12
Mark's instincts were firing on all cylinders.
He knew – somehow – that Harper would not take the opportunity to rest at a motel in the city, just as he had known, somehow, that he had to get ahead of her. And he'd managed it while she had been eating dinner. He did not know how he could possibly know any of it but it was true. He only had to concentrate for a moment to get a feel for what she was doing. He didn't bother trying to pinpoint the thing that was after Harper. He knew where it would be eventually.
Mark almost didn't stop at the rest area. In fact he'd been traveling at nearly ninety miles per hour, ignoring the nearly ten inches of snow and the low visibility. He was being driven by a force greater than himself by that point. He couldn't put a name to it any more than he could control it. At the last second he had tapped the breaks and guided the truck through the drifting snow. There was a small service road that went to the rear of the dual buildings. Instead of parking out front, and risking Harper or the thing recognizing his truck, he'd pulled in behind the men's room into a deserted employee lot.
Like other rest areas this one employed cleaning people to keep it looking neat. There were none on duty at that hour so he was positive that he would not be bothered.
Once he'd parked, Mark shut off the lights and sat in the quietly idling truck, keeping the engine on for the heat. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to get a sense of where Harper was. She was coming – that was all he could tell for sure. He hoped he wasn't wrong.
Not long after he'd parked, he shut the engine off and pulled on a pair of black leather gloves that he'd bought the day before. He hesitated a moment then picked up the gun Harper had left for him. It felt somehow…right…and he tucked it into his coat pocket without questioning it. He slipped out of the truck and turned his collar up against the wind.
Still running on instinct, he avoided the back entrance to the rest area. He didn't want to leave any prints in the snow that Harper or the thing would see and be spooked by. Harper might not care – it was a rest area after all, people were in and out. He went to the edge of the small employee lot and walked the perimeter, getting to the other side in a roundabout way. He came to a stop on the side of the women's restroom, out of the wind for the most part. He could see the back entrance to the walkway – and more importantly he could see a large portion of the well-lit parking lot out front. There was nothing to do but wait. Mark leaned against the building and watched as the wind whipped snow around him.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Mark's adrenaline was so high he didn't feel the cold. He watched – and heard – as people came and went. The restroom behind him echoed, and there were windows set high into the concrete wall. He didn't know if it was a trick of acoustics or if he were imagining it, but he could make out snatches of conversation and separate voices coming from the restroom.
He knew the exact moment when Harper got out of her Jeep. Mark had not been wrong. He waited patiently, biding his time, listening until he heard the soft bang of the restroom door close. He risked peering around the corner and saw the thing he had been pursuing. It stood near the walkway, much the same way Mark was doing. Out of sight.
Mark steeled himself and slowly moved toward the thing. All of its attention was occupied as it waited for its opportunity to grab Harper. Mark could sense that as well now, the thing wanted Harper and was going to snatch her and pull her into the woods. He clenched his fists at the images that flashed into his head. As far as Mark knew, the thing had only ever been interested in killing. There had been no sexual assault on any of the women although many had been found half-dressed. But since Harper was different, the thing had different ideas about what would happen to her. The other women would look like mercy kills by comparison. And why? Because Harper had dared to stand her ground. It was intrigued because only hunting a certain type of women led to a certain sort of apathy. Harper was different.
Mark could definitely attest to that as he crept up on the thing in front of him. He knew the exact moment Harper came out of the restroom even though he could not see the door; the thing's back straightened, and a shark-like grin crossed its features. It took a step forward, already reaching, meaning to get Harper before she could get too far away from the corner.
But Mark had anticipated that. He grabbed the thing by the hair and hooked his elbow around its throat, using the element of surprise to throw it backward out of the walkway.
He didn't give it time to recover. Mark reached down and grabbed it by the throat, fueled by a cold rage that he had not been aware he was capable of. He slammed the thing against the building, squeezing its throat so that it couldn't make a noise and alert Harper. She had paused to look over her shoulder but was moving on – she hadn't seen or heard anything yet.
The thing squirmed under his hand. "Let…go…." It managed to hiss out, wasting oxygen. Mark had no intention of letting go.
"Yeah. I don't think so." He said it more to himself than the thing. He used his free hand to pull the gun from his pocket.
"Now…remember…you." The thing had narrowed its eyes as it stared at Mark. It was trying to breathe shallowly, and Mark could feel it coiling, almost like a snake, as it prepared to fight. It thought he would slip up if it could distract him. So Mark let it think that it was. He wanted Harper to be far enough away that she didn't hear anything because she would be compelled to check. She didn't walk away from things like that. But this was one time when it would do her more good to move along. Mark did not want her to see this. He didn't much like himself for having to do it but it needed to be done.
"Good." Mark brought the gun up and rested the barrel under the thing's chin.
"Dawn…put up…a fight." It might have sounded like random ramblings, but to Mark a sucker punch to the stomach would have done less damage than hearing his wife's name come out of this thing's mouth. "And begged for…her baby's…life." It raised a hand and wrapped it around Mark's wrist, trying to pull his hand away from his throat.
