Page 89 of Dark Roads
The building was old, with rusted sheet metal on the sides, a half-moon-shaped roof, and a foot of concrete foundation aboveground. I pressed my ear to the metal side and heard muffled sounds. Scraping, then a clinking sound. Chains? I pressed my hands to my eyes and rocked back on my heels.
What was I going to do? I wished Jonny was here. I wished I had my dad with me.
I crept around to the front of the building. The door was cracked open a sliver. A stone had lodged under the bottom. Silence. The clinking sound had stopped. I crouched low and stayed to the left of the door so that if he pushed it open, I would be behind it.
I inched closer, peered through the opening. My knees buckled. Beth stood naked on a stool. A noose hung around her neck. Her head drooped and her blond hair was a messyveil over the side of her face. Some of the strands were streaked with blood. Her hands and feet were free, but there were red marks around her ankles. Ropes were on the floor.
She was alive. She was still alive.
The noose was tied to a chain dangling from a roof beam. He was standing to the side of her with a camera. He grabbed her under the chin with his free hand. Her eyes were wide, and she was gagged, lips pulled back. Her body twitched and jerked as she shivered.
I twisted my finger and gently pulled the door. Mason was still focused on Beth. If she saw me, she might cry out. Could I hide somewhere? There were workbenches on either side, toolboxes, crates and barrels. At the back of the garage I spotted his Harley-Davidson. I pulled the door open a little more—testing whether the hinges would squeak—and slipped through. My shirt snagged. I reached down, fiddled with the fabric. If he turned, he would see me.
Mason was pacing around Beth, shifting his stance each time he took a photo, and holding the camera in one hand like this was some sort of sick fashion shoot. Long red marks lined her ribs, arms, and legs. I’d seen those marks before. On Amber. Then I saw the metal rod on the floor by his feet. He’d beaten Beth before I got here. He was going to beat her again.
My shirt finally tore free and I crawled over the rough concrete to a darkened corner, where I fit behind a barrel. I slipped my hand down and slowly removed my knife from my belt.
Mason froze, like an animal in the forest, and twisted his body. I held my breath. He was walking toward the door now. I tucked my head, hunched my shoulders, and made myself small.
He opened the door and looked around. I prayed that Wolf hadn’t followed me, prayed that I hadn’t left any footprints. After a long moment, he shut the door tight.
I watched him as his gaze skimmed around the room, then he focused on Beth. She was moaning, trying to stand straight. She lost her balance and fell off the stool. Now she was choking, legs kicking out, her hands clawing at the rope around her neck. Mason grabbed her and set her feet on the stool. She swung her fist, trying to punch him, but he easily stepped back.
“Do that again and I’ll let you die.” Now I realized his plan. She was forced to endure the suffering or hang herself. Beth stood with her chest heaving and tears running down her face. I wanted to signal to her to stay calm, that I was going to save her, but I couldn’t risk it.
Mason picked up the metal rod, and still holding the camera, he began walking around her. He slapped the rod against her butt, and she cried out, jerking to the side and nearly falling.
I instinctively reached out to help her, my hand grasping at air, then I snatched it back. I wasn’t fast enough, though, and Beth noticed, her eyes staring blindly at the corner. She groaned. I held my finger to my mouth. She blinked slowly.
Mason hit her again with the rod across her butt and she leapt forward, only stopping herself with one toe before she swung forward. Mason lifted the camera and took some photos of the marks he’d left on her skin. He got closer, zooming in on the red pattern.
I couldn’t just sit here and watch. He could hit her hard enough to kill her. She might get knocked off the stool and choke. But I couldn’t throw the knife from a seated position. I had to stand, and I had one shot at it—if I missed, Beth and I might both be killed.
Mason hit her again. The fleshy smack echoed in the garage. Beth’s eyes were squeezed tight with pain, but then she opened them. Some emotion I couldn’t fathom came over her face. Dark and determined.
Beth’s legs tensed, and when Mason came around the front,she kicked out. He turned at the last moment and her foot missed, sending her body spinning off the stool. She was moving too fast to put her foot back down this time, and her neck jerked as she spun helplessly.
I didn’t think. I just moved. Rising to my feet, I leaned back, and, focused on Mason’s broad back, threw the knife with all my strength. At the last moment, he moved, dancing around her spinning body. The knife struck his shoulder.
He roared, dropping his camera and the metal rod.
Beth’s face was turning red. Blood-red. She was choking.
Mason reached behind his head and yanked out the knife. He whirled around and saw me, his mouth gaping in the middle of his messy beard. His surprise was already turning to rage.
He lunged toward me, my knife gripped in his hand. I didn’t have time to pull my other one out from my ankle sheath. I ran straight at him, dropped, and kicked his legs. He crashed onto his back. Beth was still spinning. I reached out and booted the stool to slide beneath her feet. Mason was rising. In one motion, I snatched up the metal rod from the floor, leapt into a standing position, and struck him with all my power across his head. The rod bounced back from the impact, sent vibrations up my arm.
He fell to his knees, weaving, but still conscious. “Haywire,” he croaked. “Look at you, alive and kicking.” He laughed, a maniacal sound that sent shivers down my spine.
I rushed at him with the rod. He swung up and the knife missed my face, but his arm hit me in the chin. The force knocked me down. The metal rod rolled from my hands and I slid into Beth’s stool. She was back in the air, jerking, making a retching sound. I grappled with the stool.
Mason was reaching for me, holding my knife out like a dagger. I turned onto my back and booted him hard in the nose,felt the cartilage give under my heel, then scrambled to help Beth. Her toes landed on the stool. I couldn’t beat Mason in a knife fight—his reach was longer than mine. I felt for items on the workbench. What could I use for a weapon?
“I called the cops,” I panted. “They’ll be here any second.”
He swiped the blood from his broken nose. No laughing this time. His eyes were on me, measuring. I reached for a long section of chain he had on the bench and swung wide, wrapping it around his wrist. I yanked him toward me. My knife slipped out of his hand and skittered to the far end of the building. I bent over and pulled my other one from the ankle sheath, held it in front of me, ready to attack. But Mason wasn’t coming after me, he was turning toward Beth.
He brought his foot back to kick the stool. Beth swung her body and locked her knees around his head, pushing herself up to keep pressure off her neck and squeezing him hard. He punched at her legs.
