Stephanie Tyler: Vipers Run

My mind swam as I forced my attention on the slippery, rain-slicked roads ahead. Thankfully, the truck gripped the road, as if it knew I didn’t have the strength to focus. Normally I’d never drive like this, but the roads were clear and I figured the only one I’d be hurting was myself.

Mom was killed by a drunk driver and then two years later, Grams died. I’d come home from college for the funeral and found out that my brother had taken everything out of Grams’s accounts, using her debit card. Except for my settlement money, which he couldn’t touch. My mother had never been able to either, which was why my father had put it into a trust for me in the first place. I had money at my disposal, but I wouldn’t give in and use it. It was blood money, as far as I was concerned.

I was supposed to start a job in London this past fall. Instead, I’d found myself sitting in the office of a private eye named Bernie, explaining that I needed to find my brother and get the money and the deed to the bar back.

Bernie had looked at me a long time before he’d said, “Sweetheart, even if you had money, I wouldn’t take your case. You’ve had everything taken from you already.”

I’d refused to break down in front of him.

He’d continued. “I knew your Grams. She was a good woman. Your brother’s an ass. Put it behind you, live your life.”

“How?” I’d asked, trying not to sound pathetic.

“Work for me.”

And from there, I’d started to rebuild. And I realized that a lot of people had it worse than me. Taking pictures of husbands for suspicious wives—and vice versa—was the bulk of his business, but there was so much more he did for people.

Bernie had given me my life back. A job, a place to stay, and he was kind. His wife and daughter had been killed by a drunk driver ten years earlier, and he’d spent the rest of his days helping people get justice. We were drawn together by the pain of circumstance and I worked hard to help him.

And now I was going someplace Bernie had sent me. He’d done everything to protect me from the seedy side of his business. I had to trust this was no different.

I followed the GPS, driving for about six hours nearly nonstop to pass the North Carolina border. I took one quick break once I was across that state line, for gas and the bathroom at a busy enough rest stop peppered with minivans and tired children asleep in their seats.

Happy families. At least they appeared that way on the outside. I got back into the truck and drove away from the appearance of happy as fast as I could. I was more focused, but I hadn’t been able to stop shaking. The heat was turned up so high that the windows fogged.

Finally, I was directed up a long private drive that was close enough to the beach for me to smell the salt water. I had a choice there—I had a truck and some money and I could just cut and run.

But Bernie had never steered me wrong. He’d never given me a reason not to trust him. And whoever was at the end of this driveway was now my only real connection to Cage.

I pulled all the way up to the big house, parked and stumbled out of the car. The whole day—my entire past—swirled around me like an impending storm. The worst hadn’t come yet, the pit of doom in my stomach unsettling me to the point of shaking.

I barely pulled myself together to make it up the path. The gun from the truck was barely concealed in my bag, and the man who stood in the now-opened front door of the house caught sight of it immediately, his eyes casually flickering from it to my eyes.

“That’s more dangerous for you if you don’t know how to use it,” he noted. He wore dog tags, a black wifebeater and jeans with bare feet. He was good looking in an almost movie star kind of way, but there was nothing plastic about him.

I wanted to say that I knew how to use it—and I did know how—but those words wouldn’t come out.

But I did hear some moaning in the background, and I wasn’t imagining it, because he called over his shoulder, “Guys, can you stop rehearsing for a minute?” before turning back to me and saying, “Are you here for a job? Because I don’t take walk-ins or women.”

I’d dropped my voice to a whisper. “I’m not here for a job. I’m here for—”

Bernie.

Shots.

I couldn’t get his name out. I must’ve started to shake. I’d been faking strength the whole ride down, and now the thought of this man ready to turn me away had me at near collapse.

“Sweetheart, you took a wrong turn somewhere,” he told me, like the command in his voice would be enough to turn me away. But that only served to remind me of Cage, which strengthened my resolve.

I shook my head no. “I have no place else to go.”

“There are hotels. Shelters,” he started, then stopped. Looked between me and the gun and an expression I couldn’t quite place settled there for a moment as he asked, “Honey, whose truck is that? How did you know where to find me?”

I opened my mouth, wanted to tell him, but the debilitating panic took over. I pointed to my throat, tried to go into my bag for the meds I hadn’t needed in a very long time. I kept them with me anyway, like a talisman.

But I was shaking and somehow frozen, not an easy combination. I realized he was taking the gun from me and I couldn’t tell him what I needed to.

“Shit, Eddie, a little help here.” His grip was strong and sure as he led me inside. I heard him say, “Put the truck in the garage and get rid of the GPS and her fucking cell phone. Not a fucking trace of either.”

And then he was focusing on me again. His words were low and calm, although they didn’t reach me, because I’d already folded into my panic. Or it had already folded into me. Either way, I was overwhelmed with it.

In my mind, I was rifling through my bag, searching for my pills, even though I was cognizant of the fact that I hadn’t moved.

I saw him holding up my pill bottle in front of me. I tried to nod. I don’t think I managed to. To his credit, he got me to swallow the med. I don’t remember doing it, but the next thing I knew, I was sitting on a couch, covered in a blanket, and he was sitting next to me.

“Sorry,” I managed, my voice thick and drowsy.

“Drink this,” he instructed, pressing a glass into my hand. I did, mainly because he sounded scary, but I spilled some of it. “Pull yourself together and drink it.”

I glanced at him. “Frankly, I think you’re a little judgmental of my panic.”

He took the glass from me, stood and trapped me against the back of the couch, his arms on its back on either side of my head, his body blocking me from going anywhere. Like I could even get up. “Where’d you get the gun and the car?” he demanded.

“Bernie,” I whispered, my throat raw.

The man blinked. “He just gave them to you?”

“Yes. He’s . . . we’re in trouble. He sent me out. There were shots.”

He held up the picture I’d taken from Bernie’s office, his expression tight. “Did you shoot him?”

“No.”

“If there’s something you need to tell me . . .”

“Bernie said that the GPS was in his car—take it to where it was programmed.”

“That’s not his car.”

“No, not the one he drove every day,” I agreed. “He started using it two weeks ago. Today he told me to take it. That there was trouble.”

“You said you heard shots. How did you manage to get away?”

“I just told you—Bernie sent me out.” I stared at him. “Do you think he’s . . . ?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should call.”

“Not until I know more.”

“Do you know Cage?” I was going to wait for him to say yes, but he didn’t hide his expression. “I think he’s hurt.”