Lisa Gardner - Live to Tell

Evan was in the room next to the girl’s; I could hear him mumbling a stream of agitated gibberish. There appeared to be four bedrooms on this floor. Probably a girl’s room, a boy’s room, a guest room, and the master suite. The traditional Colonial setup.

I didn’t know where Andrew was, so I flattened my back against the hall wall for protection, and slid my way toward the room I hoped would be the master suite. I needed to find Evan’s parents. If they were conscious, maybe between the three of us…

How did Sheriff Wayne get to my house? I never asked him the night I had him in my apartment. He was the sheriff. Of course he showed up at a crime scene. It never occurred to me to question his presence.

But our house was isolated, miles away from the nearest neighbor, and I hadn’t called 911.

My mother? My sister or brother?

There was a logical explanation. There was always a logical explanation.

I heard weeping. I turned into the next doorway, discovering a large, shadowed space dominated by huge pieces of furniture. I made out a king-size sleigh bed, then realized there was a woman on the bed and she was crying.

“Hello?” I whispered softly.

She shut up. “Who’s there?” Her voice was as hushed as mine, cautious.

“Are you Evan’s mom?” I edged closer, my eyes darting around the space, noting the standing mirror, perfect for Andrew to hide behind. Or maybe he was tucked behind that decorative tree, or inside the master bath, the walk-in closet.

“Andrew’s not here,” the woman whispered, as if reading my mind. “I’m Victoria.”

“Danielle.”

I hurried closer to the bed and she rolled toward the edge. Quick inventory revealed her hands and feet were bound with zip ties. The plastic bindings were too thick for either of us to pull off the other. We needed something. Knife, scissors, key.

“What does he want with you?” I asked, trying to figure out what to do next.

“I’m not sure. I hired him to help Evan, then we became lovers. But it wasn’t an intense affair. I don’t think he’d kidnap me over that.”

“He kidnapped you?”

“From the hospital.”

“Me, too.”

“You were his lover?” she asked.

“I didn’t even get through dinner with him. Apparently, I’m the person who damned his father’s soul to Hell. We need scissors,” I muttered.

“In the master bath. Top drawer, right of the sink.” I was impressed. Victoria was good under pressure. Then again, given Evan’s history, she’d had lots of practice.

“I’ll be back,” I promised.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and her gratitude grounded me. I wasn’t alone. She wasn’t alone. Together we’d get Evan, escape from the house, and call the police.

I located the bathroom drawer, pulled it out, and awkwardly searched for scissors with two hands bound behind my back.

As a voice suddenly boomed through the house: “Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl!”

I dropped the scissors, recoiling against the wall. The voice boomed again, loud enough to pound against my skull, echoing so that I couldn’t pinpoint the source. Megaphone, I thought. Somewhere in the house, Andrew was using a megaphone and this was his sick idea of the ten-minute countdown cheer.

“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl!” he sang again. “How do I know that song, Danielle? How do I know those are the last words your father spoke to you?”

Because I’d told the police that, I thought resentfully, pushing myself away from the bathroom wall. I’d told Sheriff Wayne.

My mother had called him. The realization stopped me in my tracks. My mother had called Sheriff Wayne. I could hear her voice, a distant memory, talking on the phone:

“I need you, Wayne. I can’t do this anymore. He’s drunk, out of control. And Danielle came to my room tonight. You won’t believe what my little girl told me. It has to be tonight. Please, Wayne. I love you. Please.”

How much time was left? Seven, eight minutes?

I returned to the drawer, finally locating the metal scissors when they pricked my finger. The pain felt good. It cleared the cobwebs from my mind, focused me on matters at hand.

I crept back to the bed.

“What’s he talking about?” Victoria whispered.

“The night my parents died. My father shot everyone to death. Then Andrew’s father, the sheriff, found me.”

“Your father shot everyone but you?”

“Story of my life,” I said, but Andrew did good work because I was already wondering, Or is it?

Victoria rolled onto her stomach, lifting her bound wrists. I wedged my numb fingers into the loops of the scissor handles.

“Andrew’s hidden a gun,” I told Victoria as I tried to locate her wrists with my back to her and my own mobility limited. “If I find the gun first, I win. If he finds it first, he’s going to kill us. I’m supposed to visit my father’s soul on the spiritual superhighway and ask him for the weapon. While I’m there, I need to save Sheriff Wayne’s soul. Sadly, I don’t believe in spiritual interplanes, though I’m pretty certain Andrew’s mad as a hatter.”

I finally located Victoria’s hands. I stabbed her twice, myself three or four times. My fingers grew slippery with blood. I heard Victoria whimper once in pain. Just when I thought I was going to scream in frustration, I felt the jaws of the scissors slide around the plastic tie. I squeezed the handles, sawing the blades back and forth, back and forth… The tie snapped. One of us was freed.

How much time left? Six minutes?

“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl!” Andrew sang again, megavoice warbling down the hall.

His voice was all wrong. Too gleeful. My father hadn’t sung like that.

As he stood in the glow of the hallway light, his hand raising the gun. Pointing it at me, pointing it at me…

“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl!”

“Put the gun down. Joe. Wayne. Stop it. Not like this. This isn’t what I wanted.”

My head hurt. I had that feeling again-like my family was standing right beside me. If I concentrated hard enough, I could see them, maybe even reach out and touch them.

I dropped the scissors on the bed. Victoria sat up, shaking out her hands. Then she cut my bindings, as well as the ones around her ankles.

We stood side by side, two women armed with one pair of scissors in a darkened master bedroom.

“Evan,” she said.

I heard him, still muttering gibberish down the hall. Then I glanced at the bedside clock. Three minutes left, give or take.

“Evan can’t help us,” I told her.

“He can’t help me,” Victoria agreed. Then, after a heartbeat of silence: “But I think he can help you.”

I remember a story Michael and I once saw on the news: Two men in ski masks had broken into an upscale Boston townhouse and killed the entire family before fleeing with a jewelry box. Evan was nine months old at the time. As a new mom, I was appalled by the violence, shaken by the ruthless unfairness of it.

Michael had turned to me during the commercial break. “Anything happens in our house,” he said, “you get Evan and get out. Don’t worry about me. Save Evan.”

So here I am, under siege in my own home, and the stranger I just met is going to find my son, while I search for Michael.

Time is ticking, and I don’t see where we have many options. Andrew wasn’t lying to Danielle-my house is a fortress, every detail designed to contain a troubled child.

The phones are dead, the electricity out. I have no idea what happened to my cell phone, and my laptop is downstairs in the family room. We’re isolated, and according to Danielle, Andrew has a gun.