The excursion, p.15
The Excursion, page 15
“How would you like to spend some time in the boathouse?”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You’re so sure of yourself.” He glances at her feet. Her waist. Her hands. Her face. “Did you take the knife?”
“What?”
“The carving knife Barry was asking about. Did you take it?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. Why?”
Behind her, the shower curtain bears a sullen floral pattern and hangs from a rusty, chrome-plated bar. A stack of white towels rests on a vanity between the shower and the toilet. He hasn’t checked the vanity in a long time, but it’s unlikely there’s anything in there he could use to tie her up. The plastic curtain doesn’t have the thickness to suffocate her. It would rip.
He’ll have to knock her out.
Hide her body in one of the bedrooms.
He takes a step forward.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Are you certain you didn’t take the knife?” He looks at her hands.
“Yes.”
“Are you certain you want to go on a hunt tomorrow?” Randall raises his hand, threatening to strike her. Takes another step forward.
She holds her ground. “Yes. I’m certain.”
Her courage excites him. It’s a real shame. She has great genetics. To his surprise, the human race would be better with her in it, but there’s too much at stake. Barry is the client of the future. Not her.
He makes a fist.
Someone yells from outside the bathroom. “Hello? Amanda? Are you down here?”
Amanda opens her mouth.
Randall is quick to cover it. He swings around behind her and pulls her close. Her ass feels good against his groin.
He whispers, “Say one word, and I’ll snap your neck.”
“Hello?” the voice calls again.
He presses his hand hard against her lips. His fingertips dig into her cheek. “Get in the shower and shut the curtain. Don’t say a word. Do you understand?”
Amanda nods.
He removes his hand.
She steps into the stall, but she doesn’t close the curtain.
“Amanda,” the voice says, “I saw you come down here.”
“It’s Charly,” Amanda whispers.
“Shh. Be quiet.”
“No. Not unless you take me with you tomorrow.”
“Two people cannot hunt one animal. Now shut up.”
She looks to the ceiling. Runs her tongue over her lip gloss. “Maybe you could put someone else in the boathouse. You know—for me.”
He pulls the curtain closed. “Stay there, and for the good of man, shut the hell up.”
“Amanda?”
Randall opens the bathroom door.
Miss Highsmith stands at the bottom of the stairs, barely visible in the dim light. She’s a whore on a street corner.
Charly.
That’s a good name for a whore.
She steps forward and attempts to peer past him into the bathroom.
He senses Amanda’s gaze upon his back. She must be peeking through the curtains. The insolence. The bravery. Her lilac perfume. He steps into the hall and pulls the door closed behind him.
The whore yawns and stretches her arms over her head. “Have you seen Amanda? I wanted to tell her goodnight.”
“Her room is upstairs.” Randall doesn’t believe her. Miss Highsmith didn’t come down here to say goodnight. She’s snooping. “I haven’t seen her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Tell me, how long have you been down here?”
“Huh?”
“In the basement.” His throat tightens. “When did you come down here?”
“Just now.”
“Very well. Let’s go back upstairs.” He reaches for her arm.
“Where’s Amanda?” She pulls away. “I know she’s down here somewhere.”
“Miss Highsmith. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”
“Amanda?”
The sound of water comes from the bathroom.
The whore narrows her eyes and smirks.
Randall wants his gun in his fist. He wants to reach into his pocket, unstrap it from his thigh, and shoot that smirk off her face. Ah, but then he’d have to kill Amanda as well, and that would be a shame. He’d also have to murder everyone upstairs. It would be a massacre and a mess. The carnage would traumatize Barry and put the future of Zaroff Excursions at risk.
His hand trembles. He puts it in his pocket.
“Sounds like someone’s in the bathroom,” she says.
Randall looks at her hands. He scans her pockets and her pant legs, looking for a bulge. Someone took the carving knife. He must be careful. These people aren’t as innocent as they appear. Not all of them are sheep headed for the slaughterhouse.
One of them is a wolf.
One of them has a carving knife.
The bathroom door opens.
Randall spins around.
“Hi, Charly.” Amanda dries her hands with a towel. “Going to bed?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHARLY
Sleep doesn’t come. I toss and turn like a child the night before the first day of school.
It’s not the floor’s fault.
It’s not Jacob’s snoring.
It’s Amanda.
I can’t shake the image of her standing in the basement bathroom, drying her hands, looking over Randall’s shoulder. They met in the basement and—why were they in the bathroom together? Were they having sex?
What’s wrong with Amanda?
Whatever she’s up to, she’s not going to get away with it. I hated how they shooed me upstairs to bed like a child. They’re in on something together. She probably knows what he’s hiding in the boathouse.
I roll over. Pull the blankets over my ears.
Jacob’s snoring reminds me of the noise outside the boathouse. It flaps softly like a child’s blanket in the wind. Maybe that’s all it was. Maybe it wasn’t an animal crying. It could have been a blanket, or a pump in need of oil, or an old TV. A radio. A top secret project. I’m exhausted, but I must consider the possibility that Randall is telling the truth.
