The hunted, p.1
The Hunted, page 1
the hunted:
sins of the Father
A Psychological Thriller
by Sara Ennis
Copyright 2021 by Sara Ennis
All rights reserved
Published in the United States by Good Girl Charlie Publishing
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7367722-3-2
eBook ISBN: 978-1-7367722-2-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and businesses are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Dedicated to:
Alicia Rideout, Brandee Jenkins, and always, Framily
chapter one
Wednesday, September 9, 2009, Time Unknown
harper
“We should’ve just had the threesome with Oakley,” I say to no one in particular.
It’s dark in the cages now, but the overhead lights were on when the woman called Vero dragged Emily back to the cage by her ankles, kicking and shoving until she got Emily inside. Emily didn’t move. For a minute I thought Emily might be dead. Then I heard a soft whimper. Only a Nine, then. A Nine is terrible, but it isn’t a Ten.
I have started rating the ‘sessions’ as I think of them. A One is being left alone. A Two is when the woman named Vero delivers our nightly meal of wet dog food. A Three is having your clothes taken and a dog’s shock collar fitted around your neck. Five is your basic old-fashioned man-on-woman rape. The scary thing is, that would have been a Ten in my previous life. I had no idea there were so many things that could be added to make it worse. A Seven, that’s when the S&M contraptions come out. A Nine involves tools—dental tools, construction tools, surgical tools. And Ten, well, we haven’t got to Ten yet, and I pray we don’t.
Because at Ten, you’re dead.
Personally, I think the Oakley comment is a little bit funny. Emily would, too, if she could think.
“How long do you think we’ve been here? A week? Two? More?” I ask. “I wonder if Oakley went looking for us. I wonder if he called the cops. Oh, shit. That really wouldn’t do any good, would it.” I laugh at the irony.
Emily doesn’t answer. She hasn’t answered in a while, now that I think of it.
“But if he did call the cops, they would’ve called our families. They’d be worried. Well, your dad would. Your dad would demand an investigation, right? Report us missing to police in Nashville? Right? But maybe he didn’t tell my mom or your dad because then they’d know what a freaking ass he is. Oakley’s not so big of an ass that he wouldn’t call them, though, right? He’s not, right?”
Still, Em doesn’t respond. I don’t care. Talking makes me feel better, even if I’m talking to myself. It’s distracting, and I need distracting. Because if I think about reality, I will surely die. “If we’d stayed with Oakley, and we were in LA now, we’d be moving into our fabulous new apartment. Sure, it would be a tiny studio in some questionable part of town, on a bus line so we can get to interviews and auditions. There’d be a great bar—a great gay bar because gay guys are the best friends a girl can have in a new town—right around the corner. We’d be hanging out there, making plans, making friends, maybe making some connections. Doing stuff. Starting our lives. On our way.”
The man’s voice, low and slow, drifts in from somewhere, interrupting my conversation with myself. I’m a writer, so I collect characters. Until just recently, I’ve always favored villains. Jonny—that’s what Vero calls him—is an excellent villain. He’s handsome as hell, with pretty boy features and thick dark hair, and a great body...if middle-aged rapists are your type. I hear him say, “Getting tired of the dark-haired one. No more fight in her. ‘Bout time to turn her loose.”
My pulse quickens. Did he say, “Turn her loose?” Is he going to let us go?
Ha. You’re a fool, Harpy! No way can he turn us loose. They can’t leave us alive, not after everything they’ve done to us. For Harper White and Emily Bright, best friends with rhyming names and big dreams, this is the end of the road.
I feel wetness on my face and jerk. I remember now. Emily is gone. He “turned her loose” hours ago. I’m pretty sure I know exactly what that means.
chapter two
Wednesday, September 9, 2009, Late Night
angel
I will never get used to the sound of air brakes, especially in the moment of panic that shoves me out of sleep into waking. I hate the way my hands clench, resent the feeling of clawing for clarity, even though I know I’m safe, even though it has been a couple of years since I’ve had any reason to jerk awake in fear.
