Aric Davis - The Fort

Hooper followed her. He was soaking wet from the forest, and felt cold, but sweat was pouring off of him, and he could feel blood running down his leg. Four steps down the stairway, with Amy just ahead of him, Hooper tripped as his leg went dead. He dropped through the air, crashing on top of Amy, and the two of them slid down the rest of the steps together and landed on the basement floor.

The next few seconds felt like forever to Hooper. Amy standing first, the 1911 in her shaking hands, the barrel huge and pointed at his face. Next, his arm wrapped around her leg, yanking it and sending her hurtling to the floor. Then he was climbing over her body, fighting with her for a few seconds before recovering the gun.

The world came back into focus then, with Amy sitting before him and him back on his feet, the gun in his hand, steady. He picked up the bag from the fuck store and dumped out the contents before her, her eyes bulging at what was inside.

“Take off those clothes,” he said. “Do it right now—you’ve worn out all of my patience.”

Amy got to her feet and stripped out of the wet and ill-fitting clothing, leaving the lumpy pile of shirt and shorts sitting on the basement floor. Hooper couldn’t help but look at her body for a second, before reminding himself that time was finite. As if to highlight this, Hooper could hear sirens. I never unloaded the car. If they look in it I’m fucked.

He pushed the bad thought aside. One thing after the other, that was how it had to be. He kicked at the ball gag. “Put it on now.” She did, but too slowly, and Hooper punched the gun into her stomach, hard. She doubled up and then stood, the ball in place, her eyes watering.

“Sit against that pole,” said Hooper, pointing at the pole where he had first secured her with rope. She did, and Hooper kicked the handcuffs behind her. He set the 1911 down and fastened the handcuffs on her wrists one after the other, behind the pole and as tight as they could go. Finally, with her somewhat secure, Hooper tucked the gun into his waistband.

He bound her legs together with the longer, chained cuffs meant for ankles, and placed the collar around her neck. “They might come to the door, and you can try and yell and make all the noise you want. If you do, however, I’m going to shoot the cop, come down here and fuck you, slit your throat, and then kill myself. Do you understand?”

She nodded, eyes wide. She’ll be docile as a lamb once the last little bit of fight is out of her , Hooper thought as he shut off the light and went up the stairs.

The first thing to do was get rid of the restraints she’d broken free from, and it took Hooper all of about five seconds to see how she’d gotten out. He knew the kitchen chairs were old, but it looked like all she’d had to do was tip over, and the thing had come apart into five or six pieces. It had to have happened right before he’d walked in, thank God. She’d only had time to put on the clothes he’d left in the hamper from the day before, and then walk to the slider to escape. Hooper guessed she’d been free for maybe sixty seconds, maximum, when he’d walked into the house. It didn’t get much closer than that. Hooper filled his arms with chair, straps, and rope and walked to the attached garage.

The garage door was still open, the garage lights blazing. The surprise of the light shocked Hooper. He felt like an idiot. Of course it was open—he had walked in through the front of the house. He dropped the mess of wood and bindings by the trash, then walked to the door and closed it quickly, so that it bounced once on the pavement before settling. With a look over his shoulder at the boards in the car, Hooper left to get the rest of the ruined chair.

Once it was all in the garage—the noise of sirens getting louder and more constant—Hooper walked to the bedroom and finally stripped off the wet clothes. He was considering the bathroom when a knock at the door made his blood run cold. He jumped into a pair of jeans, attempted to quickly dry his still-wet hair with a towel, and walked to the door clad in only blue jeans, the 1911 stuck in the back of his pants.

He answered the door casually, trying to look a little shocked when he saw the cop. “What’s going on, Officer?” Hooper asked the guy in the uniform, a man about his own age, wearing sunglasses despite the dark clouds, as well as a thick mustache.

“We’re looking for this girl,” said the cop, who held out a school picture of Amy for him. “She went missing a couple of days ago from the drive-in, and we just got a report that someone saw her in the woods behind your house with a white male.”

The drive-in. Her friends are still telling the lie , Hooper thought with suppressed joy. If she hadn’t tried to escape, he’d be in the clear. “I haven’t seen her, Officer,” said Hooper, hoping he hadn’t botched things with his delayed response.

“I’m not surprised to hear that, Mr.—”

“Hooper. Matt Hooper. And I’m glad you’re not surprised, but can I ask why? I’m a white male. I live alone here. I’m sure you fellas want to find that girl in your picture.”

The cop pointed to Hooper’s chest, to the tattoo he’d gotten in Saigon of a bulldog’s head with a banner, holding the number 1969. “I was there a year or so after you were, Mr. Hooper. Lost some good friends over there.”

“I hear that,” said Hooper. His knee was starting to shake, and Hooper could feel blood pooling under his foot. If the cop had placed his hand on his chest and shoved, Hooper would have fallen over like a stack of bricks.

But the cop just grinned. “Well, I’m going to get back to looking for bad guys, Mr. Hooper,” he said. “Probably a snipe hunt, but you never know. Have yourself a nice afternoon.”

“You too, Officer,” said Hooper, before the cop turned and Hooper shut the door. He slipped the lock, took two steps by dragging his hurt leg, and then collapsed to the floor, shaking violently.

23

Tim, Scott, and Luke were driven to the police station in the back of a squad car. Uniformed cops were scurrying about like overweight relatives at an all-you-can-eat buffet. They were visibly shaken, walking through yards with guns out, talking to other possible witnesses, and generally disrupting a summer afternoon in the worst possible way. It had stopped raining by the time the boys left the house, but the streets and sidewalks were still wet. Once they were at the police station, the three boys were led out of the car, past the lobby, and to a small room with a mirror and no window. Officer Summers gave them a wave when he left them, and Detective Van Endel entered the room before the door could swing shut, along with a woman wearing a suit.

“All right, guys,” said Van Endel. “Just so we’re all formally introduced, I’m Detective Van Endel, and this is Dr. Martinez. She’s a children’s therapist that I’ve worked with for a long time, and she’s here to talk to you because she’s the best, and I all but begged her to get down here. Before we start, I want you to know that we were able to get ahold of Tim and Scott’s parents. Luke, one of the officers spoke to your sister Alisha, and she said she can get your mom. Sounds like she’s with friends. Now, the point of me telling you this is that I need to talk to you guys, but I’m not supposed to do that without a parent here.” Another officer opened the door, interrupting Van Endel, and then set a VHS camcorder on a tripod down in front of them. “It’s all set for you, Detective,” said the other cop before leaving.

“As I was saying,” said Van Endel, “I’m bending the rules talking to you guys right now, but according to what Scott said on the phone, you guys saw Molly Peterson with a gun in her back, being forcibly taken through the woods. Because time is so important in this sort of situation, I need to talk to you guys about some small details to help out the police on the scene, and then when your folks get here we can go over the details.” Van Endel grimaced, as though the next part were particularly distasteful. “But if you guys are going to help me, I need to videotape the whole thing, and I need to ask you if you’re willing to talk to me, also on tape. So if you guys feel comfortable, and you’re willing to say as much on tape, we can start looking for Molly that much sooner.”