John Gilstrap - At all costs

“I’ll drive,” Nick said, stepping in front of Thorne. “I know where we’re going.”

Thorne held his ground-and the keys. “Good. Then you sit up front and tell me where to go.”

Nick shook his head, eyes desperate. “But…”

“I’m driving, Nick,” Thorne said simply. “Now, we can argue about it, or you can fight me for it, but when we’re done, I’ll still be behind the wheel. You’re wrapped way too tight to drive anywhere.”

“We’re wasting time, boys,” Jake chided as he climbed into the backseat.

Defeated and deflated, Nick settled into the shotgun seat. While Thorne slid in behind the wheel, Nick gave his instructions in a burst. “Left out of the airport onto Nokesville Road. Follow the signs toward Warrenton.” He checked his watch. “And for heaven’s sake, step on it.”

Melissa’s mind was a complete blank. She felt dizzy, and her legs wobbled as she tried to figure out what she’d really heard. Not good at following orders?

“You look confused,” the man said with an odd smile. “Let me clear it up for you. I’m here to let you save your children’s lives.”

“Who are you?” Melissa breathed.

The man chuckled. “Everyone always asks that. Like it matters.” He smiled. “You can call me Wiggins, if you’d like.”

She still couldn’t move. “But why… What…” Her brain refused to function in complete sentences.

“I know it’s confusing,” he said apologetically. “But I really don’t want to hurt your children any more than I already have.”

Her eyes grew huge, and they shot back to her helpless little girl.

“Really,” he said. “She’ll be fine. I’m afraid I had to get a little rough with her as she tried to squirm away. Once she got a whiff from my magic handkerchief, though, she settled down. She should be under for at least an hour.”

Melissa’s face lost all color.

“You know, you really shouldn’t let such a little girl answer the door,” he chided. “No harm done, though. She’ll be awake just in time to greet little Nicky and Joshua as they come home from school.”

Melissa’s world started to spin, and she sat down hard. She figured she’d fainted, because barely a second passed before he was right there, his face just a few inches from hers, his pistol pressed against her temple.

“Now don’t go wimpy on me, Melissa. There’s no time. We’ve got a lot of work to do before the boys get home.”

“Please don’t…” she sobbed.

“Just think of your children as Thanksgiving turkeys,” he whispered. “And how awful it would be to be carved alive.”

“Something’s wrong,” Nick whined. “I can feel it.”

To Jake’s eye, the scenery hadn’t changed in the last twenty minutes. Hell, it hadn’t changed in a year. Heavy woods just led to more heavy woods, the monotony of the landscape broken only by the occasional house or gas station. Rural Virginia was no different than rural South Carolina or rural Arkansas. Only the terrain and the foliage changed. The isolation was a constant.

From Route 28, they took Vint Hill Road to cross over to Route 29, and from there, on into Warrenton. After that, the turns and the route numbers came too quickly and too frequently for Jake to keep track. No one even bothered to name the roads out here. They just stuck a number on a post.

Soon the woods began to give way to fields and rolling hills. Stone walls took the place of barbed wire along the roadside, some of them in pristine shape, others crumbling under a century of neglect. Multimillion-dollar mansions alternated with more modest farmhouses and barely habitable shacks.

“How much farther?” Jake asked. Anything to cut the tension.

“About three miles.”

“Now sign it,” Wiggins instructed. They were in the master bedroom upstairs, gathered around a tiny antique writing desk.

“No one’s going to believe any of this,” Melissa sobbed. Her tears dropped heavily onto the mauve stationery, smearing the ink of her suicide note.

He smiled. “You’d be surprised what people will believe. Now hurry up and sign it. You’re running out of time. It’s after three.”

But the note was all wrong! She didn’t hate herself, and she wasn’t hopelessly lonely. She loved her children, and they loved her right back. Even the stuff about Nick was all wrong. He wasn’t the best husband in the world, but she could have done a lot worse. This whole thing made no sense.

If she signed the note-every word dictated by this madman-what would her children think of her as they grew older? They’d spend their entire lives hating her for abandoning them; for filling their minds with memories of finding her dead body.

“I won’t do it,” she declared.

Wiggins’s eyes flashed-a second of anger that disappeared instantly, replaced by his professional calm. He glared straight through Melissa’s eyes, into her brain. “Fine,” he said. “Don’t sign it. I don’t want you to sign it.” He snatched the note from beneath her hand and crumpled it up tightly, stuffing it into his pocket. When his hand came into view again, it held a knife. He snapped it open, revealing a finely honed three-inch blade. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She winced, anticipating pain, but panicked when she saw him heading out of the bedroom toward the stairs. “Where are you going?”

He never slowed, didn’t say a word.

“Oh, my God!” she yelled. “Lauren!” She bolted out of her writing chair and ran after the killer. She caught up with him at the top of the stairs and tried to tackle him, but he didn’t even seem to feel the impact. She fell to the floor and tried to hang on to his ankle, but he just kicked himself free.

“Please!” she yelled. “Please! I’ll do it! Please don’t hurt her.”

“I told you, Melissa,” Wiggins said calmly as he marched down the sweeping, carpeted staircase. “I told you this would happen, but you didn’t believe me.” His heels clicked as he stepped onto the hardwood of the foyer. “I’m going to have to get really creative with the boys.”

“No!” she shrieked. “I’ll do it!” She sailed down the steps, barely touching them as she charged at him. “Touch my little girl, you son of a bitch, and I’ll kill you!”

She was five feet away when Wiggins stopped suddenly and whirled, thrusting his hand into the air like a traffic cop in an intersection. She skidded to a halt and nearly fell.

He glared at her and brought the point of his knife within inches of her face. “Are you asking for a second chance?”

She nodded frantically. “Yes.”

“Then ask me.” His voice was barely a whisper.

“I am,” she whispered back. “I’m asking you for a second chance.”

He smiled. “Ask me to let you kill yourself.”

She tried. “Please,” she said. She choked on her voice as she began to sob. She slumped to her knees. “Please…”

“Say the words,” he insisted, “or I’ll field-dress your little girl right there on the sofa.”

She tried again. Really tried, but the words wouldn’t come. “Please…”

“Say the words!” he boomed, his voice shaking the glass on a curio cabinet.

She was helpless now. Terrified. Fear and sadness flowed from her soul like a raging river as she finally croaked out the words. “Please. Let. Me. Kill myself.”

Wiggins stood over her, admiring his handiwork. Finally, he stooped down to her level and used one finger on the point of her chin to raise her eyes to meet his. “I don’t normally give second chances,” he whispered.

“That’s it!” Nick yelled. “The white mailbox on the right. That’s my driveway!”

Thorne hit his signal and slowed to make the turn. All very legal. All very slow.