Chloe and Cy Pt. 07

No! Chloe comes down. Chloe dies.

"I like you, Cy. Somehow, I knew you wouldn't cry out. Why is that? Just a thing good fathers do?"

I panted, meeting her dark blue eyes.

"I mean, she isn't your real daughter, though, is she? Why let yourself be tortured for a brat that isn't even yours?"

The knife went deeper. I held in the scream.

Back into the flame, it went. "Definitely professional-grade pain threshold," she smiled.

"Why the kid?" I blinked. "You're playing with me. Chloe's the target. Is that right?"

"Catching on. Your wife was very naughty, Cy. And if her body hasn't been found yet, it will be. Tell you what, how about I let you live, and you call it a home invasion, huh? Nice little carrot, no divorce, you get a house you could never afford on a policeman's salary, no questions."

The knife was still in the flame.

"You know," I managed. "I hate girls who talk too much."

She smiled. "Now you're turning me on. Again she brought the knife close, and it seared into my flesh, this time along my collarbone. I shook at the pain but choked back the scream.

"Call out to her," she whispered, letting a bit more of her natural accent surface. "Come on, daddy. Scream for my little sister."

A burning slice along the jawbone. I felt blood in my mouth as I bit my tongue.

Sister? What was this bitch talking about?

"You know I enjoy this," she whispered in my ear. "You have a look. Like a trained wolf."

She seemed to pant in my ear. "Maybe I should go up and surprise her? Tie her up next to you, and make you watch as I start where it hurts most, eh?"

I winced as the blade traced down, cutting me lower. I saw stars. I held the scream at the back of my throat and grunted against my own lips.

Please, Chloe. Don't come down the stairs!

Chloe

I tossed the book aside. I could smell chicken. "What's taking him so long?" I asked Benji Bear.

Alas, my Shakespearian plush toy said nothing in response.

I had opted for a pair of gray sweat-shorts and an old soccer uniform shirt. Sliding off the bed, I padded over the hardwood floor to open my bedroom door. I cracked the door and went to the top of the stairs.

"Cy?" I called. "Is dinner ready?"

No response. I saw a shadow move across the door to the kitchen. I took a step down and then paused. I didn't know what, but something was wrong.

I backtracked to my room and went to my closet.

Cy

The hot knife slit up to my ribs inside my left armpit. I felt myself beginning to slip into unconsciousness.

"No, no," the weirdo bitch said, snapping one of the ammonia sticks under my nose. I started at the acrid smell. My muscles tensed the tortured skin, and a small grunt of pain escaped my throat.

"Now, louder, please?" She smiled, taking the knife out of the flame and blowing on it, so it glowed red hot. She looked down between my legs. "That would be such a pity. But perhaps..."

She brought the blade dangerously close to my left eye. "The eyes say so much," she whispered. "Oh, you are a unicorn! If only we could have met under different circumstances." She lifted the blade to her lips, blowing on the edge. "A hot blade cauterizes the wounds, so you don't get to bleed to death. But, the pain of burning and blistering under the dermis is greater than watching the life spill out of you. It's slow, and it can last days if I wish."

I noticed movement over the insane woman's left shoulder. The metallic ping of the aluminum softball bat making contact with her skull brought a sigh of relief as suddenly Chloe was there. She kicked the knife away as I blinked at her as she crouched down in horror.

"Jesus, Cy?"

"Get her gun," I managed.

Her hands hovered over the cuts on my torso.

"Chloe," I barked, jarring her out of her initial shock. "Her gun! Get it. And then cut me loose. We have to get out of here."

Chloe

Once I freed him from the phone cable, he managed to stand up on his own. But then I saw him waver, and I caught him.

Fuck he weighed a ton.

"Stay with me," I said.

He reached for something on the counter. I noticed the package of snaps and grabbed one. He pepped up and, using the counter to keep himself steady, went towards the laundry room.

"What are you doing? Shouldn't we call 9-1-1?" I asked.

He came out shrugging into a blue button-up shirt. Without ceremony, he grabbed my smartphone from my hands and deftly removed the smart card, snapping it in half before smashing it against the granite countertop.

"Cy! What the hell!?"

He took his phone off the counter and did the same to it.

"She's probably alone," he managed. "But we should act as if she isn't. Grab shoes, a change of clothes. We're putting distance between her and us before we do anything," he said, pulling on a pair of jeans and nearly passing out again.

