Born To Die

What if somehow his son was in the darkness? Hiding? Or… what if whoever it was had kidnapped his boy and was going to use him as a shield? His insides turned to water. Then he thought of Kacey and that made it worse. She could be inside, held with a gun pointed at her head, watching the horror unfold.

Heart thudding, he tried like hell to make out whoever it was, but the stygian darkness was impossible to pierce.

“What’re you waiting for?” The voice was deep and male. It taunted. “You think that stupid pitchfork can do any real damage?” And then laughter. Deep. Cruel.

So the bastard could see him. Trace’s blood burned.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his weapon still ready to be hurled.

“Does it matter?” A snide, sickly question.

“Eli?” he said.

“No! I’m not Eli. . oh, your kid?” A pause. “What the fuck are you thinking?”

So he didn’t have the boy. Good! “Let Kacey go!”

“Now that wouldn’t make sense, would it? Not after I waited all this time.”

Trace crumbled inside. The madman had her! Intended to kill her, if he hadn’t already! A new fury took hold and he searched for something, anything so he could see. But there was nothing, not so much as a match!

“She’s waiting for you. So that’s why I think it would be better if I kill you up at the house with her. Make it look like she did it! An accident, you know.”

She was still alive? “You crazy son of a bitch.” But not crazy enough to fire a rifle in a closed space where it could ricochet. Maybe.

Sarge growled again from somewhere nearby.

“Tell that mutt to back off!” the voice commanded, “or I’ll blow his mangy hide to kingdom come.”

“Show yourself!” Trace demanded.

“Not on your life.”

“Then go to hell!”

He drew the pitchfork back. Stepping out from behind the post, he threw all his body weight behind his shoulder and let it fly. It hurled through the darkness as he jumped behind the thin post.

“AAAWwwwwooh!” A horrifying scream echoing through the building. “You fucker!”

Crrraaack!

A blaze of light flashed in front of Trace’s eyes. Thunder crashed through the stable, rolling through his brain in harsh, loud waves. Panicked horses screamed! The dogs barked and howled!

A pain as hot as the fires of hell seared Trace’s thigh, the impact of the bullet so powerful he fell backward. Hard. His head hit the floorboards with a thud and he momentarily lost consciousness, a soothing blackness luring him under, away from the horror and the chaos within.

Don’t give in. You’re a dead man if you let the blackness take you! Think of Eli! Of Kacey!

Dust and the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder filled his nostrils as he blinked himself awake. The dogs were going nuts, barking and growling like crazy. Horses still kicked and squealed in fear, scrambling in their stalls while the scent of fear hung heavy, mingling with the thin odor of burning gunpowder wafting from the direction of the killer.

“You fucking son of a bitch!” he growled. Trace heard him writhe and swear somewhere near the grain chutes. The dogs ran in circles while Trace hoped beyond hope that his pitchfork had done serious, tissue-ripping damage.

“You’re gonna die, O’Halleran, and it’s not gonna be easy!” the killer snarled. “You hear me? You’re a dead man, cocksucker! You and your bitch girlfriend!”

Kacey staggered to her feet, swaying, struggling to think straight. Her mind was sludge, her face on fire, her head thundering in pain. She held the door jamb for support. Trace is out there somewhere and so is Eli and. . and the psycho. . Gasping, she dragged in deep breaths of air to clear her head.

Craaack!

Outside, the sharp report of a rifle split the snowy night.

What? Kacey cut back a scream.

Trace? Oh, God. Eli?

In the darkness, she fumbled across the kitchen table for Trace’s cell phone. Please, oh, please… her fingers hit something that jangled and fell. His damned keys. But next to it… yes! She found his cell phone and dialed the last number in her brain, that of Detective Alvarez.

The call went directly to voice mail.

Damn it! She left a quick message. “The bastard’s here! We need help… oh, God, please send. .” She tried to tamp down her rising panic, found the control she’d used with patients. “Detective Alvarez, this is Kacey Lambert. I’m at Trace O’Halleran’s place on Old Mill Road. He’s here. The killer is here, somewhere. He’s attacked me and I just heard gunshots coming from one of the outbuildings. Both Trace and Eli are missing. Please, send help. STAT! I, uh, I don’t know the address, but it’s only about a quarter of a mile west of. . of. . Red Wing Corner, a mile from the county road. Please, send officers!”

Heart clamoring, she dialed 9-1-1. She couldn’t wait for Alvarez to respond. When dispatch picked up, she tersely explained the situation and the operator insisted she not go forward. “Keep me on the line,” the female voice ordered. “I’m dispatching deputies right now. They’re ten minutes away.”

“Ten minutes is too long!” Kacey spat. “Tell them to hurry!”

She knew in her heart that there was no way they could make it in time. She clicked off, anxiously peering through the darkness of the house. She didn’t dare go into the stable without a weapon. But she didn’t want to take the time. What if Trace were wounded? She was pretty sure Trace hadn’t fired the gun. No. It was probably the sick son of a bitch who had Eli, who had taunted her with his rifle barrel.

Oh, God, was it possible that either one of them was hurt… or worse?

Don’t go there. You don’t have time for recriminations. Move! Save Trace! Save his son!

In her search for Eli, she’d discovered Trace’s rifle, hidden in a closet. Now, pain screaming through her brain, she hurried forward, then up the stairs in the dark, using Trace’s cell phone’s weak, bluish light as a guide. Fumbling, cursing, determined to save them. Into Trace’s room. She cracked her elbow on a dresser corner as she stumbled her way to the closet where she pushed aside clothes and a suitcase. It was here! I know. . there!

Her fingers curled around the shotgun’s barrel and she yanked the old gun from the closet. The Winchester was dusty, unused, but she didn’t care. Praying that the rifle was armed, she checked the chamber.

Empty!

Of course. He had a kid. Was careful. Frantic, the cell phone winking out every ten seconds, she scoured the closet. There were no bullets nearby, no boxes of ammunition on the shelf, nor in a dresser where she rifled through Tshirts and underwear, socks and jeans. “Come on, come on!” The nightstand, too, was empty, no loaded handgun, no bullets for an ancient rifle.

Precious seconds ticked by.

Her heart was racing, her brain on fire.

“Where. . oh, God, where?” She didn’t dare bluff the killer; knew better than to take an empty rifle to the stable.

Fear spurred her. She hauled the rifle downstairs and through the living room where the fire was dying.

Where would he keep the ammo? Far from the gun, yes, but where it was safe and could be accessed by him, not so easily by his child. Close to the door, because he would only use it outside? Quickly she went through several drawers in the kitchen, opening them, searching them with her fingers, slamming them shut, then seeing, as the cell phone’s light faded again, the handle of another flashlight!

Oh, please, she thought, feeling precious time slipping past. Even now Trace could be bleeding, dying…