No. No way. He’s evil.
He’s like my first love in life, Drake. Drake hit me, but does that mean he was evil? Or was he just troubled?
I’m driving myself crazy.
Jacob snores again.
I look at the window.
It must be past midnight.
I look at Jacob.
He had a rough day. It’s easy to forget how important his fidget toys are to him. Everything we have is trapped in my car miles from here, buried in the snow. I wish we could leave. Put all this behind us. I wish we had never come. I wish I could sleep, but the noise inside the boathouse won’t stop bouncing around inside my head.
Hmmph may. Peeese, hmmph may.
There’s only one way I’m going to get any rest.
I quietly put on my jacket and shoes and carefully open the door so as not to wake Jacob. I wish I’d worn hiking boots, but I don’t own any. I’ve always been partial to canvas flats.
Guttural, animal noises come from across the hall. Barry and Kennedy’s room. It’s been a long time for me, but when I picture Barry having sex . . . he’s just not my type.
He’s a slickhead.
At the end of the hall, I hear glasses clinking downstairs. I tiptoe down the steps until I can bend over the railing and spy the dining table.
Randall and Cam are sitting there, drinking. The wine bottles are empty, and the Scotch is nearly gone. They laugh and clink their shot glasses together. Cam must be drunk. He’s grinning ear to ear.
Randall says, “. . . and the gentleman dropped his gun and ran, screaming, all the way back to the cabin. I yelled, ‘Come back. It’s only a raccoon.’”
Cam guffaws. Slaps his hand on the table and slams his shot back.
Randall pours him another.
There’s no way I can sneak past them.
Back in the hallway, Kennedy moans behind her bedroom door. I hope their lovemaking doesn’t wake Jacob. If he finds out I left him alone, I’ll literally never hear the end of it.
The windows at the end of the hall overlook the awning above the front door. It’s the only way out. I open the nearest window, and crystalline, icy snow rushes in, instantly freezing my face. I thrust my legs outside and slide out after them. But when I attempt to plant my feet on the awning, they slip out from under me and I begin sliding down it in fits and starts—arresting my descent, then losing traction and dropping another six inches down before I roll onto my stomach and, with everything I have, scramble back up the awning and grasp the window jamb with both hands. After hanging there and panting for a minute, I pull myself up and breathe a sigh of relief.
That had to have been noisy. Someone might have heard my flailing.
I peer into the hall.
It’s empty.
A big part of me longs to climb back inside, but that’s not an option. Slowly, I reach up and pull the window closed.
The wind stings my neck.
There’d better be something good in the boathouse.
Raising my left elbow so I can see, I scan the accursed awning I’ve just scaled. About five feet away, the awning butts up against a stout-looking downspout. All I need to do is shimmy over there, grab it, and slide down it like a fireman.
Still gripping the window jamb for all I’m worth, I shimmy. I make progress, but not quite enough. There’s a gap between the end of the jamb and the downspout. When I reach for the downspout, my chest contracts. The cold air burns my lungs. This is more exercise than I’m used to. More excitement. I try to catch my breath and consider going back inside, but my hands are aching and the awning is only getting icier. I’d never make it.
The only way out is down, so, doing what I can to swing toward the downspout, I launch myself at it—and, after losing enough elevation to send my stomach into my throat, I get my frozen hands on it. Wrapping it in my arms, I shoot down at about twice the speed I’d fantasized I would until my feet slam onto the porch deck. Pain courses up my legs with the impact, but thanks to the adrenaline rush, I barely feel it.
I hold still, hoping Cam and Randall didn’t hear me over their boozing inside.
This is stupid.
What am I waiting for?
Whether they heard me or not, I need to get out of here.
I’m off the porch and trudging through the snow, hoping there’s nothing buried beneath the drifts that will trip me up. A few hours ago, I traipsed around the cabin searching for Jacob, leaving a trail, but I can’t see it in the dark.
The porch light comes on as I round the corner.
The snow is deeper on this side.
The north side.
The dark side.
I make it to the backyard and lift my knees high, forcing my way down the hill, past the deck. They don’t seem to be chasing after me, but I assume they are, and I push on. My shoes fill with snow. My calves freeze. I can’t go any faster, but I try, and I nearly fall down. It’s like running in quicksand.
When I reach the boathouse, I put my back against the wall. My chest heaves. My lungs burn. For a moment, I thought someone had followed me down the hill, but there’s no one up there. Other than a faint light escaping through the french door windows, the deck is dark.
I’m safe for now.
“Hello?” A broken voice comes from inside the boathouse. “Is someone there?”
It’s a man’s voice.
“Please, help me.”
A light bursts to life behind me. Turning, I see the glow comes from above the french doors. Fluffy snowflakes fall and settle on the deck. The picnic table’s silhouette hides behind the railing and reminds me of a bug’s skeleton. It’s like the bugs we studied in middle school before I dropped out.
“Please?” the voice says again. “Is someone there?”
The french doors open.