The body does not easily forget.
Or, as CB would say, “It does not go gently into that good night.”
CB is kind of a Dylan Thomas freak, even though he died ten years before she was born. If they were living at the same time, she’d be his Yoko Ono. “Not that the pretty Welshman could handle a hot Afro-Latina like me, but a girl can dream!”
I’m confident any man in his right mind would sacrifice part of his body for a chance to ‘handle’ CB. Not only is she beautiful in a JLo-meets-Dolly Parton sort of way, but she’s wicked smart, hysterically funny, and kind. CB—short for Chickee Boom, she claims—drives a semi back and forth across the southern US, and I ride with her. We’re not related, but she’s become my best friend, my sister, my teacher and some days, my mother. I’m not exaggerating when I say I don’t think I’d be here if she hadn’t picked me up two years ago. I was a fifteen-year-old hitchhiker who had convinced myself I was strong and everything was great, and I didn’t need anyone or anything. Boy, was I delusional.
In the here and now, CB moves around the cab of the truck we call Casita, collecting things she’ll need. “Sorry, kid. Was hoping you’d sleep through, but we need to fuel up.”
I shove myself into a sitting position on the lower bunk and rub my eyes. Beyond the expansive windshield, the blackest night is dotted with neon and halogens. It is very late, or very early. I yawn, stretch the stiffness out, and carefully move the European history textbook I was reading before falling asleep. I stash it in a small nook next to the microwave. The cabin of the big rig is a mess. We need to clean during our next rest period. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven. We’ll be back on the road in twenty and in Albuquerque for breakfast.”
“Gonna stretch my legs, hit the head, grab a lil snackie. Sweet or salty?” I shimmy down the driver’s side of the cab, and navigate around CB, who has dropped down onto the tarmac, and is now performing a series of complex stretches she developed to “unkink things that shouldn’t be kinky.”
“Red Vines, por favor.” CB grunts, her 5’2” body twisted into what I call Drunk Frog Pose. “Take your phone.”
I smack the butt of my jeans to show I already have it and head toward the truck stop. This one, just west of Oklahoma City, is small compared to some. It’s one of my favorites because you can access the restrooms directly from the outside. During the day, the place is crawling with kids, moms, and drivers—perfect conditions for claustrophobia, or worse, a panic attack. It’s nice to be able to avoid some of that human congestion.
I am not a people person, in any sense of the word. I would be content to spend the rest of my life alone, with few exceptions. One of those exceptions is back at Casita, contorting herself into a pretzel.
The women’s restroom is blessedly quiet. I slip into the farthest clean stall, sit, and yawn again.
“You’ve got a racehorse bladder hidden in that skinny body,” CB teased when we first met. It took a while for me to tell her why I can hold my bladder for so long. I’d rather walk barefoot on molten lava than give anyone a reason to feel sorry for me. CB says some people are onions, with lots of layers; I’m a nectarine, shiny and sweet on the outside, with all the important stuff kept safe inside my pit. There isn’t a nosy bone in CB’s body. She never pressed for information back then. That’s why she knows most everything there is to know about me now.
I stand and tug up my jeans. My pocketknife and the cash I shoved into my front pocket fall to the floor, and I swear. Gross. I squat to grab the blade and the money, telling myself not to think about the filthy floor.
And that’s when I see two bare, bloody, human feet—at least I’m pretty sure they’re human feet—on the floor of the accessible stall next door.
I hear a breathy, hoarse intake of air.
My heart begins to thump, faster and faster, under my T-shirt. Fear can be a liquid thing pumping through your veins, and it’s racing through my body, bringing with it a tidal wave of memory, both physical and emotional.
I know that sound. I’ve made that sound. I hate that sound.
Fight or flight tells me to run. No one will know. I can walk out, pretend I never saw the feet, never heard the desperate breaths. No one who knows my story would blame me. Well, that’s not true. Bud would blame me. Olivia would definitely blame me. I’d blame myself.
I can’t ignore that sound.
