The keep, p.24
The Keep, page 24
Quiet reigned for several minutes; then Honey heard a laugh. A laugh. So incongruous in the tension of the moment. Who would laugh here and now?
She stiffened. The crunch of tires. More laughter. Staccato bursts of conversation. Bikers. Mountain bikers were headed this way.
"Hey!" she called out. "Hey, help me here!"
“Did you hear something?” a voice said.
“I think—“ another started to answer, but Honey screamed again.
“I’m here. Please. I need help.”
“You okay?" The first voice asked. Honey’s head swiveled toward the sound. She watched three bikers pull up to the rock. One, a well-muscled woman in bike shorts and a helmet, dismounted.
“Here. We’re here,” Honey said. The woman, her steps awkward in cleated shoes, jogged toward her and crouched at Booker's side. “What happened? Sir, have you been hurt?"
"He's been shot," Honey said.
The other women dropped their bikes near the rock and ran toward them.
"He’s my husband. Please call 911," Honey said.
"Did you shoot him?" a woman in a bright orange jersey asked.
Honey couldn’t tell if she was making a joke but gestured at her hands tethered around the tree. “No.”
The third biker, a woman in black, pulled a phone from a backpack and paced between the tree and the flat rock, presumably trying to find a signal. After several trips, she disappeared in the direction of the road.
The orange jersey woman joined the muscular woman and knelt next to Booker.
Muscles stood. "She's a nurse," she said, gesturing to Orange Jersey. "She'll know what to do until help gets here. What about you? You okay?"
"Yeah," Honey said. She'd been held at gunpoint, slapped, threatened, and poisoned with caffeine. She'd been lost in the woods, dragged through the wilderness, and had seen two men murdered. But the words, she'll know what to do until help gets here, were like a balm soothing every pain she'd experienced. Until help gets here. Help would come. The nightmare was over.
Muscles walked around the tree and examined Honey’s cuffed wrists. “Geez.” It was all she said, but Honey thought that about covered it.
Another gunshot shook the air. Muscles and Orange Jersey hit the dirt. Booker was already down. But Honey couldn’t escape. She was propped up like a target at a shooting range. She hugged the tree and moaned. She was done. Exhausted. Defeated. Terrified.
Moments after the ringing echoes quieted, footsteps could be heard moving toward them. It had to be Kirk. Please, let it be Kirk. Honey squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t bear it if it wasn’t him. Better not to see at all.
“Police. It’s okay.” Kirk’s voice nudged her eyes open. His uniform was clear in the moonlight. She felt the women near her exhale.
He limped across the rock and joined the nurse at Booker’s side. “How is he?”
Before she could answer, the woman in black returned to the group. "The police and a helicopter ambulance are on their way."
"Good," the nurse in the orange jersey said. "The bleeding is under control, but he needs medical attention pronto."
Kirk levered himself into a standing position, and Honey saw a stain, dark and wet, on his pants leg. “You’re wounded.”
“It’s not bad,” he said.
The nurse moved toward him anyway. The muscular woman stepped between Honey and Kirk, blocking her view. She’d dragged a pack to the tree and handed Honey a tube that was connected to it. "Suck on this," she said.
The water was warm and tasted of plastic, but it was the best thing Honey had ever had. She drank until the tube made whistling noises, and the flow slowed.
"What happened to you?" the woman asked when Honey finished.
"It's a long story.” One she didn't have the strength to tell at the moment. Tears welled into her eyes. "I wish I could see him."
“He’s right here.” Muscles stepped aside so Honey could view Booker’s still form. A spandex jacket made a makeshift tourniquet. It wrapped around his shoulder. His eyes were closed, his face pale, his breathing shallow but steady.
“He was wearing a vest,” Orange Jersey said.
“A bulletproof vest?” The question was inane. Of course she’d meant a bulletproof vest, but the news was so staggering, so good, Honey struggled to believe it. Good things hadn’t been happening much lately.
“Yes,” the nurse said. “Probably saved his life. From what I can tell, in the dark with a flashlight, there’s a bullet in his shoulder. I don’t think it’s life-threatening, but don’t quote me on that. In my professional opinion, he’ll hold.”
