Lisa Jackson - Wicked Game

From within came a low, pain-filled moan.

Becca’s heart dropped through the rotted floorboards of the porch. She thrust open the door and stepped inside to the smell of fried fish and ashes from a wood stove and something else. Something metallic and out of place. “Maddie?” she called again and was already extracting her cell phone from her pocket. The living room with its flickering television screen was empty, the worn recliner sitting near a TV tray with a plate of food-tater tots, cole slaw, and fish sticks-half eaten. A fork with some white sauce still globbed on its tines had clattered to the floor. A cigarette burned in an ashtray.

And stains on the floor? Dark red stains. Blood…?

Oh, dear God, what was this?

The hairs at Becca’s nape stood on end. She speed-dialed Mac, but the call didn’t go through. She should turn back now, drive into town, call the police…

Another groan emanated from a doorway at the back of the house.

Carefully, her pulse racing, her nerves wound tight as watch springs, Becca peeked around the corner to a bedroom where Madame Madeline lay slumped on the floor, blood pouring from her abdomen, a pistol in one hand.

“Maddie!” Becca said, trying to remain calm, not knowing what the wounded, crazed woman would do. Maddie looked up, her bloody fingers wrapped around the butt of the gun. “Justice,” she whispered and leveled the barrel of the pistol straight at Becca’s heart.

Mac took the call, a patch in through the sheriff’s department, and he couldn’t make out much, mostly static that the detectives had to repeat. The upshot was that Hudson Walker had checked himself out of the hospital against doctor’s orders and now he was worried sick that Rebecca Sutcliff might’ve taken off after the killer-the same sicko that so far had eluded capture by all the authorities in Tillamook County. Hudson was certain Becca had gone back to Siren Song-a place Detective Clausen informed Mac was a cult.

“What the hell’s she doing?” Mac growled as he noticed a turnout in the road and pulled a quick U-turn. “Son of a goddamned bitch.”

“Don’t shoot,” Becca said as calmly as she could, though her heart rate was zooming wildly. “Don’t shoot. Please…”

“Justice!” Maddie cried again, her face ashen, her eyes round with terror, the gun wobbling in her hands.

“You’ll get justice, I swear, but now we need to get you to a hospital. Drop the gun,” Becca said, terror striking deep in her heart. She thought of Hudson, of their unborn child, and she knew she couldn’t die. Heart jack-hammering, she stepped out of the gun’s sights, and miraculously, the old woman didn’t train the muzzle on Becca’s moving form, just kept the barrel pointed at the doorway. “It’s all right,” Becca lied, a wary eye on the weapon and the heavy-knuckled fingers curled possessively over it. “It’s all right,” she said softly, again.

She moved closer to one side and eased the pistol away from Maddie’s nerveless fingers. Quickly, she retrieved her phone with the other and dialed Mac again. Maddie’s eyes closed. She was bleeding profusely from a wound in her abdomen. Self-inflicted? Or…what…? She set the gun down, put the phone on speaker, and tried to stanch the flow of dark blood with some of the old woman’s clothing. “Don’t move,” she said, “I’ll get help.” But there was so much blood, so damned much blood. “Hang in there.”

This time, the call went straight to voicemail, and snagging up the cell, she sputtered off where she was and that she needed an ambulance and that she was going to call 911-when he stepped from the shadows, from the hallway.

Becca froze, eyes wide. For the first time she got a good, hard look at this psycho who had been chasing her down, for that’s who he was. She nearly crumpled when she recognized his features, so like Jessie’s, so like her own. He was an older, stronger, male version of Jezebel Brentwood. And he was related to Becca in some way, as well.

“Sister,” he snarled, smiling and showing strong white teeth as he realized she recognized him for the monster he was, a murderer who was blood kin. He lifted a hand. In his fingers was a long-bladed knife. Blood dripped from its cruel razor edge.

“Why?” she whispered, gesturing vaguely toward Maddie’s crumpled form.

“Her time came.”

She saw the deadly intent in his hazel eyes as the wind raged around the cliffs, rattling the eaves, screaming over the thunder of the tides. “Why? Why are you doing all of this?”

“You are Satan’s spawn, witch.” His nostrils flared. “And you carry a new evil.”

“Bastard!” she screamed.

His heartless leer chilled her to the bottom of her soul. “If you only knew.”

The gun was only a few feet away. If she jumped to the left…

“At last, your blood will spill,” he taunted. “Your time has come, too.”

“Justice,” Maddie whispered, glaring up at him, tears streaking down her wrinkled cheeks. “Run, girl.”

Justice. His name was Justice. He’d attacked Maddie with the knife and hidden upon hearing Becca arrive. The gun was her defense, and Becca had taken it from her.

And now he was back to finish the job.

Take not only Madeline’s life, but hers as well.

No way!

Becca lunged for the gun but he was quick, anticipating. His knife whizzed through the air, sliced into her arm. She cried out but her fingers found the handle of the gun. She grabbed it, flung her arm around, aiming the barrel his way, finger on the trigger.

He yelled at the same moment she screamed.

BAM!

The pistol kicked, but he’d expected the shot as he threw himself sideways, rolling out of harm’s way. Becca scrambled to fire a second shot.

BAM!

The bullet slammed into the side of the wall, kicking up sheet rock and bits of wood. He ducked sideways, then quickly out of the way, around the corner.

Becca’s pulse deafened her. “Leave before I blow you away!” she yelled, but heard nothing save her own ragged breathing, the shriek of the wind, and Maddie’s slow moans. Becca’s hands were shaking, but she forced them steady, training her aim on the doorway. If the son of a bitch stepped one foot into the open area, she’d pull the trigger again. Her arm hurt and she saw blood soak her sleeve. The useless cell phone was still within reach, but surely the shabby motel had a landline…She glanced around the room, searching for a receiver. A shadow streaked across the window.

He was outside!

She turned toward the sagging window where the panes rattled and cold air hissed into the room. But she was mistaken. The moving umbra she’d seen wasn’t this monster of a man, but merely a branch being tossed in the wind. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the hallway.

What?

She whirled as he flew through the door, his knife raised. She shot again, the bullet zinging into his shoulder. Again! Her fingers tightened over the trigger, but he was on her, the weight of his body, toppling her to the floor. She screamed and they fell on the near-dead woman and she groaned painfully.

The demon-man’s breath was hot against her, his body all muscle and sinew as they struggled. Becca slapped at him, tried to claw his face, attempted to shoot the damned gun again, but as she did, he wrestled her arm behind her back.

Pain shot through her shoulder and she dropped the gun, heard it hit the floor. No! Oh, God, no!

“Finally, sister,” he growled. “Finally.”

“No way in hell,” she threw back at him and he cinched her arm up a little higher. She screamed in pain and he, lying atop her, pinned her to the floor, said, “Scream all you want, Rebecca. No one will hear you out here.”

He was right. Even on a day when the wind was still and the surf quiet, this old ruin was so isolated, a scream would never carry to another human’s ears.