South Of Hell

Chapter Thirty-four

A release of air brakes and the growl of an engine. The semi’s headlights moved away, and for a second, Margi couldn’t see anything in the engulfing darkness. The truck rumbled down the highway, leaving them alone.

A bolt of lightning split the blackness, illuminating Brandt’s face for a second.

“Who did you call?” he asked again.

“No one.”

He was just standing there staring at her, water dripping down his face. She focused on his fists, clenching and unclenching. Why wasn’t he screaming at her? Why wasn’t he already hitting her?

“Give me the keys,” he said calmly.

She dug the keys from her jacket and held them out to him. He took them and pointed to the Gremlin.

“Get in the car,” he said.

The puddles were deep, the rain on her face like icy pin pricks. Brandt followed her around to the passenger side, pushed her inside, and slammed the door.

When he got in on his side, the car filled up with the stink of whiskey. She closed her eyes as shivers rattled through her bones.

“I’m going to ask you one more time. Who the fuck did you call?”

“No one,” she whispered.

He grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head to his. His other hand pinched her cheeks. He leaned close. In a flash of lightning, his eyes were filmed with that same sick look he got when he talked about Jean.

“I… I called that cop,” she said. “I wanted-”

“You did what?”

“I called him to warn him,” she said. “I was trying to keep you from doing something stupid, Owen! I was trying to save you. Don’t you understand that?”

He smacked her. Her head hit the window, and for a second, she couldn’t see anything except a spin of darkness. Then he jerked her back to him.

“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” Brandt asked.

“No! I didn’t want you to go back to jail!”

She covered her face, expecting another punch, but none came. The engine roared to life, and the Gremlin jolted into gear, spinning gravel until the tires hit asphalt.

She wiped her face and looked up. Nothing ahead but a tunnel of white-washed trees and the splatter of rain on the windshield.

“You’re too stupid to live,” Brandt said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. But I love you. You know I love you. I was trying to save you from yourself!”

“What did he say?”

“What?”

“What did the cop say to you?”

“He wanted me to come to his place and make some statement against you, but I told him no,” she said. “I wouldn’t do that. I would never say nothing bad against you.”

“His place?” Brandt asked. “You mean his house? He told you to come to his house?”

“Yeah, but I told-”

“Shut up,” he said. “Where does he live?”

Oh, my God. He would go there if she told him. And that detective would open the door thinking it was her, and Owen would kill him. What was she supposed to say now? How could she be so stupid?

Brandt tried to backhand her, but she pressed back against the door. The car skidded and hit gravel before Brandt managed to right it.

“Where the fuck does he live?” Brandt shouted.

“I don’t know!” she cried. “He didn’t get that far, because I told him-”

Brandt smashed her head against the side window. It stunned her with an explosion of white sparks behind her eyes.

“Answer me!” he said.

You’re doing the right thing. I’m proud of you, Margi.

“I can’t,” she whimpered.

For a few seconds, it was quiet, except for the hard pounding of rain on the roof of the car. She kept her eyes closed, gripped by a rush of fear so strong it left her paralyzed. She clutched the door handle and started to cry.

Brandt pressed down on the gas pedal, the force of the sudden acceleration pushing her back into the seat. She made herself look. The car was tearing down the road, the rain rushing toward them like a shower of silver pins.

“Where does he live?”

Don’t tell him. He won’t kill you. He loves you. He won’t kill you…

She blinked and snuck a look at the dashboard. The little red needle on the speedometer jiggled at sixty. Something was thumping under her feet, like a loose piece of rubber.

“Where the fuck does he live?”

“I don’t know!”

Brandt leaned over suddenly and pushed open the passenger door. A fierce wet wind swept in, whipping up the food wrappers and newspapers like a tornado. She grabbed at the door to close it, but he knocked her hands away and started to push at her shoulder. The car skidded but kept going.

“Oh, my God!” she screamed. “Stop it!”

“Get out!” he shouted.

“Please don’t do this!”

The Gremlin fishtailed, throwing her against the dash and back again toward the open door. He shoved and slapped at her, forcing her farther across the seat and into the full spray of rain. The muddy splash of water filled her mouth and ripped at her face. The road — it was so close she could see rocks and weeds.

“Where does he live?” Brandt shouted.

“State Street! Next to the sports museum!” she screamed. “Blue apartment! Building two, apartment two, upstairs!”

The car went into a sudden skid, and she lost her grip. She saw nothing but the rush of gravel as it sprayed up toward her.

Chapter Thirty-five

Shockey looked at his watch. It was three-fifteen. Margi should be here by now. Damn it, where was she? Did she have an accident? Or had she gone back to the farm?

He stepped to the balcony and looked over the apartment complex’s parking lot. It wasn’t very big, and he could see both entrances. Through the rain, he could see the trickle of traffic along South State Street, too. No green Gremlin.

Damn it.

He went back inside and dropped to the sofa. The phone was sitting on the coffee table, silent. He checked his watch again. Only three minutes had passed. He should’ve gone to her instead of making her come all this way.

Where are you, Margi?

He pushed to his feet and wandered to the kitchen. The bottle of Beefeater was sitting on the counter. He stared at it for a long time.