"You're going to kill yourself," I said, steadying him and helping him on with the jeans. "You need a hospital, Cy."

"Later," he said. "Clothes. And upstairs, master bedroom, bottom right drawer. False bottom. Bring everything you find."

I blinked at him. "What are you going to do?"

He took the gun I realized I was still holding. "Just do as I say. I'm going to make sure she doesn't follow us."

I took a step and then paused. "You don't mean..."

I looked at the gun with its silencer still attached, then at his sweat-slicked face with the angry wound along his jawline. His eyes seemed cold, cruel. Like something inside him I'd never seen had come out of hibernation.

It was there a second and then gone.

He ejected the clip from the pistol and then pulled back the slide, catching the bullet in the air and handing both to me. "Get these cuffs off me," he said, leaning against the counter and setting the gun aside. "Then get the stuff."

Chloe

I was confused, but after finding his handcuff key and releasing him, I stepped over the unconscious woman and ran upstairs to my room. I began loading a bag with clothes. In 4 minuteS, I'd packed and grabbed my wallet.

I rushed to the master bedroom and followed his directions to the bottom drawer of his dresser. I pulled it open, removing the collection of dress socks and finding the tiny hole into which I stuck my forefinger.

The false bottom came out, and I felt my jaw drop, and my eyes widen.

Cash, fat stacks of 50s and 100s all in neat bundles secured with rubber bands. And besides the money, a pile of passports and ID cards.

I noticed one bundle had an ID with my picture. I grabbed the bundle and read the name "Johanna Towns." It was a Missouri Driver's License.

I flipped to another, this one from British Columbia. "Alicia Rogan."

I flipped and flipped and flipped. In all, half a dozen different aliases using the same picture, but in most IDs, my hair had changed color.

There were IDs for me, for mom, and Cy.

I grabbed the cash and shoved it into the side pocket of my bag. I grabbed the IDs and pushed them in as well.

Once all of that was in the bag, I noticed the gun at the bottom. I hesitated but carefully reached in, taking the handgun and the clips along with two boxes of ammunition in the drawer.

What the fuck was this? What the hell was going on? And who the fuck was my step-dad.

Lyndee

I came to with the acrid smell of ammonia in my nostrils. I struggled against the handcuffs that held my wrists to the refrigerator.

He pushed up from one knee and strolled painfully over to lean against the counter.

"How are you feeling there, Spooky?" I smiled, watching the pain play across his face as he leaned.

He took up my gun and held it at his side, eventually meeting my gaze.

"I'm not much for the rough stuff," he managed, pulling back the slide on my Glock. He was obviously in enough pain that he was struggling to keep from passing out, but as he leveled the sites at me, resolve steadied him. "So," he said evenly. "Here is my game. I ask you once, and if you don't tell me the truth, I kill you. One shot through the head."

I looked at the gun. "You think I cannot tell when there's no clip in my gun?"

He looked at the Glock, smiling. He set it aside, and his left hand went behind his back. He drew out a large.357 automatic. He squeezed off a round, and the shot echoed through the house.

I looked at where the bullet had missed my foot by an inch in the kitchen's hardwood flooring. "This one is loaded," he said. "And it will leave a much bigger mess."

The girl came running in through the kitchen door. A bag slung over her shoulder. She, too, carried a gun. This one a Walther 9mm.

I looked her up and down, touching the back of my head where a large bump was starting to form. "Not bad for a cheap shot, Sister."

The girl scowled. "I thought you said you weren't going to kill her."

"I haven't yet," the policeman said, keeping the gun leveled at me.

"He has to," I said, looking him fearlessly in the eye. "Because he knows I won't answer his question, and he knows if you leave me here alive, I will find you." I looked at the girl. "And when I find you again, I have several million reasons to kill you, little sister."

The girl blinked. "What is she talking about?"

"I don't know. Go to the car."

"Cy..."

"Do as I say! Now!"

Chloe

I reached out and put my hand on his wrist. He lowered the gun with some resistance.

"What is this? This isn't you. You're not going to shoot someone chained to our refrigerator."

"Time to tell the truth," the crazy woman sang from her place on the floor.

"Chlo," he began. "Just go. And don't look back."

"She runs alone. She dies quicker, Chief." The woman adjusted herself, putting her knees underneath her to prop herself up. "You kill me. It will make him very, very angry."

"Who's he?" Cy said, raising the gun again.

