Brian Freeman - Stalked

The memory didn't even knock at the door. It smashed the lock, broke the door down, galloped into Maggie's brain, and suffocated her. Her hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes squeezed shut. She could smell it as if it was happening to her all over again. "Oh, my God."

"Shit, I'm sorry."

Maggie clenched her fists. "No, it's okay, it's okay. This is important. Do you remember anything else?"

"Nope. It was just me and Charlie the Tuna."

Maggie yanked her cell phone out of her pocket and called Stride. He answered on the first ring. "Fish," she told him.

"What?"

"Fish. This guy's hands smell like fish. I'm in Katrina's apartment, and she reminded me that his hands stank. It's got to mean something. Maybe he has a smoker or something, or he works in a processing plant."

There was silence on the line.

"Are you there?" Maggie asked.

"Wood paneling," Stride said.

"You lost me."

"He had a photo of wood paneling on his computer. Like from a camper or something. He had fish in his freezer, too-not from a store, it was wrapped in foil. He caught it."

"He's in a fish house ," Maggie concluded.

"Exactly right. That has to be it. He's out on one of the lakes."

"But which one?"

"Tanjy's body was found in Hell's Lake," Stride said. "It's a good chance he dumped her in the same lake where he has his shanty."

"Are you close?" Maggie asked.

"I'm chasing down warehouses near the airport. I can be out on the ice in ten minutes."

"I'll be right behind you."

Serena buried the fish hook in the strip of cloth that tied her hand to the bed frame, and it sank into the fabric like butter. When she yanked it down, the cloth screamed and tore. Blue Dog heard it and threw his weight toward her shoulder, but she freed her arm with a single thrust before he could pin her down. She curled her arm around his back, where he still had the gun tucked under his belt, and clawed for the butt of the revolver. It was facing the wrong way, and she fumbled it in her fingers, but then she spun it around and the butt nestled in her palm and her finger found the trigger.

She was right-handed, and the gun felt awkward in her other hand, but she found the hammer with her thumb and cocked it and fired all at once. The gun was pointed toward the muscled, hard flesh in Blue Dog's hip, but he was already moving when she got the shot off. He bellowed in pain and dove off the cot, landing heavily on the floor and scrambling backward away from her. She fired again, but the shot went wild and took out one of the rear windows in the shanty with a burst of glass. The smell of burnt metal and smoke filled the space.

He danced from wall to wall, his hand pressed against his side. A small trickle of blood oozed through his knuckles. She followed him with the gun, but didn't fire. She only had two shots left and didn't trust her aim from her left hand.

"You're good," he told her.

"If you leave now, I won't shoot," Serena said. "Just get the hell out of here."

"I don't think so."

Her head was pounding. The hot spot in her skull where the gun had landed on her temple throbbed and made her vision wobble and then refocus. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn't. Something warm ran on her skin, and she realized blood was leaking from her shoulder where he had stabbed her. She could see her flat stomach, too, which was a gooey mess of red streaks, and when she moved, the muscles in her abdomen howled with pain.

She swung the gun back and forth, left and right, until she was dizzy. She couldn't keep this up forever, and he knew it. He was waiting her out.

"Drop it, and I promise I'll make it quick," Blue Dog said.

"Fuck you. Come close, and watch me blow your head off."

"You're bleeding," he told her.

"So are you."

She watched his eyes as they locked onto a shelf in the middle of the shanty, and she saw her own gun there and the magazine of bullets lying next to it.

"Go for it," she said. If he got that close, she knew she could nail him.

He bent and scooped a glass beer bottle off the floor. The cap was still on; the bottle was full. He held the bottle by the neck and made circles with his wrist like he was slinging a lasso. Foam hissed and fizzed from under the cap. Serena gripped the gun tighter and aimed at the shelf, knowing that's where he wanted to go. Blue Dog zigzagged the other way and flung the bottle underhanded at the cot. The glass shot over her head, missing her by inches, and shattered against the rear wall, cascading over her skin in a storm of beer and hail. Involuntarily, she flinched and closed her eyes. It took only a second, but the second was too long, and she heard him dive for the gun.

She had no choice. She had to fire. The gun recoiled, and her bare skin burned. The shot missed Blue Dog, but he had to hit the floor before his hand reached the shelf, and he was smart enough to know he didn't have time to try again without winding up in her sights. He skittered backward like a bug. She kept her eyes open, despite the beer leaching into her tear ducts and trickling down her face. Some of it found its way to her lips, and she lapped it with her tongue.

Sam Adams. Good stuff.

He was at the rear of the shanty again, but he was slowing down. He couldn't keep moving forever, and she couldn't stay conscious forever, and sooner or later, one of them was going to slip.

"One bullet," Blue Dog told her. "You only have one bullet left."

"That's all I need."

But she knew the odds were against her. She glanced around, hunting for another weapon, and her eyes landed on the knife he had used to torture her, which was lying on the floor just beyond the reach of the cot. If she could free her right hand, she could stretch her arm out and grab it. She knew the fish hook was somewhere under her body, and it would be easy to reach around and slash the cloth that tied her down, but that would mean putting down the gun first. She couldn't do that.

He smiled at her dilemma. "You're running out of time."

"You're not looking so good yourself."

His voice was casual, as if they were two friends talking over old times. "Back in Phoenix, I knew you got into it sometimes. A man can tell."

"Yeah, I really got into it. Sure. You stupid bastard."

"Some women get off on it. Like Tanjy."

"She got off on fantasies. I guarantee you, she didn't like the real thing."

"She wasn't supposed to like it. It was supposed to be punishment."

"What?"

He made his move, surprising her. He feinted toward the gun and then jerked in the other direction and dove across the width of the shanty. His fingers clawed at the wall switch. Before she could get off a shot, he slapped the switch, fell back to the ground, and rolled away.

The light went off. She was so blind that she couldn't even see the gun in front of her, and all she could do was listen. Where was he?

The storm was loud, and the wind leaked through the tear in the tape and the broken window at the rear of the shanty. Water kept dripping and falling on her body through the ceiling. She stared into the blackness and tried to remember what it was like in the light, so she could guess where he would go and how he would attack her. She pricked her ears for every creak and groan in the metal floor, but she didn't hear a thing other than the blizzard. He was waiting somewhere. Not moving.

One bullet.

She took a huge risk. If she couldn't see him, then he couldn't see her. She put the gun down on her chest and felt around the cot silently for the fish hook. When she heard a shriek of metal, and felt the shanty sway, she grabbed the gun again and pointed at nothing. He was creeping, moving, getting closer. She didn't have much time. She tried to find the hook, but she realized it must have fallen back to the floor as she struggled with Blue Dog. With the gun on her chest again, she reached back down and skated her fingers along the metal floor and found the hook. Quickly, she slid it into her hand. She eased the gun off her body, so it didn't slide away, and then she craned her body around, trying to stretch her left arm until she could reach the strip of cloth that tied her right hand.