Muscles smiled. Her teeth gleamed in the dark. “You see? He’ll hold. And help is on the way.”
The sound of a helicopter, blades slashing through the night sky, confirmed her words. Help was here.
5.6.5
Honey’s wounds were superficial. Her biggest problem was dehydration. After transfusing an IV bag of fluids into her, they released her.
The police weren't as easy on her as the doctors had been. Honey had repeated her story at least three times. Once to one of the uniform cops who'd arrived on the trail at about the same time as the Air Ambulance, once to the policewoman who drove her to the hospital, and once more to Detective Sylla as the IV fluids pumped into her.
The bodies of Zach, Rick, and Charlie had been found exactly where Honey had said they'd be. The police had also found Joe's laptop in the house, strong evidence that Angela, or Angela and Zach, had indeed killed him and written the emails in his name. There was an APB out on her, but so far she was the only one who hadn't been found.
Willow sat with Honey in the waiting room until they got word Booker's surgery had been a success. He was sleeping off the anesthesia in post-op and was expected to make a full recovery. The doctor recommended Honey go home and get some rest herself. There would be plenty of time to sit by his bedside in the days ahead.
Willow drove her home. As they pulled onto the street, sadness gripped Honey. From a block away her house looked forlorn and abandoned. Maybe because neither her van nor Booker's truck were parked in the driveway, maybe because she knew Booker wouldn't be home for days. Whatever it was, she couldn't shake the melancholy. As soon as she exited Willow's car, she heard a howl. Fury. The poor thing had been alone in the house for hours. She'd forgotten all about him.
Willow looked at her. "He's fine, Mom."
Honey nodded. "I hope Booker left the back door open so he could get out and go to the bathroom."
"I'm sure he did."
Honey hurried to the front, not sure at all. Booker worried about break-ins and may not have thought he'd be gone long. When she reached the door, she stopped short. "I don't have my keys." They were in her purse, which was in her van, which was Lord knew where. The thought tightened her throat. The nightmare might be over, but nothing was the same.
Willow put a hand on her arm and squeezed. "I've got my key." She stepped around her mother and inserted it into the lock. Fury howled again. The sound was so lonely, so bereft, that tears sprang into Honey's eyes.
"It's okay, Fury," Willow called out as she stepped across the threshold.
It struck Honey something was wrong before she entered. Fury wasn't at the door flipping somersaults, that was one problem. Booker always left the entryway light on for the dog. It was out, problem number two. It was the scent of lemon shampoo, however, that made her want to turn and run. She reached for Willow to pull her back, but it was too late.
"I'll feed him, and then I'll make sandwiches—" A rush of bright hair and glinting steel cut off Willow's words. Honey flew into the entryway to find Angela holding a knife to her daughter's throat. It was one of Honey's favorites. An eight-inch, carbon steel blade that she kept razor sharp.
Terror flowed over her like an acid wash. She'd thought she'd felt fear when she'd been held in the keep, when she'd faced the barrel of a gun, when she'd heard the shot and seen Booker fall, but she hadn't. Not compared with this. This was an agonizing fear that made all other fears fade away like the echoes of a bad dream. Seeing her child, her baby, with that blade so close to her jugular made Honey want to scream, and weep, and tear her hair. She did none of those things.
"No." She whispered the word.
Angela stared at her through blue eyes as wide and angelic as a child's. "No, what? No, you're in denial about my presence in your house? No, you don't want me to hurt your precious Willow?"
Honey swallowed. Her saliva was thick and viscous, her lips dry. "Don't hurt Will."
"I find that annoying." Angela jerked Honey's daughter against her. Willow cried out. "Everything with you is Willow this and Willow that. She's not that awesome, you know? I tried very hard to be the daughter you always wanted, but Willow." She spat the name like it was a piece of rotten fruit. "She doesn't even make an effort."
Honey held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. Placate. She had to placate the girl. "You were great. I appreciated all you did for me. I'm sorry if I didn't tell you that enough."