She leaned forward, so the barrel was inches from her right eye. "Not telling. Come on, Spooky. Show your little girl what's been living in her house all these years."

I watched his face. It was an expression of casual cruelty. He wanted to pull the trigger.

"Don't," I said. "I found the stuff in the drawer. I... I don't need to know anything more. Just be the guy who makes pancakes and who used to read me bedtime stories when I was little. Please, Cy. Don't."

He lowered the gun.

The woman on the floor stared at him oddly.

Cy leaned on me heavily.

"Help me to the car, then," he said.

"Run, run, run as fast as you can," the woman said from her place on the floor. "You're a fool not to kill me, Spooky."

Cy paused, looking down at her. "What do you weigh? A buck-30, buck-35?"

She puzzled. "127," she said.

Cy leaned on me as we walked the length of the kitchen. When we reached the far counter, he stopped and turned, holding something up for the woman to see.

It was the key to the handcuffs.

"That fridge is stainless steel, probably four times your weight. And this kitchen is 25 feet counter to counter. Enjoy your workout."

Lyndee

He set the key on the counter.

"I'll be free in ten minutes," I sneered.

"Twenty," he rejoined as the girl helped him to the door to the garage. "And you're definitely 135. Remember to lift with your knees."

They shut the door, and I exhaled deeply. I looked up at the giant sub-zero refrigerator and stood, the cuffs rattling against the handle. I tugged at the handle. It was solidly attached.

"Shit," I said. I planted my feet and pulled with all of my strength. My head throbbed, but I managed to pull the hulking thing five inches away from the wall.

I took a breath and tried again, this time making it an entire foot before I met resistance. The fridge was still plugged into the wall. I would have to turn the whole thing to reach behind and undo the plug.

"Motherfucker," I said, kicking the refrigerator. I looked back at the closed door leading to the garage. The sound of the throaty Hemi engine revving to life and the garage door lifting made me smile. "Okay, I really am beginning to like this guy."

A thought occurred to me. I opened the door to the fridge. I took out a bottle of diet cola and twisted off the top. I took a long swig and then reached to set it on the kitchen island.

I next began removing everything in the refrigerator; food, shelves, frozen meat and veggies, leftover pizza, and storage containers.

"There's working hard, and there's working smart," I said to myself.

Cy

I had grabbed a patrolman's bag from my police cruiser before popping its hood. I grabbed a ratchet and removed the spark plugs on the Ford before sliding into the passenger seat of the Roadrunner beside Chloe. She was all questions, but I told her now was not the time.

"Just head to the end of the drive and stop," I said, taking a small defense stick with a pointed end out of my patrol duffle.

"Cy, come on. Tell me what's going on."

I ignored her as we came to the mouth of the driveway. I looked up and down the street, then took in the old access road about 50 yards north of the property. "Head up that way," I directed.

"You need to go to the emergency roo--"

"Just do it!" I barked.

She scowled but turned the Roadrunner north and took the access road. The little black-and-white rental car was there, just where I would have parked had I spent the afternoon staking out the house. I directed Chloe to pull up behind it, and I climbed out.

The places the crazy woman had cut me were on fire, and the muscles beneath screamed out in pain, but I walked to the driver's side door and pressed the point of the defensive stick against the center of the glass, causing it to shatter.

I reached in and popped the hood of the little car, rushing around to remove its spark plugs with the same ratchet.

I was about to return to the Roadrunner when I stopped, looking into the little Lexus. The little glass surface winked from its place in a cup holder. I reached in and snagged the tiny smartphone. I also had a quick thought, reaching in to pop the trunk.

I went around the back and lifted the trunk lid to find a neat little travel case. I unzipped it. The tiny silvery tablet and laptop were there. I knew they would probably be password protected, but our pursuer not having them would put more of a crimp in her ability to track us.

I returned to the Roadrunner with the phone and computer bag.

"Now, can we take you to an emergency room?"

I shook my head. "I just bought us maybe another half hour," I said. "Tops."

Her eyes dipped, and I followed them. The shirt I'd put on was already becoming a bloody mess.

"It looks worse than it is," I lied.

"Wherever we're headed, we better get there quick."

I gave her an address in Salem.

"Who was that woman, anyway?"

"Guessing former Spetsnaz of Belarus."

"And what is that?"

"Ruthless people who love hurting other people."

"And what was that crap about having millions of reasons to kill me? What have I done to anyone?"