Mark's thumb flicked off the safety. Red rage washed over his vision momentarily turning the word dark. Something stopped him before he could pull the trigger though. He wanted to. He ached to. He wanted to empty the entire clip into the goddamned thing's head. But he held himself in check, breathing hard, trying to check his temper.
"You should have listened to her." Mark finally said. The thing merely stared back at him, a look on its face that Mark couldn't define. Part fear – even though it had come back, dying apparently was not enjoyable – but something else as well. A sort of knowing smirk crossed its lips.
"Killing me…won't bring her…back." The thing hissed out. "It makes you…no better…than me. Doing this for…for her…won't change…anything."
"Except I'm not doing this for her." Mark pointed out. His voice was low, calm. Damn near amicable. "This time it's for Harper. You can't have her." He accented that point by lightly smacking the thing's head into the concrete again.
"Har…" The thing tried to say her name but Mark didn't give it a chance to finish. He pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun was incredibly loud to Mark's ear but his timing was nearly perfect. Harper had driven off; the rest area was momentarily deserted. One bullet was all it took. The thing slumped forward and Mark let it go, dropping it to the ground.
He stooped low and rolled the thing onto its back. Dead. Its sightless eyes stared up at the falling snow.
Mark suddenly felt as if all the energy were drained out of him. He sat down heavily, mindless of the cold snow through his jeans, letting the gun slip from his fingers and drop to the ground. He stared at the thing, waiting. Just waiting. The last time he'd killed it he'd walked away without a backward glance. This time he wanted to be sure.
He sat for nearly half an hour, dimly aware that people were still coming and going less than 10 yards from where he sat with the dead body. His bond, or link, or whatever it was, to Harper was fading. He was trying desperately to hold on to it, because he needed it. As hard as it was to admit, even to himself, he needed her. Damned if he knew exactly why.
Eventually he got to his feet. He bent and picked up the gun, knocking snow from it before putting it back into his pocket. He looked at the dead body lying at his feet with tired contempt. He had to get rid of it. Last time he hadn't bothered. This time something told him to deal with it different. He would drag it into the woods, far enough that a fire would not be easily seen. The thing's car was nearby as well – so Mark would come back for it and deal with that as well. Although he did not want to leave the body, he risked it to head to the front of the rest area to find the car. The keys were in it. Mark got in and guided it around the building. The body was as he'd left it. He didn't try to be stealthy now. Once again he was aware that on some level no one would see him – even if a cop had been standing at the entrance to the walkway Mark was pretty sure he wouldn't be bothered.
He tossed the body into the trunk of the Mustang and slammed it shut. Although the car was low to the ground, he managed to get it over the curb around the parking lot and through the line of trees. Ten minutes later he found a small natural clearing. It would be perfect.
It took another fifteen minutes to set the car up and prepare it. He had found tubing and had siphoned some gas out of the tank. He used it to douse the interior of the car and the body in the trunk. He had a book of matches in his coat pocket – something he had grabbed from a bar several weeks before and had forgotten about – so he used those to start the fire. He watched as the interior caught fire first, the flames heating the air a bit. The fire found the trail of gasoline and followed it into the trunk. Mark watched as the thing started to burn and forced himself to back away. The fire would eventually reach the gas tank. He didn't want to be in the neighborhood when that went up.
But he watched for as long as it was safe. The fire burned hot. He stood at the edge of the clearing and listened to the flames crackle. The thing in the trunk was no longer recognizably human. Finally satisfied, Mark turned and followed the car's fading tracks back to the rest area. The snow was quickly filling in any evidence that a vehicle had gone through.
He had reached his truck when the Mustang exploded. At this distance it was muffled and sounded almost like a clap of thunder. He cocked his head for a moment, feeling bone-deep weariness settle into him. He checked to make sure he still had Harper's gun as he climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. He pulled to the front of the rest stop and parked like all the normal people before climbing out once again and heading into the restroom.
Mark stripped off his gloves and washed his hands, then his face. There were no outward signs of what he had done. But he knew he would see it every time he looked in the mirror. He used paper towels to dry off and headed back outside. He paused near the glass-enclosed kiosk, eying the three payphones that were lined up inside.
He could call Harper. Tell her that it was over, offer to send her gun back to her. He wanted to. There was no denying it. But what would come next? He was at a total loss trying to figure it out. He finally shook his head and turned away from the phones. He would call her. Eventually. Not now, not when he felt like it would only take a friendly voice to make him break into pieces. He got behind the wheel and closed his eyes again, trying to sense her. Just one last time. There was nothing there. She was gone.
He hoped it meant that it was over.
Even as the thought formed, he huffed out a tired laugh. "Over. Right." He muttered as he threw the truck into gear. He had thought it was over before but the thing had come back. And again. It was too much to hope that this time he'd gotten it right.
