Saved

Prey.

The thought came to Dwayne suddenly as he stared out the screen door at the front yard.

Fine hairs rose on the back of his neck, while his ears perked up, and his hawk-like eyes scanned his surroundings, the trees that bordered his land.

“Ellie,” he said to his partner, “we got company.”

The roar of an engine and the crunch of gravel under tires reached his ears then. One vehicle it sounded like. How many people?

Ellie, in her ratty pink robe, shuffled to stand beside him. She slipped an arm through his and snuggled in close. She stared out the screen door, too. He kissed her head, his eyes never leaving the yard.

Only moments before he’d been enjoying a cup of black coffee, smelling early morning mountain air, the waft of wood smoke reaching his nostrils from last night’s bonfire. The rain, little more than a drizzle, made everything clean and the world smelled fresh. Fog hugged everything. When the sun rose, it would burn away quickly.

The Bronco jostled out of the mist then, bouncing around a bunch of trees that formed a tunnel almost. Dwayne heard the scrap of branches across the roof, as the vehicle continued up the rutted lane and jerked to a stop feet away from the porch.

“I’ll get the rope,” Ellie whispered, taking his cup and pulling away.

He watched her go. She was his world. They had each other. There was no one else. She knew what needed to be done. No questions asked.

 He’d slipped farther back into the cabin’s shadows so he couldn’t be seen from the dooryard.

Then the engine fell silent.

He turned his attention to the young woman sitting behind the wheel.

Despite being near seventy, his senses were well tuned, eyes and ears that of a far younger man.  When he’d been a soldier – a lifetime ago - his squad mates claimed his ability to know the enemy, to almost sense the enemy, bordered on the supernatural. But he knew it was no such thing. He just turned on the primitive part of his brain. It was kill or be killed after all He could hear the enemy approach no matter how silent they thought they were and saw them camouflaged when they’d believed themselves blended as perfect scenery. He swore he could hear them breathing.

Like now.

She was not breathing easily; he could read that. Her eyes looked tired. She looked troubled, eyebrows arched down concerned, as she studied his cabin. He estimated she might be early twenties.  Pretty thing. She sat there, gripping the wheel – he could see her white knuckles – at ten and two.

But she couldn’t see him.

He’d claimed part of the cabin’s shadows as his own.

He was in hunter mode.

Then, the driver’s door opened, and he watched her long legs find the ground; she followed. She was a vision all right. Close to 6 feet. Thin, hair pulled back, like Ellie wore it.  A few errant blond strands had escaped and dangled limply by a cheek and she nonchalantly drew it behind her ear.  

Prey.

His large fists clenched and unclenched. He imagined cutting into that flawless, young flesh later while she screamed, and the smell of blood filled his nostrils…

The hunger, which he had long repressed – over thirty years now - was still there which surprised him. He had imagined it gone. Nope. Dormant, maybe, but never gone.

The worn grey hoodie she wore hung off her shoulders like a shawl, or a cape. She tugged it up and seemed to get swallowed by it. Looked much too big for her. A boyfriend or girlfriend’s, perhaps?

Beneath it, she was dressed in a loose fitting, faded beige blouse and tight blue jeans.

She looked hesitant as she continued to look around.

And then she closed the door slowly, still looking around and nudged it with her hip and it clicked shut.

For a second, he closed his eyes.

He heard the sigh of a breeze, a crow caw in the distance, the tick of the vehicle’s engine cooling down.

He heard it all.

And then focused on the girl. He could smell vanilla. Her perfume. He heard her footsteps, walking, slow, coming closer.

Dwayne licked his lips.

Keep coming, he thought. Yes, keep coming.

Eyes still closed, Dwayne’s fingers fell easily on the hunting rifle in the corner where it always leaned.

       Private Property, Trespassers will be prosecuted, read the signs on the gate at the end of the drive; others had been nailed on trees at intervals along the twisty road – road? More like a trail – clear warnings to poachers and hikers alike to think about walking here.

       Clearly, she'd ignored all signs.

       And then he sensed it.

       His eyes snapped open.

       She was spooked. Not by him. Prey sometimes sensed danger, which was just the name of the game. That couldn’t be helped.

       He watched as she pivoted on her sneakers. The hoodie fell off her shoulders as she began the short sprint back to the car.

       Time to move.

       The hunter ripped open the screen door, stepped through, lifted the rifle and took it in both large hands, curled his finger around the trigger, eyed down the site, and fired.

#    #    #

       This must be it, Carrie thought as she stood outside in the fog and drizzle, eyeing the cabin. So quiet, isolated. The Bronco’s engine ticked. She’d driven for hours to get here.

       Using an index finger, she hooked a lock of hair behind her right ear.

       Did she smell the remains of a campfire?

       No. No one should be here.

       Still…

       Jonathan had given her directions, and this had to be it, right? Not like GPS was working up here. Damn near impossible to get a signal since she left the main roads.

She approached the cabin nestled among thick evergreens and deep shadows.

An old Ford pickup sat rusted off to the side.

       She didn’t remember Jonathan saying anything about a truck being here.