"I don't know. Just drive to the address in Salem. Avoid main roads and busy intersections with traffic cameras."

She did a three-point turn in the little lane, and we sped out and onto the main road headed for the highway.

She pressed her foot to the gas, accepting that I had said all I was going to say for the moment.

Chloe

So, he'd lied. All these years, he'd lied to us about his past.

"Wait, does mom know?"

I looked over to see his head lolling back against the headrest.

I shook him awake. "Hey, Captain Bloodloss. Stay awake. Keep talking, or I'm changing course for County Emergency."

He opened his eyes and tried to focus on the highway.

I repeated my previous question. "So, does mom know what you were?"

"No," he said.

"How long were you..."

"Just five years. 1997 to 2002."

I nodded. "So, is it like the movies?"

"Yes," he said. "I secretly had this thing fitted with surface-to-air missiles while your mom was out of town."

He was in a lot of pain. It was making him very snippy. Snippy was good. It meant he was conscious.

"So, why'd you quit? Being a spy, I mean? Who quits that to become a cop?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course," I said.

"So can I."

I scowled at him. "Did you kill a lot of people?"

He sighed. "Enough."

I watched him tilt his head back. I wasn't sure if he had said "enough" to answer my question or whether it was a request that I stop questioning him altogether.

I reached out and took his hand. "Fine, you don't have to talk to me. Just keep hold of my hand and keep pressure on those cuts."

"That'll hurt more," he said.

"So it'll hurt more," I said. "You're a tough secret agent, right?"

"Just keep driving. Don't speed. We can't afford to be pulled over."

He closed his eyes but kept a firm hold of my hand. He let it go only to allow me to shift as we made the quick drive from Lawrence to Salem.

"Just stay with me, Cy," I said, suddenly realizing that if he did slip unconscious, he'd probably die without going to a hospital."

"I won't let anything happen to you," he said.

Lyndee

I reached the handcuff key with rivulets of sweat drizzling down my face and staining my undershirt. I had managed to unbutton my shirt and flack jacket and roll up the sleeves.

About a quarter of the way across the mile-long kitchen, the fridge had tipped over on its side, nearly killing me, but I had made it at long last. I undid the cuffs and ran some cold water over where they had cut into the flesh of my wrists.

"Motherfucking cocksucker," I said, after drying my wrists and peeling off my jacket. I stormed to the garage and opened the door. I took in the space where the classic Plymouth had been and then the Police Cruiser.

I ditched my sweat-stained undershirt in a bin of oily rags and noticed some clothing in plastic storage tubs.

The first t-shirt I found was an old concert t-shirt several sizes too big. "The New Power Generation?"

I shrugged and pulled it on over my sports bra.

I went around the cruiser and climbed in. I searched and found the keys in the sun visor. Inserting them in the ignition, I depressed the brake and turned the key, hearing nothing.

I swore, popping the hood.

"Son of a--" I lifted the hood and saw the bare sockets where spark plugs should have been.

I slammed the hood and kicked the cruiser's door shut with enough force to dent the door.

I blew out a hot breath and ran out of the garage and up the embankment the 100 yards or so to where I had parked my rented Lexus Coupe.

Climbing in, I hit the ignition button to the same silence. I swore and hit the steering wheel.

I searched for my phone and couldn't find it. I had left it in the cupholder, and after feeling under the seats and even opening the glove box, I felt the heat rising in my cheeks.

I swore, climbing out and slamming the door, this time resisting the urge to kick it as I had not paid for the extra insurance.

Fuck, this old man was foxy.

I scowled, looking back at the house with the garage door still open. I saw the headlamp of a patrolman's motorcycle in the garage and blew out a breath. If he had had the foresight to remove the plugs from his vehicle and mine, it was likely he'd somehow tampered with that as well.

I scanned the woods. The house was along a country lane with large 5 and 10 acre lots. The nearest place to the one I'd left was perhaps a hundred yards up a hill. I slipped on my flack jacket and started jogging up the hill to the nearest neighbor's house.

As I approached, I noticed a white painted flag pole as the centerpiece of the front yard. An American flag fluttered in the gentle breeze illuminated by electric lights. Beneath the star-spangled banner was a yellow pennant with the by now familiar image of a servant coiled above the words "Don't tread on me."

The yard was neatly manicured with cute knee-high hedges and stone planters overflowing with hibiscus and Sweet William flowers.