Page 21 of Kept in the Dark
“Can you do this?”
“Yes! Let’s go already!” she hisses.
In a very counterproductive response, I nearly falter in my step. Her composure is unexpected. I expected her to be crying and making noise and unable to think rationally—how most regular people react to terrifying situations. I do not know if she is hiding it, or if fear does not ruleher as it would others, but I have seen seasonedBratvamen freeze when faced with the pressure we are under. I am impressed. And relieved.
I pull out my phone to consult the map of the maze, stow it, and head for the exit. The need to reach back and hold her hand is a physical pull that takes some effort to ignore. Instead, I fill my hands with knives.
I have to trust that she will stay behind me—if I look back, I cannot protect our front.
Before we round the first turn, I hear a strangled noise of relief and turn in time to see her bend down and pick something up. “My purse,” she whispers, tucking it under her arm.
Good. Better not to leave behind evidence that we were here.
Our progress is slow as I guide us carefully through the maze, staying low and moving with purpose, so I am not terribly surprised that we do not encounter Kyle on the way out. We pass a couple cowering in a corner and a man trying to conceal himself at the base of the bushes, but I ignore them. I sense her brief hesitation, wanting to help, but ultimately deciding to follow me instead.
She has good self-preservation instincts. I approve.
When we reach the back exit of the maze, I hold up a hand to stop her so I can check if we are clear to run for the wooded area. We are. The line of trees is only 10 meters away, and the grassy stretch of lawn is empty of people as far as I can see. There was a guard by the gate all night, but he must have responded to the gunshots. Luck is with us. Finally.
I slide one knife back into my belt, freeing up my non-dominant hand to reach for her.
“Now, we run.”
She takes my hand; I grip hers tightly, and we move.
We hurry across the grass towards the gate. She is able to keep up behind me, but breathing hard at my pace, so I refuse to let go when her hand twists in mine, seeking freedom. She slows further when we reach the new-growth forest falling into dormancy for the winter. I realizeshe is not wearing shoes as she hisses in pain and stumbles along—each gentle, muffled gasp is a shard of ice through my gut. But I cannot pick her up; it would make us a slower, larger target to hit in case we are being pursued.
Emerging on the other side of the wooded area, we are suddenly back in suburban civilization. The road where I parked is deserted at this hour, and I guide her through people’s lawns so we are outside the range of the street lamps placed at intervals on the sidewalk.
I unlock the SUV with my key in the door instead of the button, so there is no flash of the headlights to give anyone a warning of where we are before we can drive away.
Opening the passenger door, I usher her into the space. “Get in.”
Cornered, her eyes dart around past me, into the looming darkness. I cannot be sure what that wild look means, but she has three seconds to decide to fight me or run. It will not matter if she does either, because she is getting in the car. I would prefer not to have to carry and throw her in—I have a feeling she would kick and scratch.
The thought is more arousing than it ought to be.
She makes a brief second of terrified eye contact, then spins and grabs the internal handle to pull herself into the front seat. I have to applaud her survival instinct yet again—she has clearly judged that I am her best chance out of this situation. I close her door, then trot around to the other side and get behind the wheel.
“Where are we going?” she asks, reaching back for the seatbelt as I start the car.
“Away,” I reply. I have no further plans at the moment.
I pull out into the street as quickly as the speed limit permits. The dashboard clock says 12:35 AM, but local law enforcement is still a concern. Even once I am far enough from the crime scene, it is still a Saturday night and they are waiting for drunk drivers in the shadows ofside streets. Speeding is an easy reason to give them to stop me, and we cannot afford that.
The street lamps flash through the darkness of the car, periodically illuminating both of us, and the coppery scent of my blood fills the air, nauseating me—likely due to the loss of so much of it.
Nicole shivers, then physically shies away as I lean forward to turn on the heat. “Are we going to the police?” she asks, voice small.
I can tell that she already knows she will not receive the answer she wants to hear. So why ask? I cut her a look that hopefully conveys my frustration with her inane question, and she nods, dejected. “Okay, no police.”
Silence hangs between us, feeling more and more intentional as we pass beyond the limits of the Ulysses suburbs. New Jersey is a curious landscape of beachfront areas, agriculture, forests and metropolitan hubs. The shift from urban landscape to highway in the middle of the forest is abrupt.
The more distance we get, the less certain I am about what to do. The stupidity of the decisions I made in the heat of the moment is slowly crystallizing.
For the first time that I can remember in a long time, I left witnesses.
Depending on how quickly he can get medical care, Kyle may survive. A knife to most places in the abdomen is a slow death of leaking fluids that can be remedied with prompt attention.
