Rob Blackwell - A Soul To Steal

“If you do fight, well…” he said. “I’m out of practice, but I remember well enough how to inflict pain.”

She heard his words and felt a click in the back of her head. She wasn’t going to give in to the urge to run away. If she did, he would be on her in seconds.

Mary stopped moving back. The fear that had so flooded her had given way. Dim memories of her best friend, Gladys, teaching her a move from a self-defense class, flickered to life. And as she watched this man advance, a plan formed in her mind.

She had stopped crying. She was through crying. Instead, she quickly bent down on the ground and felt along the side of the road.

“Just what the hell do you think you are doing?” he asked, and he was moving, faster than she anticipated.

But not quite fast enough. Grabbing hold of gravel she had felt along the road, she threw it at his face as he approached. He cried out and stumbled back, putting his right hand to his head.

It was a good start, but not enough. Still feeling the anger bubbling inside her, she moved toward him. Remembering what Gladys had told her, she put her hands across him on his shoulder and drove her knee deep into his groin.

He doubled over and fell to the floor, dropping something in his left hand as he did so. She looked to see a long, curved knife-a machete.

“You bitch,” he said.

She stood back, surprised at what she had done. As suddenly as it had come, the anger she felt left her and the fear came running back. She had to get away-get away before he recovered.

Turning on her heels, she ran into the forest, hoping to put distance between them. Sooner than she had anticipated, she heard him cry out.

“I’ll find you, you know that?” he screamed, his words echoing through the forest all around her. “There isn’t anything for miles. I’ll find you. Do you know what I will do then?”

She ran faster, cursing herself for her pumps.

“You won’t get far,” he shouted after her.

She ran for her life. She ran faster than she ever had.

But ultimately, the man was right.

Mary Kilgore did not get far.

Friday, Oct. 6

The only thing that Quinn could remember was that he had been running for his life. Somewhere the Horseman had been behind him, laughing at him and swinging his almighty sword. Quinn knew it was only a matter of time before he caught up.

He woke drenched in sweat and immediately jumped out of bed. The urgency in his dream was still with him and he fought down the urge to run. Where would he run to?

He paced through his apartment and then got in the shower. As the water poured over him, he attempted to sort through what he felt but it was impossible. He kept hearing noises outside his door and despite telling himself it was nothing, he could not bring himself to believe it.

He’s here. The Horseman is here. And he’s waiting for you.

He felt the bile in his throat rise up and Quinn closed his eyes and leaned into the water stream. The Horseman is not out there. The Horseman is not real. He is not even a myth or a legend. He is a fictional creation of Washington Irving. That is all he ever was or is.

No, a voice in his head said. He’s real and he’s waiting for you.

Quinn looked down at his hands, which were shaking. He clenched his eyes closed as he washed his hair, willing himself not to see the nightmares in his head.

Wasn’t there the sound of someone pacing outside his door? Was that the sound of the door opening? He was sure he could hear it.

But when he opened his eyes and pushed aside the shower curtain, there was nothing.

There is nothing here, Quinn told himself. But why didn’t he believe it?

He sat down on the porcelain edge of the tub and let the water continue to hit him. What is wrong with me? How long am I going to feel the effects of this childish nightmare?

He had to think of something else, but found it hard to do. Every time his mind latched on to something, he could hear the hoof beats again in his ears. He could feel the blade approaching his neck, the branches tearing through his flesh.

“Enough,” he cried, and said it out loud for good measure.

It was then that he thought of her, and from the moment he did, the sound of the chasing horse seemed to recede. Kate. He thought of how she looked the first time he saw her. He remembered the sound of her voice. The memories calmed him, and for the first time since he woke up, the feelings of his dream receded.

He should call her, ask her out. But as soon as that thought appeared in his head, the ridiculousness of it came right after. He didn’t know her number or where she lived. And how dumb would he look asking her out after knowing her for exactly two days?

He stood up and finished soaping himself. As he did, he processed the past two days. He had barely seen Kate on Thursday, since Laurence had her out tracking a story in the far northern part of the county.

Quinn knew he had been single too long. He stepped out of the bathtub and dried himself. Maybe that was all it meant. That she was the first potential girlfriend he had met in a long time. He could just be lonely.

All he knew was that she seemed like the only good, tangible thing in his life. And he didn’t even know if she was aware of his existence. Did it matter? Sometimes the hope for something was better than the real thing. It was something to focus on, something to distract you.

He sighed as he threw on clothes. Nightmares and dreams. Those were the only things that felt real.

Across town at the Leesburg Inn, Kate was awake, lost in thought. She felt unsettled. She had felt that way from the moment she crossed the border from Maryland.

But her dreams the night before had been worse than normal. She was back at her childhood home, of course-it was too much to hope for some variety there. But it had seemed different, more intense.

She went onto her balcony as she had two days before. There was a reason she was here, she felt sure of it. She placed her hands on the railing and stared at the treetops.

But she couldn’t just wait around. Today she had to start taking some kind of action. Starting with Mom, she thought. It was time to go see her mother.

Quinn practically jumped out of his chair when Buzz said hello behind him. He didn’t think anyone else was in the office yet.

“Sorry to startle you,” Buzz said, although he didn’t look very apologetic. Quinn thought he looked smug. The old man enjoyed sneaking up on people. He felt it gave him an “edge.”

“Yeah, Buzz,” Quinn said, dismissively.

Quinn leaned back in his chair to look at Buzz again. The guy looked haggard and unshaven. Quinn thought it odd that he somehow always looked this way. He never had a full beard, but constantly seemed like someone who had stayed at a party too long, perhaps having a little too much to drink. Buzz’s clothes were loose fitting over his wiry frame. You could almost say he looked homeless, except Quinn thought he looked more like the proto-typical reporter-the kind of guy that shows up with a fedora hat and a pencil over his ear. Those guys never looked neat. They always looked rumpled.

Buzz had first become a reporter in Vietnam. Maybe in those days it didn’t matter what you looked like because you were just as likely to end up dead.

“You need to listen more carefully, Quinn,” Buzz said. “It could save your life.”

Jesus, I’m surrounded by psychos, Quinn thought.

“I’ll remember that,” he said.

“I’m serious, my boy,” Buzz said again. “In the jungle, you had to listen at all times.”

“We’re not in the jungle, Buzz,” he replied.

“We’re always in the jungle, Quinn. Don’t forget that.”