The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller

butts.

Between the mattress and the wall was a duffle bag.

I clambered across the mattress and began digging through the bag.

“Hurry,” CJ said.

Inside and beneath the layers of clothing I found a receipt for a box of .40 caliber rounds from Dolittle’s Gun Exchange. Next, a cell phone bill with a string of calls to Black Lake, Georgia. I recognized at least one of the numbers: Warren’s cell phone.

I swallowed hard, then to CJ, “It’s him.”

She motioned for me to keep looking through the bag.

I shoved the bill and receipt into my back pocket, continued rummaging.

Then I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. I looked at her. My face went bloodless.

“What?”

I shook my head. “We’re not the hunters anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re the hunted.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

The Jackets’ laughter echoed in my head all the way home. I was fighting dizziness, fighting nausea, and fighting mad—or sad; I wasn’t sure which. All I really knew was that if there was a breaking point I’d reached it.

I flew through the front door and into the kitchen. No sign of mother anywhere. Ran upstairs to my bedroom, slammed the door. Grabbed my notebook.

And started writing persecute over and over.

Not right. Ripped the page out.

Desecrate.

Still not right. Ripped it out.

Violate.

Ripped.

And then, finally…

monster monster monster monster….

Filled the whole damned page with it.

Threw the notebook across the room, and then the lamp, the desk chair, my books—anything I could get my hands on.

And I screamed.

The Jackets’ laughter roared through my head once more, louder now. I put my hands over my ears, shook my head back and forth, but I couldn’t make it stop.

Make it stop!

Everything was spinning around me, then came the cold sweats, the nausea.

Ran to the bathroom, threw up. Cried with my head in the toilet, tears dripping off my nose and into the water.

What is she doing to you?

Tracy’s words ran through my mind, and something clicked. A low guttural moan started inside me, then came out as a full-blown, agonizing scream.

I stumbled from the bathroom, headed downstairs and into the kitchen. Started opening cabinets, pulling things down. It was here, somewhere, and I had to find it. HAVE TO FIND IT. Took out a box of rice and dumped it onto the floor. Spaghetti, tossed. Can of coffee, dumped. All of it into the sink.

Nothing.

To the pantry. Dumped the flour, dumped the cookies, dumped whatever I could find. The place was a mess, the sink, the floor, everything, filled with food and empty boxes. Didn’t care. DON’T CARE. Moved on to the next set of cabinets. Pulled down a box of cereal, a bag of oatmeal, all the contents, spilled into the sink.

And there it was: Something wrapped in a paper towel, inside a plastic bag. Two plastic vials, one with capsules, another with finely ground white powder. Both read:

Camilla Bannister

Diazepam 2 mg. capsule

Valium.

Take one to two pills daily as needed for back spasms

I continued searching some more. Found a total of six vials, all strategically hidden throughout the kitchen.

I held up one of the bottles and stared at it—just stared—tears streaming down my cheeks. Then, in a soft, broken whisper, I said, “You’re supposed to love me.”

More tears came; I wiped them away with my sleeve, then, through my sobs, almost pleading now, “Why can’t you just love me?”

Because, Patrick, quite simply, you can be rather unlovable.

I slid to the floor and sat, hugging my knees, rocking myself. Then I buried my head and began to cry, a sadness, dark and profound, rising up through me. Sadness that now owned me, more powerful than any I’d ever felt and from the innermost part of me. Sadness over a life filled with the deepest of hungers, one I knew would never be fed. If my own mother couldn’t love me, no one ever would. I lifted my head, and through my sobs said, “Unloved isn’t living.”

I pulled myself slowly to my feet, turned toward the counter, and picked up one of the vials. I removed the cap. I poured all the capsules into my hand. I washed them down with Gatorade.

And went into peaceful sleep.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Bill Williams had photographs.

Lots of them.

All of me, all taken during my time in Corvine: going to and from the motel; knocking on Jerry Lindsay’s door; waiting outside Dennis Kingsley’s house; walking in and out of Glenview; sitting in Penfield’s car at the rest stop; leaving Jackson Wright’s office; talking to Baker outside Newsome’s trailer; and even one of CJ and me eating dinner together.

It was like watching part of my life whizz by in reverse.

But by far, the most shocking one of all: me, fast asleep in my motel room, with the tiny Nathan Doll propped against my shoulder—the same doll we found later, hanging from CJ’s shower rod, soaked with what appeared to be blood.

What kind of twisted game is this guy playing?

All along, it had been Bill who was a few steps ahead of me, a few steps behind me, and every minute of it —without fail—hot on my trail. Watching my every move, snapping away.

Even while I slept.

A spiky chill ran up my spine. He knew who I was long before I ever had a clue he existed.

But how?

“Would you please tell me what the hell’s going on?”