela stood. "Thank you."
Booker stepped away from his wife. “The key.”
“You know, I think I lost it.” She pulled a gun from the waistband of her jeans and raised it. Honey had known Angela never intended to allow them to live.
A shadow separated itself from a Manzanita tree on Honey’s right. Angela’s gun swiveled toward it. The black shape sprang forward and became a man.
5.6.4
Shots broke the quiet. Be careful, be careful, be careful. The words might have left her mouth, they might not have. She wasn’t sure. Booker crumpled to the ground. Then Honey did scream.
Angela bolted from the rocks and into the brush where she’d been hiding, a deer leaping into the dark. The shadow man followed.
“No, help him. Help Booker,” she yelled after his retreating back. But he was a hound on the scent. Driven. Gone.
“Book, are you okay? Book?” She pressed her chest into the tree, trying to still the drumbeat behind her ribs so she could hear his answer. “Book?” she said again.
The answer came. A moan. No words, just a deep exhale of breath, but it was the most beautiful poetry she’d ever heard. He was alive. Booker was alive.
“Who was that? Booker, do you know? Who went after Angela?”
Her husband hissed air in and out of his lips before answering. “Kirk. Kirk Wickett. I brought him with me.”
Kirk. The man who’d once topped Booker’s suspect list was now their hope. It made sense. Bringing a cop, one cop, with him was Booker’s compromise between meeting the ransom demands and working within the system he’d devoted his life to. She wanted to ask how this strange partnership came to be, but she could hear her husband’s labored breaths.