Angela laughed. "Appreciated me? You were about ready to fire me. You didn't like the way I taught your cooking class. Didn't like the way I reorganized the shop. Didn't like the wall calendar." She took the knife from Willow's throat and used it to emphasize her points. "I went above and beyond for you, lady."
Willow caught Honey's gaze and tensed. She was going to fight. Honey could see it in her eyes. She shook her head, an almost imperceptible movement. This wasn't the time. Will didn't know how fast Angela was, or how brutal.
Angela must have read the situation. The knife returned to Willow's neck. "Don't do anything stupid."
The dog let loose a volley of frantic barks that ended with another hopeless yowl. "Can we go into the living room and talk? Maybe let Fury loose?" Honey kept her tone even, as if any abrupt movement might detonate the girl.
"Sure." Angela pushed Willow along in front of her and shoved her onto the couch. Honey exhaled and fell into a chair; her legs had become jelly. They weren't out of danger, she knew that, but now that the knife was no longer at her daughter's throat she could think more clearly.
"Why are you here?" Honey heard the measured notes of her own voice, the calm words, and wondered who'd uttered them.
Angela spun to face her. "That's rich. Why am I here? I'm here because you invited me. You said I could have Willow’s room, remember? Besides, now, thanks to you, I have nowhere else to go."
Surprise took Honey off guard. "Thanks to me?"
Angela gave a small shake of her head. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have had to get rid of Rick and Zach."
Honey didn't bother contradicting that logic. Angela wasn't well, which she'd known for a while, but the unreality she lived in was deeper than Honey had realized.
"You owe me," the girl said.
"My mother felt sorry for you. She tried to help you. She doesn't owe you a thing," Willow said.
Fear tripped up Honey's spine. "Willow." Didn't she realize how dangerous it was to antagonize Angela?
Angela pointed the knife toward Willow. "You need to shut up."
Willow opened her mouth, but Honey intercepted her. "What do you want?" she said.
"I want a place to stay for a couple of days. The police are looking for me. I figure every day goes by they don't find me, the less pressing finding me is going to be. I want to turn into a cold case."
A couple of days. Honey didn't think she could live under this stress for a couple of hours, never mind days. A whimper rose in her throat, but she refused to let it out. "The police will come looking for me if I don't show up at the hospital."
"So, you'll go to the hospital. Willow can stay here and keep me company."
Honey didn't respond. As long as her daughter was here, Angela held the cards. She'd do whatever she had to do.
"Do you have duct tape?" Angela said.
"What for?" Willow said.
Honey jumped up. "I think so. In the garage."
"Get it. I'll stay here with your darling daughter."
Honey paused. She didn't want to leave the two of them alone together.
"Now," Angela roared.
She was angry. Don't make Angela angry. Honey had seen what happened when Angela was angry. She ran to the garage, grabbed a roll of tape from the workbench, and jogged to the living room again. She held out the roll.
Angela took it and handed it to Willow. "Tape her hands."
Willow's chin jutted forward in that stubborn movement Honey knew so well. "Here." Honey thrust her hands out in front of her. Willow paused then reached for her mother's wrists.
Angela stepped close and touched Willow's neck with the knife. "Behind her back, stupid."
Honey pivoted, and Willow began to wrap her wrists. Honey had sensed Angela's animosity toward her daughter, but it had been contained. Now it was blatant, out in full force. Terror rippled over her skin again. Honey had to pour oil on these turbulent waters. She couldn't, wouldn't, allow Willow to be hurt.
"More," Angela said.
Willow wrapped another layer.
Angela shoved Honey into a chair. "Ankles."
Willow's eyes reflected the storm cloud inside her. She was furious. Fury was a dangerous emotion. As if on cue, the dog howled.
"For goodness sake, can I please let the dog out of wherever you've put him?" Willow said.
Angela moved her knife hand ever-so-slightly, and Willow winced. A moment later a trickle of blood slid down her neck. Willow dropped to her knees and began taping her mother's ankles.
"Now you." Angela took the tape from Willow, yanked her to her feet, and began wrapping her wrists. When finished, she pushed Willow toward the other easy chair, taped her ankles then stood. "I need sleep. I'm dead on my feet."