       Dammit Jonathan! They were supposed to be together. Emotion caught in her throat at his memory.

Oh, how she longed for him now.

       Mustn't think of him. Just get inside and -.

       She barely got to the front step when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and goosebumps peppered her arm.

       This wasn’t right.

Her heart hammered in her chest.

Run, her inner voice screamed.

She listened.

       She spun quickly, her hoodie falling to the ground.

       The Bronco seemed far away suddenly.

She heard the cabin’s screen door bang open behind her….

She didn’t dare look behind her.

Two feet from the Bronco!

One.

       Don’t look. Almost there!

Her shaking hand grabbed the driver’s door handle…

She’d made it!

Despite her warning not to look, she did.

       She saw a huge hulk of a figure standing on the stoop with a large rifle aimed her way.

The sound of the rifle blast echoed around her.

#    #    #

       Dwayne, of course, was a crack shot. The war had taught him to be a soldier. They had not taught him to kill, of course. He had learned that all by himself.

       But killing with a gun was so impersonal.

       The knife was his weapon of choice. It was so personal.

       He’d fired two feet to her left, the ground exploding in a spray of rock, grass and mud.

       She froze in place, arms going up.

He ratcheted another shell in the chamber.

       “Next one is through you,” he said.

He saw even more clearly now the dark circles under dull green eyes. Troubled soul. Haunted even. He recognized it from his own reflection. She’d been in a different kind of war, he thought, as he readily sized up his prey.

Blood pounded in his temples as he witnessed her expression: real terror. Hot saliva burst in his mouth as he pictured ramming his knife in her leg.

Wound the prey so they couldn’t run.

       “Come,” he said, waving his rifle toward the screen door which Ellie held open. “Inside.”

       Trembling, the stranger headed his way but as she approached, she reached down for her hoodie.

       “Leave it,” he said.

       She stared down at it in the mud.

       “It was his,” she stammered.

       His? Yeah, a boyfriend. An ex by the sound of it.

       “Come now,” Dwayne said.

She started up the two steps to the sagging porch.

       Dwayne savored the succulent fear wafting off her.

       “No dawdling.”

       “I was looking for a cabin,” she stammered.

       “You found one.”

       “Another one,” she said. “Please, I’ve picked the wrong one is all…”

       She actually tried to break free, but Dwayne's hand shot out, grabbed her arm.

Dragging her past the threshold of his lair – long time since he'd called the cabin his lair - he relished the way she winced, then whimpered, as his thick fingers pinched her flesh.

       Such pleasure he found in this.

Easily, Dwayne imagined her later, squirming as he finally slit her throat and watched the light go out of those green eyes.

       “People know I’m here,” she said.

       “I doubt it. Not here, they don’t. You said so yourself, girlie, you got the wrong cabin.”

       One handed, he laid the rifle barrel against her temple, cold steel against warm skin. She clamped her eyes shut. Tears spilled down her cheeks and he felt her tremble.

       Yes, he'd murder her soon, relishing ever second.

       Easing his grip on her slightly, he pushed her ahead of him. “Let's get to the bedroom.”

       She tensed. His nostrils flared; he relished the woman’s fear sweat. His head swam. Her eyes pleaded with Ellie, seeking help from another woman.

       “Lady,” Dwayne said. “I'm no rapist. Ellie, check her pockets, fetch me her car keys.”

#    #    #

       Within minutes, hands bound behind back, ankles tied tight, Carrie writhed on the rumpled sheets on the bed in the back room.

       The wife, girlfriend, whatever - Ellie, he'd called her - plopped down in a chair against the far wall, rifle across her lap. Maybe, Carrie reasoned, she could appeal to Ellie while hubby went to pick through her truck.

       “Please,” Carrie begged. “Loosen the ropes, so I can escape.”

       Silently, Ellie shook her head.

       Between gritted teeth, Carrie said, “He's going to kill me!”

She struggled with her bonds, then went limp. Sobs racked her body.

“Please.”

       “He hasn’t killed in years,” Ellie said matter of fact.

       Carrie swallowed.

       “He swore off it. For me. No matter, if you were free, you'd go to the law...” Ellie continued. “Cops would come. Dwayne would fight back, die.”

       “Believe me, I won't call the police -”

       Ellie gave her a sad smile. “He can’t take that risk. Neither can I.”

       Carrie conjured up quite a violent death for herself. “Look, I'll -”

What? She thought. Offer them money? No, they'd never be bribed like that.

       “I was a prostitute once,” Ellie said. “He killed a few of the girls I worked with, before he took me. Brought them here, buried them in the woods.”

       Carrie tried to fight the ropes, but they only seemed to get tighter.

       “I didn't fight like the others, Dwayne said. For some reason, he wouldn’t cut my skin…”

       She felt dizzy. Cut? No!

“Oh, don't misunderstand, I begged for freedom... but I didn't care whether I lived or died, I guess. Not really. Two weeks later he untied me. I stayed.”

       “Stockholm syndrome,” Carrie said. “You're sympathizing with your abductor.”

       She shook her head. “He saved me, I saved him, I guess. We fell in love. Makes no matter how it started, our love is real. And no one is going to destroy what we’ve built.”

