“Jeremy, are you not going to answer me?”
He’d quit talking to her maybe fifteen minutes earlier. He said her words confused him. Now he tuned her out by humming or singing to himself, or jabbering on about how his father had been crying—even though he never cried—when he fired the gun.
“Jeremy!” Claire spoke loudly in an attempt to cut through all the babbling, and he broke into sobs.
“You don’t love me!” he shouted. “You don’t want to be here with me.”
“Because I want to go home. You want to go home, too.”
“But we can’t go home. Isaac’s dead. Les killed him.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“He’s dead. That’s what I’m talking about.”
That couldn’t be true. Claire refused to believe it. Isaac was perfectly safe. Jeremy had no way of knowing he wasn’t. “No, he’s not.”
“He is! I’m all you’ve got. You have to love me. You will love me.”
All the anger Jeremy had ever suppressed seemed to be rising to the surface.
Claire closed her eyes. He sounded so bizarre, so unlike the person she’d thought he was. His craziness scared her, forced her to realize just how little control she had over this situation and how much her life depended on what he did in the next few hours. She didn’t think his mental state could hold out much longer. No way could he keep it together for days. Already he’d been telling her about the food he liked to eat at Hank’s. He’d never have another hamburger there, he said. But giving up Hank’s was better than having someone knock his block off.
Who he thought was going to do this he wouldn’t say. She tried telling him that Isaac wouldn’t hurt him if he’d just turn back, but he seemed absolutely certain that Isaac was dead.
“If we return to Libby, we can eat,” she said. “I know you’re hungry. I’ve got money at the motel.” He’d carried her off in her jeans and T-shirt. She didn’t have her purse, didn’t even have shoes.
“Nothing’s open,” he grumbled, but at least he’d responded. She preferred that to silence. When he wouldn’t talk, she imagined him thinking all kinds of insane thoughts about dying together in the woods.
“By the time we reach Libby it’ll be morning.” She softened her voice, trying to entice him. “The restaurants will be serving coffee and eggs and toast. Waffles and pancakes. You like waffles, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer the question. “My dad’s gone. My dad’s not coming back,” he said.
“But we’ll find a safe place for you. One that you’ll like. I promise.”
“You’re lying. I know what you’re doing. You’re going to call the men in white coats. My dad said the men in white coats will take me away and operate on my brain.”
His father had obviously been telling horror stories, maybe to make him behave. She didn’t think she could convince Jeremy that the men in white coats were there for his own good. So she tried to get him to trust her. “I would never do that. I bet…I bet Hank would take you in.” She hated that she was doing exactly what he’d accused her of—lying. As desperate as she felt, there was something so sad about what was happening to him, something sad about his whole unhappy existence. But she had to do whatever she could to survive.
“Yes, you will.”
She’d just opened her mouth to continue trying to persuade him when the engine sputtered and died. Had he turned it off? She thought maybe she’d been successful at convincing him to stop, but when he tried to start the car again she realized it was engine trouble. Or they were out of gas, as she’d predicted.
“That’s it,” he said. “No more car. It’s just you and me now.”
“You and me doing what?” Claire asked.
He turned around to look at her. “You could kiss me like you kissed Isaac.”
New fear charged through her. She fought with her bonds, trying again to get free despite the pain. “Let me go, Jeremy. I don’t want you to touch me. Ever. Do you understand?”
He didn’t respond right away.
“Do you understand?” she repeated.
“You’re like Leanne,” he replied. “She’s mean, too.”
“I’m not mean. You had no right to do this to me. This is called kidnapping. It’s illegal.”
“Would you rather die?”
“What’d you say?”
He picked up the gun and dangled it over the seat. “I’m giving you a choice.”
She stared at the glint of moonlight on metal. Was he serious?
Something told her he was. But if it came down to an either-or scenario…she knew what her answer would be: she’d rather die.
31
Rusty lay at the bottom of the stairs in a crumpled heap. Isaac was pretty sure he was dead. He couldn’t see any blood, not from where he crouched, but the deputy didn’t seem to be breathing. Isaac wanted to check, to get help, but he couldn’t come into the open in case whoever fired that shot was still at the top of the stairs.
Hoping to hear footsteps that might tell him more precisely where the shooter was, he paused to listen—and heard nothing. He was tempted to believe the person had already run off, but he knew better. It had to be Les Weaver, and Les Weaver was a cool customer. He’d left too soon when he torched Isaac’s cabin; he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
That meant Isaac had to be careful and not make a mistake himself—or he’d end up on the floor like Rusty.
Pulling his gun from his waistband, he peered around the corner and saw only darkness. Whoever it was had turned off the upstairs lights. Was he sitting there, waiting for Isaac to come out so he could pick him off?
Probably. But if he was going to be trapped in the basement, he had to get behind something that might block a bullet or two and allow him at least a limited view of the stairs, since they were the only exit. Jeremy’s room provided his best option, but to get there he had to cross the laundry room.
Reaching around the wall, he switched off the light, plunging the basement into darkness, too. He couldn’t let Les see him; he’d be a dead man if he did.
Now!
A gun went off as Isaac charged past Rusty and dived through Jeremy’s open door. Les had fired on sound alone.
Isaac didn’t feel any pain, but he was so rattled it took him several seconds once he’d scrambled up against the inside wall to ascertain that he wasn’t injured. The bullet must’ve gone into a wall or the bed.