He tossed the cane down beside her. “I’d help but I don’t want to get his blood on my nice clean shirt.”
She blinked and realized he was wearing a different shirt now, a light blue one tucked into navy blue dress pants. Even his shoes, which had been black earlier had been exchanged for gunmetal gray ones. He must have washed himself off and changed into some of Mr. Broderick’s clothes. Right after killing the poor man.
Swallowing hard, she looked down. Bryson’s eyes were open again. He was staring at her.
I’m so sorry, she mouthed, regret heavy in her heart that she’d wasted her chance to get help for him. Had she suspected he was still alive, she would have forced herself to turn around, to run to the nearest neighbor and call 911. Instead, she’d been frozen by fear and the belief that he’d been killed. She’d given up. And because of her cowardly actions, now he was still in horrible danger, when she might have been able to save him.
“Get him on his feet. Now. If you take too long, I’ll shoot you both and be done with it.”
She wanted to demand that he be done with it right now. But that was no longer an option. It wasn’t just her life on the line now. She had to be brave, strong, and somehow figure out how to get Bryson out of this mess. She awkwardly straightened his legs, apologizing profusely every time she jostled him because of their hands being handcuffed together.
Finally she got him into a sitting position with his back pressed against the opposite wall of the foyer from where she’dbeen sick. White lines around his mouth clearly mirrored his pain. His hip had to be excruciating right now, on top of the awful bump on his head. She reached up to test it and he winced, ducking away from her hand.
“You’re not bleeding anymore,” she whispered. “That’s a good sign.”
“Hurry up,” the monster ordered. “The daughter will be home soon.”
Teagan and Bryson exchanged a look of horror. The idea of a daughter coming home to find her parents slaughtered by this man was beyond awful. But still being here when she got home would ensure that she too would be killed. As if coming to the same realization, Bryson began pushing against the wall, struggling to get to his feet.
She faced him, their hands clasped together as she helped him up the rest of the way. As soon as she was sure he wasn’t about to fall, she got the cane and put it in his left hand. He normally held it in his right, to compensate for his bad left hip when he raised his right leg. But with his right hand cuffed to hers, that wasn’t an option. It would be rough going. She hoped she had the strength to keep him from falling.
“Come on. Out the back.” The monster was holding a gun now. Bryson’s gun. He motioned with it and stepped out of reach of the cane or a well-aimed kick, not that they could manage either one shackled together with Bryson hurt.
More from willpower than physical strength, the two of them managed to hobble out the open French door, across the patio, all while being directed by the gunman. He closed the door behind them, probably to throw off anyone trying to find the perpetrator who’d murdered the Brodericks. But where was he going? He stopped at the six-foot-tall wooden privacy fence that encircled the large backyard.
He motioned them forward with the gun. When they stopped a few feet away, he lifted one of the sections of fence back from the post it should have been nailed to. Perhaps this was the way he’d gotten into the Brodericks’ home? He’d come from behind them, loosening the section of fence to act much like a gate.
Just the way he’d abducted Teagan years earlier? Until this very moment, she’d never remembered how he’d managed to get her off the path without anyone seeing her. It had always been a confusing image in her mind—a creaking sound that she’d attributed to the breezes in the branches overhead, but that she now realized must have been him opening a pre-loosened section of fence; her turning around just as the bite of a needle plunged into her neck and a hand clamped over her mouth. Darkness descending around the edges of her vision as he’d tossed her over his shoulder. That creaking sound again. He’d closed the fence behind them. That must have been what happened.
“Teagan?” Bryson whispered, between lips white with pain. “We have to move.”
The gunman was pointing the pistol at her. He must have told her to get going and was threatening to shoot her. She squeezed Bryson’s hand, then struggled forward with him leaning heavily against her, their cuffed hands clutched tightly together.
The gunman waved them toward the back of the house whose yard they were now in while he secured the section of fence behind them. As they reached the screened-in porch, the cut screen on the door told the story that she had feared. She exchanged a look of misery with Bryson before helping him through the door that the killer had obviously gone through earlier.
But how had he known that she would be at the Brodericks’?
That question was eating at her. And she had no answers. She wanted to ask Bryson, but doubted he could think much beyondthe pain that was clearly radiating through his whole body. It was taking everything he had to remain upright, as evidenced by how hard he was leaning on her and how often he stumbled. It didn’t help that the house was carpeted. It was much harder for him to keep his balance, and he fell against the wall more than once.
“To the garage, that door over there.” The gunman motioned ahead to the right, then ducked through an archway to their left into the kitchen.
“Where are we?” Bryson whispered as they hobbled toward the garage.
“Bentwater Place,” she whispered back. “The subdivision directly behind The Woods. The entrance to this subdivision is about a mile, maybe more, from the Hodges Boulevard entrance to The Woods.”
He nodded as they reached the door that led from the house into the garage. It was standing wide open, revealing a small package delivery truck inside. Any hope that Teagan had that he hadn’t hurt the driver died when she saw the piles of packages taking up most of the space on the other side of the garage. No driver would have willingly allowed someone to dump the contents of his truck. How many people had to be hurt or die because of whatever sick fantasies this guy had?
“Find the button that opens the garage door,” Bryson urged. “If someone’s outside, we can try to get their attention.”
“Do it and I’ll shoot both of you,” the killer said from behind them.
Teagan stiffened and looked over her shoulder. His dark, empty eyes bored into hers. The maw of the pistol was pointed directly at the back of Bryson’s head.
“What do you want us to do now?” She steadied Bryson’s shaking body against the garage wall beside the doorway. He was so pale she was afraid he was about to pass out.
“Get in the back of the truck.” The sound of sirens filled the air, coming from somewhere behind them. The killer froze, cocking his head to listen. The sirens got louder. There could be no mistake. They were racing toward the Brodericks’ house. The daughter must have gotten home and called 911. And the police had to have been close by to be responding this quickly. Any minute now, they’d be standing in the home that was separated from this one by about fifty feet of grass and a privacy fence.
If she screamed, would they hear her?
