Vicious

Stepping back toward the cabin’s front door, Susan glanced over her shoulder again. Now she could see the boy with the gun was Jordan, and he was alive. But she couldn’t let Allen see that. So she kept obstructing his line of vision by placing herself between Allen and the boys.

The more she pulled back, the closer she drew Allen toward the young man whose mother he’d murdered. And that young man had a gun. Susan just hoped his aim was good.

Allen still had Moira in his grasp.

“You can’t kill her, Allen,” Susan said, taking another step back. “Not yet. If you do, then you’ll never get a description of Deputy Shaffer’s partner. He’ll always be hounding you….”

“What are you talking about?” Allen grumbled.

“Moira told me—after I found her in that old warehouse,” Susan continued. “She said that two men abducted her.”

“Shaffer never mentioned a partner in any of his e-mails or letters,” Allen said, eyes narrowed at her. “He didn’t say anything today about it either. You’re lying….”

“No, she’s not!” Moira insisted, her voice shrill. “There were two of them—a good-looking cop, and th-th-the other one’s an older guy with red hair. He breathes funny. I think he’s got asthma or something….”

That a girl, Susan thought. Moira was going along with the whole fabrication—and it was buying them time.

“Lying bitches, the both of you,” Allen grumbled.

Susan furtively glanced over her shoulder. She was close enough to see the gun in Jordan’s trembling hand.

She turned to look at Allen. “We’re telling the truth,” she said, clutching her fist against her chest. “On our way to the car, Moira asked me, ‘Who is Allen Meeker?’ She said the two kidnappers were talking about you. This other man knows who you are….”

Allen yanked Moira’s head back. “Did you get the other guy’s name?”

“I think—I think the cop called him Jake,” she answered, trembling. “They kept talking about you….”

Susan took one more step back and then snuck another glance at Jordan. She saw him raising the gun and the determined look in his eyes.

Then she moved aside.

Jordan suddenly had him in his sights. He was so close.

But Meeker still held Moira in front of him. “Jake who?” he asked, screaming in Moira’s ear. “Did you get his last name? What did they say about me? Tell me, goddamn it….”

Beyond the yelling, Jordan heard something else—the distant wail of a police siren. Meeker must have heard it, too, because he suddenly shut up and glanced toward the driveway.

All at once, Moira let out a shriek. She elbowed him in the face and broke away. She faltered as she tried to run. But Susan rushed forward and pulled her up.

Meeker was only momentarily stunned. He hadn’t even dropped the ax. He gave his head a little shake and then started after them.

Holding up the crippled Moira, Susan tried to retreat toward the house. But they were too slow. Moira couldn’t run. Meeker was just a few paces behind them—with the ax raised.

“Do it!” Susan shouted.

Jordan realized she was talking to him. He squirmed out from beneath his friend’s dead weight. The gun wavered in his trembling hand.

Meeker suddenly seemed to realize who Susan was talking to as well. He stopped in his tracks, turned toward Jordan, and blinked.

Their eyes met.

Jordan aimed the gun at his mother’s killer and squeezed the trigger. A loud shot rang out, and Jordan felt an electric-like jolt surge up his arm.

But Allen Meeker was still standing, still gaping at him.

Jordan dragged himself across the ground. He tried to keep the gun pointed at Meeker. He had to get closer. For a moment, he was in that kayak again, an eight-year-old boy rowing frantically, desperate to reach his mother and ward off her attacker.

He gazed at that same man now. Jordan felt as if he were about to pass out from the exhaustion and pain, but he kept crawling toward him.

Meeker lunged forward and grabbed Susan’s arm. He wrenched her away from Moira, who cried out and helplessly collapsed on the ground. Meeker twisted Susan’s arm behind her back. She shrieked in pain, but didn’t acquiesce. She kept struggling. “Jordan, help!”

It was his mother’s voice he heard.

And it was his mother’s murderer now turning to look at him as he was about to kill again.

Jordan fired the gun once more.

He hit the son of a bitch in the neck. Allen Meeker gasped, and the ax dropped out of his hand. Susan broke free from him and rushed toward Moira.

Clutching his throat, Meeker grimaced as blood oozed between his fingers. He seemed to be choking. A look of astonishment passed across his face—as if he’d never imagined he could have been stopped by one of his victim’s sons.

Jordan watched Meeker fall to his knees. He flopped forward, and he hit the ground, face-first. A spasm convulsed his body for a moment; then he was utterly, perfectly still.

Mama’s Boy was dead.

Jordan had waited ten years to see that.

Past the sound of a siren in the distance, he heard something else. It was his mother reassuring him. It’s okay, kiddo, she was saying. It’s all over. You can finally rest now….

Then everything went out of focus. He squinted up at Moira and Susan as they hobbled toward him. He looked back at Leo, still slumped over the front stoop. His friend was just a blur. Jordan dragged himself over to him and took him in his arms. Leo was still breathing, he could tell that much. Then Jordan felt himself slipping away.

It wasn’t just one siren. There were several.

The state police cars and ambulances pulled up the driveway on Cedar Crest Way, behind the deputy’s car and Susan’s old Toyota. The front of the Prewitt cabin was suddenly bathed in a swirling red light. But Susan and Moira weren’t looking at all the emergency vehicles descending on the remote cottage. They were more concerned about the two wounded young men sprawled across the cabin’s front stoop. Susan held Moira up, and the girl hobbled alongside her as they approached the door.

Jordan held Leo in his arms. He started to list toward one side, and his head tipped back against the door. The gun he’d used to shoot Mama’s Boy fell out of his hand.

Susan couldn’t tell whether or not he was alive.

But she could see he was smiling.

EPILOGUE

After the death of Corey Shaffer, the people of Cullen started telling stories about him—stories they’d suppressed while he’d been their deputy. It was a small wonder Corey had never been arrested, considering all the trouble he’d gotten into. At least a quarter of the townspeople had heard about his, at age twelve, running over a cat with a lawn mower. And now folks began to wonder what had really happened to the two dogs young Corey had owned that he claimed had “just run away.” Former classmates recalled he’d been an obnoxious bully, a not-so- practical joker, and an anything-for-kicks daredevil.

Far more disturbing were recent stories now emerging about the town’s deputy. Several women came forward to say that while driving alone, they had been pulled over by him for no apparent reason. Often he did this at night. According to twenty-seven-year-old Cullen resident Rachel Porter, he’d acted rather peculiar after stopping