I step out of my stall and stare at the closed door of the next stall. Now or never. Run, or stay. “Do you need help?”
chapter three
Wednesday, September 9, 2009, Late Night
angel
A middle-aged woman in old-school gray sweats comes into the restroom, her discount store sneakers squeaking against the grimy tile. I fake-smile and lean against the accessible stall door like I’m waiting for someone inside. The woman does her business and leaves without washing her hands. God, I hate bathrooms.
“She’s gone,” I say softly. “Just us.”
No response.
I suck in a breath, release it slowly. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I know what it feels like to be scared. Not sure which way to turn, who to trust, what to do next.” I swallow and hook my fingers together to keep my hands from fidgeting. “I know what it’s like to be badly hurt.”
There’s no response. What if the feet belong to a dead person? Maybe I imagined that soft breath.
Then I hear the faintest sniffle and a slight wheeze. Whoever it is, she is alive. Is she hiding from an abusive boyfriend? Or maybe she’s a lot lizard who picked the wrong truck?
I could try to get CB, except that’d freak the mystery person all the way out. I’ll have to get help at some point, but not yet.
“I don’t tell this to many people, but I want you to know you can trust me, and trust comes from being vulnerable.” I roll my eyes as the words leave my mouth. That sounds like something Dr. Phil would say, and I really, really hate Dr. Phil. “A few years ago, my brother and I were taken by bad people. They hurt us. I got away. It took a while, but now things are okay.” Mostly.
There is rustling on the other side of the door. A shuffling sound. The little silver circle turns, unlocking the stall. I press it open with two fingers and slip inside. I lock the door behind me.
The woman slides down the wall until she’s crumbled on the floor. “He still has Harper. We have to help Harper.”
chapter four
Wednesday, September 9, 2009, Late Night
angel
I don’t know exactly what I was expecting. It’s nearly impossible to tell how old she is from her face. I think she has dark hair—maybe?—but it’s hard to tell because the long strands are coated in dried blood. Her face and neck are rusty red, too, but the white T-shirt she is wearing—not her own, because it hangs on her like a dress—has not a single spot on it. The blood had time to dry before she put the shirt on. The front of the shirt says Oklahoma Windfarms. Was she attacked by a wind farmer? That’s not very crunchy.
I slide onto the floor, near her but not too close. Jesus. The bottoms of her feet look like raw steaks, and the tops are covered in cuts and scrapes. Her long legs are bare of clothes but not bare of marks. Diagonal slices, all too familiar to me, cover the tanned skin above her knees. There are so many bruises—some new, some older, but all recent—her body is a bizarre quilt of brutal color. It looks like her cheekbone is broken, and a gaping red gash on her brow bone emphasizes the blue of her irises. Not only is her hair bloody, but it is singed. I know that smell well. My fight-or-flight thing is back, and I take deep breaths to stay calm. When she opens her mouth, I see a glint of jagged white. She’s got at least one broken tooth.
“Jesus, I’m sorry—Jesus,” I say. I look her in the eye, or try to, but she refuses to meet my gaze, staring instead at her hands. They clench and unclench on her thighs. “We need to call the cops—”
The woman gasps and tries to push her way up the wall, obviously in agony, but fear driving harder than pain. “No! No! NO!” She whispers with the force of a scream.
“Okay! No cops! I’m sorry! It’s okay!” I jump up and help support her slight weight as she gets into a standing position. I navigate her to the toilet seat and help her sit on the gaping O.
“My name is Angel. I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I won’t call the cops. I won’t call anyone—except I would like to get my friend CB. She helped me when I was hurt. She’s just outside, putting gas in our truck.” My physical wounds have healed now, but CB has done more for my mind than any of the shrinks the FBI and my legal guardian, Peter Baden, arranged for me. “She’ll know what to do. How to get you safe. I swear on my life, she won’t let anything happen to you. I won’t either. I promise. Can I text her? Please? You can’t stay here. Someone will find you. And it’s filthy. With all those wounds...”