I’ve got to hide.
I grasp the doorknob to the boathouse, attempt to turn it, but it’s locked. I twist hard, and it gives a little, but not enough. Placing one foot on the wall, I twist and pull on the door. The weather-worn wood flexes, the door pops open, and splinters of wood bounce on the floor. The latch is mostly broken now. I slip inside and pull the door closed behind me. There’s just enough wood left in the jamb to hold the door closed.
Moonlight pushes through a window on the opposite wall, exposing a workbench.
Everything else is blanketed in darkness.
“Who’s there?” the voice asks.
“Where are you?”
“Over here. There’s a light switch by the door. Please, help me.”
The floorboards groan as I feel my way through the dark to the workbench. I don’t dare turn on the lights for fear Randall will see them from the deck. Frost covers the window above the bench, obscuring the moonlight.
It’s freezing in here.
“Please. Are you going to let me out?”
“Hold on,” I say.
I run my hands over the workbench, feeling for a flashlight, a lighter. Matches. Anything. I find a hammer, some screwdrivers. A toolbox. I open it, remove the top tray and discover a small flashlight hiding in the bottom.
I switch it on, turn around, and—oh my God.
There’s a cage.
Randall has locked a man in a cage.
The man stands, grasps the bars, and shakes the door.
“Stop it.” I rush to him. “They’ll hear you.”
“I want out.”
“Shh.”
“I’m dying.”
He shakes the door again.
A padlock bounces outside the latch, noisily banging against the iron.
I grasp the bars. “Stop it.”
He lets go and backs away before I can get the light on him.
The cage isn’t small. It could hold several people. The thick black bars stretch toward the ceiling. I shine the light on the padlock.
“Who are you?” he asks.
There’s no combination dial or keyhole. “I’m Charly. I’m going to get you out of here.” I pull, but the lock doesn’t give. A red circle lights up in the center. I press it with my thumb. Nothing happens. There are no buttons, dials—nothing. It’s completely smooth. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ll have to break it with something,” he says. “It’s electronically controlled. He unlocks it with his cell phone.”
“Who? Randall?”
“Huh?”
“Was the man’s name Randall?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah, I think so.”
I shine the light on him. A blood-soaked rag hangs from his forearm. He’s got a shiner beneath his left eye, and his lower lip is split. His skin is puffy and pale. I can’t tell how long he’s been here, but he looks like he might be right. He looks like he’s dying.
“Please, help me.”
“What happened?”
He rubs his head. “I don’t know. One minute, I was having a drink in a bar, and the next thing I knew, I was locked in a trunk. When I woke up, there was this guy, and—he beat me up. He locked me in here.”
Randall did this. He must have. “What did the man look like?”
“Tall. Really tall. Big hands. He wore a suit or like a fancy suit jacket. His hair is dark, and he has—”
“A beard?”
“Yes.”
It’s Randall. No doubt. He lied to us, telling us he had a top secret project when he really had a man in a cage. Is this what human trafficking looks like?
The poor man steps backward and lowers himself to the floor. He sits with his legs crossed.
“Why is he doing this?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
His head hangs down. His chin touches his chest. His shoulders droop, and he cradles his bandaged arm with his free hand. The floorboards are stained red, but it looks to me like his bleeding has stopped.
I swing the flashlight over the room, cringing at the thought of the light escaping through the cracks in the walls. The interior is somewhat like I remembered. The kayaks are still here. The canoe. A few life jackets. A metal cabinet near the workbench. There’s a thick blanket on the floor next to the cabinet, and I grab it. “Here.”
“Thank you, but it’s too late.” He shivers. “I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not. What’s your name?”
“Tyler.”
I grasp the lock. “It’s going to be okay, Tyler.”
“It’s no use. You can’t open it. I’m going to freeze to death in here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHARLY - THEN
Despite Amanda’s most recent victory cry—squee—the game was not over. Despite my brother’s ailing leg and my dad’s disappearance, I was not giving up. There had to be a way to win.
Jacob sat slumped against the boathouse, rubbing his leg. “You can’t leave me here, Charly. You can’t.”
“Isn’t it any better? We don’t have time for this.”
“It hurts. It’s shin splints.”
I raised my voice. “We have to go back and find the prize now. I’m not going to lose.”
“Amanda always wins. She will find the prize first. The raccoon tail is the ultimate prize. Not everyone has one, but Amanda will. She always wins.”
“Only because you let her.”
“No, I don’t. She always wins because she’s Amanda.”
I wanted to open the boathouse door, shove him inside, and lock it. I wanted to leave him there until I could find the prize and win the game. “Don’t you want to win? Don’t you ever want to win?”
“I guess. You know what the doctor says. It’s hard for me.”
“You can do it. Here. Let’s see how bad it is.” I bent over and rubbed his leg. He yelled in pain. “Okay. Can you make it back into the woods where Dad can’t see you? If he thinks I left you alone, I’ll get in trouble.”
“It hurts to walk.”
“Here, let me just—” I rubbed his leg again.
