the kitchen table, written in his brother’s handwriting,
confirmed that much. It was simple and wouldn’t implicate his
brother in anything, of course, but it was clear enough.
Meet me at the White Pine. Bring the
deeds.
And Jolee was gone. Her knitting was still
on the table, another mask, this one black with a white skeleton
face—for Halloween, she’d said with a grin, although he’d watched
her making it and realized it would probably be his death shroud
instead, because he didn’t plan on being around in October.
Excerpt now he very much wanted to be here,
and he wanted Jolee here beside him.
Silas worked quickly, not knowing how much
of a head start his brother had. He would take the four-wheeler
most of the way and then do the rest on foot, he decided. And he
took several things with him—but the one thing he didn’t take was a
deed to any of his land.
* * * *
Kicking her way out hadn’t worked this time.
Jolee couldn’t get the latch to pop and it did nothing except
making Carlos even more pissed when he opened his now very dented
trunk to drag her out. By the hair. She swore, if she got out of
this, she was going to get it cut off so no one could pull her
around by the stuff ever again.
“Fucking bitch! Look what you did to my
car!” Carlos threw her to the ground and she sprang up almost
instantly—the idiot had forgotten to zip tie her feet
together—heading into a full-out run. He swore again and took off
after her—he’d always been good about going to the gym and he was
fast—catching hold of her hair and yanking her backward. She fell
onto her back, hitting her head hard enough on the ground to make
her see blackness and bright stars instead of blue sky and sun.
She was cursing the length of her hair again
as he grabbed another handful and stalked off, forcing her to
follow, bent over and panting, still struggling in spite of the
pain and searching the ground for a weapon. There had been no jack
or even a tire iron in the trunk, but her hands were zip-tied in
front, not the back, and she could grab something if she could find
it. She wondered, considering how sloppy he’d been, if her husband
had ever really done this by himself, or if he’d always gotten one
of his guys to do it for him.
“Carlos, please,” she begged, trying to
appeal to the part of him she knew must be in there. “Don’t do
this.”
“Shut the fuck up.” He shoved her through a
door and threw her to the floor, kicking her in the ribs to leave
her breathless and deter her from running. It worked—her side
exploded, a bloom of pain, and she clutched it, groaning. “You
don’t tell me what to do. Nobody tells me what to do.”
She looked up at him, seeing a gun in his
hand, and she had a moment of panic, thinking of Silas, wishing he
was here, at the very least so he could be the last thing she saw
before her husband pulled the trigger. But when Carlos just stood
there, her eyes skipped away from his hand, around the room, taking
in her surroundings. A factory? There was a heavy, metallic smell
in the air and it hung around them. It smelled like blood. A
slaughterhouse?
She looked for an exit but the only one she
found was between her and Carlos. He’d even left the door propped
open and the light called to her like a beacon. The place was huge,
full of strange looking machines with thick ductwork, heavy steel.
She could get lost amongst them. That would be a start. She
struggled to rise and he kicked her again, the other side this
time, making her scream in pain.
“You were always way more trouble than you
were worth,” he snarled, unslinging a bag from his shoulder and
dropping it down by her head. She saw the blood seeping out of it
and screamed again, backpedaling from the sight.
He snorted, squatting down beside her and
opening it up. “You think my brother’s the only one who knows how
to hunt?”
He pulled out a muskrat by the tail, its
head half-gone from the shot that had killed it, and
confirmed that much. It was simple and wouldn’t implicate his
brother in anything, of course, but it was clear enough.
Meet me at the White Pine. Bring the
deeds.
And Jolee was gone. Her knitting was still
on the table, another mask, this one black with a white skeleton
face—for Halloween, she’d said with a grin, although he’d watched
her making it and realized it would probably be his death shroud
instead, because he didn’t plan on being around in October.
Excerpt now he very much wanted to be here,
and he wanted Jolee here beside him.
Silas worked quickly, not knowing how much
of a head start his brother had. He would take the four-wheeler
most of the way and then do the rest on foot, he decided. And he
took several things with him—but the one thing he didn’t take was a
deed to any of his land.
* * * *
Kicking her way out hadn’t worked this time.
Jolee couldn’t get the latch to pop and it did nothing except
making Carlos even more pissed when he opened his now very dented
trunk to drag her out. By the hair. She swore, if she got out of
this, she was going to get it cut off so no one could pull her
around by the stuff ever again.
“Fucking bitch! Look what you did to my
car!” Carlos threw her to the ground and she sprang up almost
instantly—the idiot had forgotten to zip tie her feet
together—heading into a full-out run. He swore again and took off
after her—he’d always been good about going to the gym and he was
fast—catching hold of her hair and yanking her backward. She fell
onto her back, hitting her head hard enough on the ground to make
her see blackness and bright stars instead of blue sky and sun.
She was cursing the length of her hair again
as he grabbed another handful and stalked off, forcing her to
follow, bent over and panting, still struggling in spite of the
pain and searching the ground for a weapon. There had been no jack
or even a tire iron in the trunk, but her hands were zip-tied in
front, not the back, and she could grab something if she could find
it. She wondered, considering how sloppy he’d been, if her husband
had ever really done this by himself, or if he’d always gotten one
of his guys to do it for him.
“Carlos, please,” she begged, trying to
appeal to the part of him she knew must be in there. “Don’t do
this.”
“Shut the fuck up.” He shoved her through a
door and threw her to the floor, kicking her in the ribs to leave
her breathless and deter her from running. It worked—her side
exploded, a bloom of pain, and she clutched it, groaning. “You
don’t tell me what to do. Nobody tells me what to do.”
She looked up at him, seeing a gun in his
hand, and she had a moment of panic, thinking of Silas, wishing he
was here, at the very least so he could be the last thing she saw
before her husband pulled the trigger. But when Carlos just stood
there, her eyes skipped away from his hand, around the room, taking
in her surroundings. A factory? There was a heavy, metallic smell
in the air and it hung around them. It smelled like blood. A
slaughterhouse?
She looked for an exit but the only one she
found was between her and Carlos. He’d even left the door propped
open and the light called to her like a beacon. The place was huge,
full of strange looking machines with thick ductwork, heavy steel.
She could get lost amongst them. That would be a start. She
struggled to rise and he kicked her again, the other side this
time, making her scream in pain.
“You were always way more trouble than you
were worth,” he snarled, unslinging a bag from his shoulder and
dropping it down by her head. She saw the blood seeping out of it
and screamed again, backpedaling from the sight.
He snorted, squatting down beside her and
opening it up. “You think my brother’s the only one who knows how
to hunt?”
He pulled out a muskrat by the tail, its
head half-gone from the shot that had killed it, and
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