       She sank back on the bed, praying death would be less painful than she envisioned.

#    #    #

       Dwayne would have to hide the car eventually. But first things first: what secrets did the stranger have? He’d ask her, of course.

       Sometimes, like with the hookers back in the day, he liked to hear their life stories from their own lips before he killed them. It was like a trophy, a part of them he carried always.

       He’d get to that with her.

       Still, it didn’t hurt to see what he could find out himself. It kept the mind sharp, after all.

With the keys, he opened the trunk and saw the duffle bag and several suitcases. He rifled through it, clothes, toiletries. It was packed so nicely. So, she was going on vacation. Suntan lotion, a skimpy bathing suit.

So, why was she in the mountains?

He found her passport.

When he opened the passenger side door, he put his head in and -

What was this now?

       Minutes later, Dwayne marched into the bedroom. Ellie stood to greet her man. She was always respectful.

       Casting his eyes at the woman on the bed, Dwayne said, “So, Carrie, what’s your story?”

#    #    #

       “The police are looking for me,” she sobbed. She swallowed, tears welling up in her eyes. “Or will be. I had no choice but to run.”

       Their faces remained impassive.

       “They think I killed Jonathan Foss.”

       “Your boyfriend?” Dwayne said.

       She nodded. “He's an actor,” Carrie continued as though it mattered.      

       Dwayne's face showed little interest when she said this.

       Carrie shook her head. “I was his press agent. He was married...”

       Dwayne grunted.

       “Last night he told his wife he was leaving her for me. He called me ecstatic, excited. It was a fairytale, like the romantic comedies he stared in. He’d pick me up in the morning…”

       “And?”

        “When he didn’t show, I found him in his office... dead. I was calling the police...” She paused. “And then…they would think I did it.  I was being framed for his murder.”

       “His wife gets rid of you both,” Dwayne said, nodding.

       “Why’d you come all the way out here?” Ellie asked.

       “He has a cabin. He said his wife didn’t know about it. I didn’t know where else to go. I had a rough idea.”

       Carrie thought of Jonathan, his dead eyes staring into space. How she wished she could picture him alive, get that last ugly scene of him on the office carpet out of her mind.

       She choked back tears.

He’d told her once about the millions he had stashed away in his cabin for when he left his wife. “Lawyers can’t touch what they don’t know about,” he’d said.

       But she didn’t need to tell her captors that part. What difference did it make now?

       “I really loved him,” Carrie whispered.

Inner strength depleted, she felt warmed by one thought: She’d soon be reunited with Jonathan.

#    #    #

Sighing, Dwayne glanced at Ellie.

       “Fetch me the knife,” he said.

       Ellie nodded and left the room with the rifle. He plopped down on the chair Ellie had vacated, the wood protesting his weight. He leaned forward, clasped his hands together and stared into the woman’s eyes.

       “I see you,” he said. “Clearly.”

       It was Ellie that changed everything for him, Dwayne remembered. She had been prey once. Why was she any different than the others?

       It made no matter now. Love was a strange monster indeed.

       It had changed them both.

       “I haven’t killed in years,” he said. No use prolonging it.

       “Please, please,” Carrie said.

       She clamped her eyes closed, whispering prayers.

       There was no God here.

       Ellie returned with the knife and handed it to him and started to leave.

       “Stay,” he said. “Eyes open, Carrie. I’ll make this fast.”

       She opened them.

       Quickly, he showed the terrified woman the knife Ellie had brought. Sharp. It felt good to hold it in his hands.

       “Please, no,” she said.

       What choice did he have? He loved the terror wafting from her pores. He could imagine the blood racing through her veins and grabbed the knife in both hands.

       “I enjoy playing with my prey,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

       And he gave a primitive scream and …

       He began to cut.  

#    #    #

It was pouring when they led her outside minutes later. She took in the fresh air, sucking it in, trying to calm her jangled nerves.

       He’d cut her ropes instead of her throat.

       Now, he said, “We understand each other.” And then he grabbed her arm, drew her close and whispered in her ear.

She swallowed hard, nodded and met his eyes. His eyes. A cold blooded killer’s eyes. And then he let her go with a light push away.

Spotting her hoodie on the ground, she ran to it, lifted it up and hugged it and bit back the sobs that threatened to drive her mad.

Gravel pinged against the undercarriage as she steered the Bronco back the way she’d come.

       In her rear view, Carrie saw the large man fixed in the shadow of the doorway, Ellie cuddled close. Rain spattered the earth, masking the couple in a hazy mosaic of early morning fog.

       Crumpled beside her on the passenger seat, the hoodie.

       She could see the Glock sticking out of one pocket.

       “I smelled the blood,” the man had whispered in her ear.

He knew the truth.

It was the hoodie he was wearing when she shot him in the chest. It was his favourite. It smelled like him. She’d slipped it off him and wrapped herself in it.

       There were no real fairy tales.

       If only Jonathan hadn't ended their affair, if only he hadn't insisted on staying with his wife.

       Carrie sighed.

       If only.

The End