Guilty (18 page)

I head for her apartment.

Thirty

LILA

I
wake up with a start. The flat is dark. I thrust out my wrist to check the time, but it's too dark to read my watch. I stand up and grope for a light. When I find it and flip it on, I gasp.

There's a man in the apartment.

He's dressed in a black coat over black pants. He's wearing black gloves and has a balaclava over his head.

He's holding a gun.

His voice is low and menacing when he says, “Don't scream. Don't make a sound.”

I'm shaking all over. I can't believe this is happening. I don't understand why it's happening.

“There's nothing here,” I say. “I don't have any money. There's nothing to steal.”

“Lie down on the floor,” he says. “Facedown.”

I start to do what he tells me. But I stop when I am on my knees. If I lie down, I will be totally at his mercy. Besides, I'm sure he's in the wrong place.

“I said, lie down,” he says, his voice rumbling like a rock slide.

“You've the got wrong place,” I say again. “Please. Just look around—”

“I'm not going to tell you again,” he says. He points the gun straight at me. The barrel is only a few inches from my head. That's when I realize that he doesn't care what is or isn't in the apartment. He isn't here to take anything. No, he's completely crazy. A psycho. He probably doesn't even care that someone will hear the gunshot—assuming any of my neighbors (none of whom I know) will hear or, if they do, that they'll know what it was, and if they recognize the sound, that they'll do anything about it.

I lie down. He plants a foot on my back and brings his full weight down on me as he bends over. I feel like my ribs are going to collapse under his weight. He fastens my hands together with restraints that are like the plastic strips that come with trash bags, but thicker, longer and stronger. His foot is still on my back, but most of his weight is on the floor now, although I know that will change quickly if I struggle. He pulls something out of his pocket. It's a roll of duct tape. He rips off a piece, leans down again and presses the tape over my mouth.

His foot leaves my back. He grabs the plastic that's binding my wrists and drags me over to the radiator against the wall. He uses another restraint to bind me to the radiator.

“There,” I hear him say. “Now be a good girl and stay put while I get your things together.”

I twist my head around. Over my shoulder, I see him leave the room.

As soon as he's gone, I start to pull against the plastic. The pain is searing where the bands slice into my wrists. But I don't stop. I pull, I writhe, I twist. All I succeed in doing is cutting deeper into my flesh.

I hear him moving around. I see him come out of the little hall where the bedrooms are. He has a small duffel bag and a backpack in his hand. My duffel bag. My backpack. He goes through the kitchen to the back door. I hear it open. He's taking my things. But why?

I freeze.

What if he comes back and takes me next? What if he loads me and my things into his car or his truck or his van—whatever he has out there—and he drives me far away, into the woods or to some abandoned building somewhere? What if he…?

I've told everyone I'm going back to Aunt Jenny's—everyone, that is, except Aunt Jenny. Aunt Jenny isn't expecting to see me for another six weeks. And anyone here who might look for me—Detective Sanders is the only person I can think of—will think I've headed home. She's already told me the case is closed. She won't be looking for me either. I didn't even leave my name the last time I called her. I just told the person who answered the phone that I'd try again.

This man could take me and do whatever he wants with me and no one will even miss me—not until it's too late.

I feel panic flood through me. I can't move. And even if I could, what then?

But I have to do something. He'll be back any minute. He'll be free to do whatever he wants.

I struggle again, and the plastic cuts so deep into my wrists that I feel the blood, warm and sticky. But I don't stop.

Someone knocks on the front door.

The Salvation Army.

I try to scream, but the sound that comes out is dry and hoarse and barely audible.

So I raise both my legs high into the air and bring them down fast, crashing my heel against the floor. The impact jars my legs. But the sound—a reverberating thud—is gratifying.

I hear another knock at the door.

I bring my legs up again and slam my heels again and again.

“Hello?” a voice calls from outside. “Is everything okay in there?”

I keep slamming my heels down, harder and harder, faster and faster.

But when I stop, I hear only silence. Then I hear: “Lila?”

A moment later, I hear the front doorknob rattle.

I keep on banging.

I hear something slam against the door. I hear it again, followed by another sound—the door's flimsy lock has given way. Someone appears. I see his face in the backlit gloom.

Finn.

He stares down at me in astonishment. Then he comes toward me and kneels down. He's so busy trying to figure out how to free me that he doesn't see or hear what I do. He doesn't see the man with the gun come back through the kitchen.

At least, I don't think he sees.

But as the man raises the hand with the gun, ready, I think, to smash Finn with it, Finn goes still and peers into my eyes. Maybe it's the terror he sees there that makes him suddenly turn.

The man with the gun freezes—but just for a moment. Then he lunges forward, hand raised again.

Just before the man reaches him, Finn rolls away from me.

Surprised, the man crashes to the ground. The gun falls from his grip.

Finn sees it and makes a grab for it.

The man dives on top of Finn. I want to help Finn. I want to do something. But I am still firmly attached to the radiator.

The man punches Finn, and Finn flies backward again. Before he can recover, the man has the gun and is on his feet. He's waving the gun at Finn, his voice even deeper now as he tells him to get over by the radiator. He steps back a little out of Finn's reach as Finn struggles to a sitting position. The man has forgotten all about me, but I haven't forgotten about him.

He's out of Finn's reach, but he's close to me now. I pull my legs back a little and then kick out with them as hard as I can, my feet striking him just behind his knees.

The man's knees buckle involuntarily. As he struggles to regain his balance, he drops the gun again. Finn lunges for it, grabs it and jumps to his feet. He's pointing the gun at the man now.

“Stay down,” he says.

The man doesn't move.

Finn backs over to where I am. He keeps the gun and his eyes on the man as he reaches back and pulls the tape from my mouth.

“Are you okay?” he says.