She stretched out on the couch, placed the knife on her chest, and crossed her arms over it. The pose made Honey think about vampires again. "You should sleep too," Angela said and closed her eyes.
Honey stared until she saw the rise and fall of Angela’s chest. The jokes she and Booker used to make about wakeful terrors and sleeping angels when they checked on Ash and Willow after tucking them into bed at night came to mind. As she gazed at Angela, she thought those jokes had never seemed so true and never less humorous.
5.6.6
The pain woke Honey. Her head had fallen forward onto her chest and locked in position as she'd slept. Her neck muscles spasmed when she moved. She shifted in the chair. Her entire body screamed. She needed a hot bath, a massage, painkillers, and a night in her own bed.
Daylight had dwindled as they slept. The last rays of the sun slanted through the windows and fell on Angela's slumbering form. Despite the bruises and dirt on her face, she looked like a princess, a sleeping beauty waiting for her prince.
Honey's eyes cut to Willow. Her gaze was sharp. It didn't appear that she'd slept at all.
"Sorry." Honey mouthed the word.
Willow gave a small shake of her head. "Better," she mouthed.
Honey knew what she meant. Even though her body hurt, her mind was more alert. The sleep had done her good. She needed a plan, a strategy to get them out of this, but in the state of exhaustion she'd been in, it hadn't been possible to come up with one.
"You two talking about me behind my back?" Angela's eyes were open. The princess image was wiped away by the inhuman coldness of her face.
They didn't answer.
She sat up. "Hungry?" She asked as if they'd just popped over for a visit.
Willow shook her head.
"No," Honey said.
"Well, I'm starved. Why don't you..." She gazed at Honey and adopted a cowboy accent. "Rustle me up some grub." She smiled at her own humor.
"There's not a lot in the house," Honey said automatically, not because it was true, but because she never served company leftovers or canned tuna. She realized how silly her words were as soon as they left her mouth.
Angela cocked her head to one side. "Next you're going to suggest DoorDash. Not happening. I'm sure you can find something in there." She gestured to the kitchen.
As if in response to their voices, Fury whimpered from somewhere in the house. "Can I please give the dog water?" Honey said.
Angela stood, stretched and walked to Honey's chair. She lifted the knife, and Honey shrank away. "How are you going to cook or water the dog or do anything if I don't cut the tape?"
Honey lifted her ankles first, when those were free, she stood and turned her back so Angela could free her wrists as well. Blood rushed to her extremities. She rubbed her wrists. "Where is Fury?" she said.
"He's in the master bathroom. I figured if he made a mess, that was the place to do it." Angela grinned at her. "See, I'm not all bad."
Honey headed upstairs. Fury must have heard her coming. His whines became frantic as she approached the bathroom. His claws scrabbled at the door. She opened it, and a black ball of fur threw itself at her.
Honey sat on the floor, leaned against the side of her bed, and let the dog leap around her. He bounded in and out of her lap, not able to make up his mind where he wanted to be. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, then reemerged with one of Booker's dirty socks in his mouth. He pulled it into her lap, settled down, and nibbled nervously.
"Poor baby." She stroked his head and cooed at him until Angela yelled up the stairs.
Honey pushed herself to her feet using the bed for support and walked into the bathroom. Fury slunk behind her. He'd lifted his leg on one side of the toilet and dropped a pile on the other. "It's okay, boy. What were you supposed to do?"
She grabbed a roll of paper towels and a bottle of disinfectant from under the sink and cleaned up the mess. As she bent to replace the supplies, her gaze fell on a bottle sitting on the counter. It was her Xanax. An idea popped into her head like a light bulb switching on.
"Honey, what are you doing up there?" Angela screamed from below.
"Fury pooped all over the place. I'm cleaning it up," she yelled.
"Hurry up."
Honey opened the pill bottle, shook five pills into her hand then slipped them into her jeans pocket. She closed the bottle, but put it in the medicine cabinet behind her face wash. She didn't want to risk Angela seeing it.