The woman stares at me for a long time. Finally, she nods once and says, again, “I have to save Harper.”
chapter five
Wednesday, September 9, 2009, Late Night
angel
The woman says her name is Emily, Em to her friends. She’s twenty-three years old. Getting her out of the bathroom and into Casita without drawing attention is quite the adventure. CB doesn’t ask questions when I text, “Need you in the loo, STAT.” CB doesn’t ask questions when I turn the knob on the stall door and let her in. She simply takes off her beloved vintage bomber jacket and gently drapes it over the strange woman’s shoulders. Then CB takes one arm, and I take the other, and between the two of us, we half-walk, half-carry Emily out to Casita.
CB clambers up into the bright pink cab and tosses down a pair of thick pink fuzzy socks for Emily. We need to protect her feet as much as we can, or she’ll end up with a raging infection, and she’s already got a lot of entry points for bacteria. I sit her down on Casita’s step and gently brush dirt and gravel from her feet. I navigate one foot, then the other, into the socks, flinching when Emily flinches. This is too close, too familiar.
I have to power through.
CB hands down a folding step-stool to give Emily a little bit of a boost climbing up and in. CB offers a hand to Emily, and I gently lift her butt, which is bare under the shirt. Awkward. But she needs my guidance so she doesn’t fall backward.
Once she’s in, I collapse the ladder and hand it back up, then follow, locking Casita’s door behind me. I draw the cab shades closed for privacy. We have no idea who did this. We don’t want the evil doer to see us if he’s out there, although if he is out there, he probably saw us cross the tarmac and climb into the truck. It’s hard to be subtle when you’re driving a bright pink semi.
CB trades the bomber jacket for another of her favorites, her fluffy pink robe with the hood and deep pockets. She tucks Emily into the lower bunk, still messy from my earlier nap. I get a bottle of water from the fridge and hand it to Emily. I start to wet a washcloth at the kitchenette sink so I can wipe away some of the dried blood, but CB stops me.
“Emily, honey, before we clean you up, it’s important we take pictures, so when the bad guy is caught—” the woman’s blue eyes are enormous, because of, or in spite of, the black and purple bruises around it, and she seems to shrink into herself—“I know, sweetie, I know. But I’d like to take some pictures with my phone, so we have evidence if you ever need or want it. Okay? Then we can clean you up and see to some of these wounds. Is that all right?”
CB’s low, accented voice has the same effect on Emily it had on me back in the day. If CB says it, it is good.
Emily doesn’t argue, so CB takes a photographic inventory of the damage. It feels like it takes forever, and I have to turn away a couple of times because the wounds are too similar and the marks too familiar. Now that we’re safe in the cab, and the adrenalin has slowed to an average pace, memories are trying to break through the barriers I’ve built. Now is not the time. CB can’t manage two emotional messes.
Finally, CB collects everything she wants and touches my arm to let me know it’s okay to proceed with clearing away the blood. I sit beside Emily on the bunk and gently wipe at the crusted red film all over her face, neck, and upper chest. Some of what looks like blood is dried mud, the color of a clay pot. And some of what is buried under the dried mud is worse than I could have imagined.
CB drops into the passenger seat and turns it to face us. She waits until I have cleared most of Emily’s beautiful face, then asks quietly, “Do you know the person who did this to you? Is it someone you know, or someone you recently met, or a stranger?”
Emily takes a deep breath and seems to find a way back to herself, whoever she was before tonight. “He’s a cop. A sheriff, I guess. He has a freaking crazy girlfriend who might be scarier than he is. And he’s still got my best friend, Harper. I have to save Harper before he kills her.”
chapter six
Wednesday, September 9, 2009, Late Night
angel
“A LEO? A deputy of the law? As in, a police officer?” CB confirms, her voice neutral, but I know how CB feels about law enforcement officers—aka LEOs. If there is a dirty cop around, it won’t surprise CB or break her heart. I’ve had a very different experience, with lots of law enforcement folks fighting for me. It’s one of very few agree-to-disagree situations between us. For now, anyway. If what Emily is saying is true, there may be less disagreement going forward.
