“Hi, there. Is your father home?”
She dropped the remote when she saw the gun. But he hadn’t raised it yet, so she didn’t seem too sure about how to react. “Who are you?”
“I guess you could say a friend of a friend. Do you know Vivian Stewart? And Mia and Jake?”
She stepped back as if she’d realized who he was, and that was when he lifted the gun. “I wouldn’t move, if I were you.”
“Alexis—” The woman he’d seen in the window earlier rounded the corner and froze. She was drying a baking dish, but lowered her hands and the dish immediately.
“I think you need to call for your husband, or I’m going to shoot your daughter,” he told her.
She gaped at him.
“I gave you an order.”
One hand, the hand with the dish towel, went to her chest. “He…he—”
“He what?” Ink prompted. “You can do it. Spit it out.”
“He’s not home,” Alexis supplied.
What she said came as a surprise, and he thought it could be a lie. A man was part of this household. It was apparent from the way the garage was organized, the number of tools, the NASCAR and Dallas Cowboy cheerleader posters, the deer head mounted over the fireplace, even the smell, which reminded him of leather and playing cards. “I think he must be. My guess is that SUV out in the drive belongs to him. So…I’m giving you five seconds to get him out here.”
Mrs. Rogers whimpered. He still had his gun pointed at her daughter, and she didn’t like it. “No! Please! Listen, he—he’s out of town. He works out of town. That is his Esplanade, but I drove him to the airport.”
Could this be true? Ink hadn’t actually
Alexis answered, as if she was afraid her mother might not be able to form the words quickly enough. “Not for two more days.”
“If you’re lying—”
“I’m not lying!” Her face was as chalk-white as Mrs. Rogers’s, but the ponytail that held her hair back revealed bright-red ears.
“Good. Looks like I’m getting lucky everywhere I turn. Where are the kids?”
Mrs. Rogers’s eyes widened. “What kids?”
To make his threat even clearer, he stepped closer to Alexis. “I could rape her in front of you, or take her to the back. Your choice.”
“Don’t hurt her!” Her voice had fallen to a whisper, but there was more pleading in that whisper than if she’d shouted.
“I’m talking about the kid or kids who use the soccer ball that’s in the yard and the other sports equipment in the garage.”
“The twins,” Alexis said. “They’re at camp.”
“Hmm. Lucky again. Why don’t we go into the living room and have a seat so I can explain what I need you to do for me.”
Mother and daughter turned just as a voice issued from the second floor. “Mo-om! Can me and Marley have another dish of ice cream?”
Ink almost pulled the trigger right then. He thought one death would be quite convincing. But he didn’t want Mrs. Rogers to get hysterical. He needed her to be able to think straight. “Trying to trick me? Huh? You’re going to pay for that,” he said instead of firing. “Now get them down here.”
The girl from upstairs called out again when she received no answer. “Mo-om!”
Mrs. Rogers closed her eyes and her lips moved as if in prayer.
“Now!” he yelled, giving her a shove, but she didn’t have to speak. The sound of his voice drew two young teens down the stairs to see what was going on. Once they saw him, they stood on the landing with their mouths agape.
“Guess you didn’t realize you had company.” Grabbing Alexis, he put the muzzle to her temple. “Now, let me make myself clear. Is there anyone else in the house?”
Alexis was shaking. He could feel it. She didn’t dare move, but one of the other girls spoke up. “N-no.” Judging by her features, she belonged to the family. She was the “me” part of “me and Marley.” The other girl, tall and dark and slender, did not belong to the family. That made her the “Marley” part.
“You won’t get away with this,” Marley said, big brown eyes shining with defiance.
He had to admire her nerve. “Me” was already crying.
“We’ll see.” He waved the gun.
They marched into the living room. That was where he told Mrs. Rogers exactly what she was going to do in the next hour—or return to find her family murdered. And that was when she insisted she didn’t have to go anywhere to be able to give him the information he demanded.
After using a slim, regional phone book, she wrote down the name and address of someone named Claire, who’d advertised her haircutting business in the Yellow Pages. Mrs. Rogers said she and “Vivian” were best friends, that Vivian would be there or Claire would know where to find her, and she was pretty convincing. Desperation did that to a person.
She might’ve given Laurel up, but she was stupid to think he’d leave them in peace. He’d knocked out their phone, but even if he took the keys to every vehicle they had, they could walk or ride a bike to a cabin or the highway for help. He had no doubt whatsoever that they’d figure out some way to go to the police the moment he left.
And that was why he had to kill them.
29
The fuzziness caused by the pills Ink had given him had started to clear about an hour earlier. L.J. was more lucid now, lucid enough to move without stumbling or falling, lucid enough to separate reality from imagination. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating, made him wonder what Ink had screwed up in the process of digging out that bullet, but it was comforting to know he wasn’t walking around with a slug in his body. He had to acknowledge that.
With concerted time and effort, he’d managed to traverse the half mile or so of forest separating their cabin and that of their closest neighbor. He’d use the phone to call for help. He’d tell the police everything that’d happened and everything Ink had planned and hope they’d believe he hadn’t killed anybody. He didn’t want to be a gangbanger anymore. He wanted to get his life in order, even if it meant serving more time. Punishing the world for his shitty childhood only insured he had a shitty adulthood, and nothing had been worse than the past week with Ink. It’d shown him that he wasn’t like Ink at all, and no longer aspired to be. He wanted to make his grandparents proud—because if there was a heaven, they were in it.
When he spotted the back of the cabin peeking through the pines, he felt a huge surge of relief. Not only was he tired, he needed a doctor, probably some antibiotics, as well, and he wanted to know he was safe from Ink’s unexpected return. But then he came across the white truck they’d been driving since Ink killed those dads and realized that he hadn’t gone far at all.
He was here at the Rogers cabin.
Why?
This couldn’t be about that bit of fluff they’d seen on the deck. Ink didn’t care about sex; he couldn’t even get a good boner. The bullet that’d jacked up his spinal cord had made him impotent. That was part of the reason he hated Laurel so much—the only part L.J. could sort of identify with. He wouldn’t want anyone to take his manhood away from him, either. But from what he’d seen, whatever happened to Ink, Ink deserved.
So what did his old cellie want here? A hostage? New transportation?
Knowing him, it could be anything.
But what Ink did now didn’t matter to L.J. If Ink had left the keys in the ignition, he was home free…?.