I nod. Then I realize he still isn't looking at me. He's too intent on the man.

“I'm okay,” I say.

Finn stands where he is. I realize he isn't sure what to do now. I'm still tied up, but the man on the floor isn't.

“Get up,” Finn says to the man.

The man staggers to his feet.

“Hands above your head,” Finn says.

The man raises his hands slowly.

“Keep your hands up and put them against the wall,” Finn says.

The man hesitates.

“Do it,” Finn roars.

The man does as he's told.

“Now step back,” Finn says. “But keep your hands on the wall.”

The man steps his feet back.

“Farther,” Finn says.

The man steps back farther until his feet are more than a meter away from the wall. His hands are still on the wall. Finn approaches him from behind. If the man tries anything, all Finn has to do is kick the man's feet away and the man will drop to the floor.

Finn reaches for the man's coat pocket.

The man starts to turn.

Finn jabs the gun into his back. The man goes still. Finn pats the pockets of the man's coat. He pats one side of the man's pants, then the other. He reaches into a pants pocket and pulls out a set of keys. Attached to them is a jackknife. Finn stares at it, very still.

“Stay put,” Finn tells the man. His voice is hoarse now. He steps away from the man, still watching him closely, and backs up until he gets to me. With one hand, he opens the knife, squats down and slices through the plastic bands.

I sit up.

“Are you okay?” Finn says.

I nod. “He broke in here. I don't even know what he wants. We have to call the police,” I say.

Finn glances at me. That's when the man makes a move. He turns around. My whole body tenses.

Finn raises the gun.

“I'll shoot,” he says. “If you don't believe me, try me.”

The man stops. For the first time since I first saw him, he seems unsure of himself.

Thirty-One

FINN

T
he whole way over to Lila's place, I'm trying to reach my dad. But he must have shut off his phone.

When I knock on Lila's door, there is no answer. Then I hear a crash. And another crash.

That's when I look into the front window and see her lying on the floor, tied somehow to the radiator in the living room. There's a frantic look on her face. I don't even think about it. I break down the door.

I start to free her when I see terror in her eyes. Someone is behind me. Just like that, I find myself in a fight with a man with a gun. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. My first reaction: No way. There is no way this is really happening. No way the gun is real.

But the guy comes at me like the only thing on his mind is killing me.

It
is
real.

He gets the better of me. He's holding the gun on me and telling me to get down. I'm staring at that gun. I'm thinking, so this is what it feels like to stare death in the face. It's a cold feeling. A numb feeling. My mouth goes dry. As I stare at the gun, it seems to get bigger and bigger until the man standing in front of me is holding a cannon, pointed at me.

Then Lila kicks out with both feet and the man goes down.

I'm still not sure exactly when it all comes together. Is it the grunt when he hits the floor? Is it the way he moves when he struggles to his feet at my command and plasters his hands to the wall? Then, when I'm searching him, I reach into his pocket and find a clump of keys. I pull it out. There's a knife attached to the key ring—a Swiss Army knife. I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach, but I keep my eyes on him. I keep the gun on him too, as I back carefully toward Lila and reach down with my left hand to slice through her plastic restraints.

She tells me she's okay. She sits up. Her wrists are bleeding, but I don't ask her about them. My eyes, my mind, my whole being is focused on the man with his hands still plastered to the wall. He obeys me for a while. Then, even after I threaten to shoot him, he twists his head around and watches me.

I say, “Take the mask off, Dad.”

Lila is on her feet behind me.

“Dad?” she says.

The man doesn't move.

“Do it,” I say, “or I'll do it for you.”

The man reaches up slowly with one hand and pulls the balaclava off his head. There he is, hair sticking up, face red from the heat—my dad.

Lila stares open-mouthed at me.

“My phone is in my pocket,” I tell her. “Take it and call nine-one-one.”

“Finn, I can explain,” my dad says. My dad, who a few minutes before was locked in combat with me.

“He put all my stuff in a car out back,” Lila says. She has my cell phone in her hand. “He was going to kill me.”

I stare at him, and I feel like I'm staring at a complete stranger who only happens to look like my father.

“Call the cops,” I say to Lila. “Do it now.”

“Finn, wait.” My father's hands come off the wall and he turns around. He starts toward me.

I raise the gun. “Don't, Dad. I mean it.”

He stops. He puts his hands up in the air.

“It's not what you think, son,” he says.

“You killed my father, and you were going to kill me,” Lila says.

“Your father killed my wife,” my father says. “He killed both of my wives.”

I can't believe how pathetic he is.

“Her father didn't kill Mom,” I say. “There was no way he could have found that security code. He was framed.”

My father stares at me. I see he is thinking.

“It was Tracie,” he says finally. “I didn't know what she was doing. I swear I didn't. She wanted your mother out of the way.”

“Tracie? You're blaming all of this on Tracie?”

My dad hangs his head. I think he's trying to show me how ashamed he is.

“We were—Finn, your mom and I weren't getting along. Then I did something stupid. I met Tracie and—”

What? “Is that why Mom wanted a break that night?”

My dad nods.

“You said that was my fault. You said she wanted a break from me.”

“I'm sorry, son. I—I didn't know what else to say. But I swear I had nothing to do with killing her. That was Tracie. I had no idea. Then when she found out that Ouimette was getting out of prison, she got in touch with him. She was blackmailing me. She said if I didn't do what she wanted, she would go to the cops and tell them I was the one who was responsible for what happened to your mother. She said Ouimette would back her up. She said he'd do anything if she paid him enough. It wasn't like they could send him back to prison if he said I hired him to do it. He'd already done his time.”

I glance at Lila again. I don't know what she's thinking.

“Why would Tracie blackmail you?”

“She wanted out of the marriage, and she wanted half of everything I had.”