Chapter Five
Ignition
There was a note stuck to the refrigerator door.
Chris stared at it in disbelief. He blinked a few times, and it persisted in being there. The words swam before his eyes, not making sense; all he knew was that Claire was gone and he hadn't been here to stop her -- again.
At last Jill pushed him gently aside and read the note out loud. "Dearest and overbearing brother, please don't have a fit. I've gone in search of Wesker because I have no choice. I won't wait for him to find me. Do not come looking for me. Do not try to rescue me. I will be just fine. And even if I'm not, I have to do this on my own. I love you, Claire."
Chris continued to blink. His hands worked at his sides, not quite clenching -- a gentler movement, like a man treading water. "What...?" he managed.
Jill quickly crumpled up the note and dropped it in the trash. She hadn't bothered to read the postscript, and didn't think Chris needed to know about it. "OK, calm down." She glanced at him. "Chris, remember what we talked about. We're going to handle this calmly and rationally, okay?"
Chris managed a nod. He searched his mind for the appropriate words, something lucid and succinct, something that would show Jill how much he'd changed, how much he was changing.
What came out was, "I'm going to kill her."
"Chris..."
"I'll kill her, and then I'll kill him. Or maybe the other way around. But they're both going to die."
"Chris!"
He shook himself. "Sorry. Old habits. We have to find her, Jill."
"I know. She can't have gone far. We'll take the car and drive the streets; she must be here somewhere."
The car was gone.
"I'll kill her," Chris repeated as he stared at the empty spot in his garage. He stepped forward, hands outstretched as though they might encounter the invisible bulk of a 2006 Ford Mustang.
Jill shook her head in disbelief. "OK, so she took the car."
"She took my car."
"Remember, she might be in danger."
"You'd better believe she's in danger. She took my car, Jill!"
"OK," Jill repeated, one hand pressed to her temple. She was beginning to regret she'd ever met either of the Redfield siblings. "That's actually a good thing, Chris. We still have police contacts. We'll put the word out, try to get an APB on your plates. Hopefully they'll find her before lunchtime."
Continuing to stare at the empty spot, Chris nodded slowly. He followed Jill back to the house simmering like an overfilled pot, his eyes dazed, his arms trembling. She couldn't tell if he was angry, worried, or just plain shocked, but she was grateful he hadn't erupted. God knew he'd been given the provocation.
She made a couple quick calls. It took a while, but she managed to track down a friend of a friend who not only had the authority to issue the APB but promised to let her know the second Claire was found. She placed another call to Barry, leaving a message on his mobile. She had a feeling they'd need him before long.
Turning, she said, "All right, I think I've..." Her voice trailed off as she realized Chris had rummaged through the garbage and emerged with Claire's note and its caustic little postscript: Please forgive me, Chris. But at least I told you where I was going.
He raised hollow, wild eyes to hers and repeated, "I'll kill her."
-----
The mustang's unfamiliar rear wheel drive skidded on the wet road. Claire cursed as she brought it under control. It didn't matter. She didn't plan to drive it long, anyway; she'd only needed it to get out of town. Then she'd abandon it at some gas station and have someone call Chris to pick it up.
A chill raced through her. She was so stupid. What was she thinking, running off in search of a madman -- a madman who, just incidentally, happened to have superhuman speed and strength. And let's not forget that genius level IQ either. Except for the crazy and evil parts, Wesker was really damn near the perfect man.
I won't live in fear, she reminded herself, although her racing heart argued differently. Taking one hand from the wheel, she stroked the comforting weight of the .45 magnum tucked into her waistband. Around her arm, she'd placed a hunting knife in a spring loaded device, carefully hidden beneath her jacket. If Wesker dodged her first shot, she was probably dead, but she wasn't going to leave herself defenseless if a second chance presented itself.
And if worst came to worst, she could use the knife on herself.
"Some things are worse than death," she whispered out loud, and the familiar wash of furious humiliation threatened to overcome her. For just a moment she was huddled on the floor, her left wrist bleeding from her attempts to wrench free of the handcuff, her throat screaming for water, her voice whispering pleas. She smashed her fist into the steering wheel. It felt good, so she did it again.
Half of her wanted to blame Chris for drawing her to Wesker's attention in the first place, but that wasn't fair. God knew she had enough to blame Chris for without manufacturing new reasons. And that was another reason she had to go: Chris was on the verge of doing something incredibly stupid. She didn't know what, but she knew it would be not only stupid but dangerous, and dangerous not only to him but probably everyone around him.
She had to protect him, not only from Wesker but from himself.
She carefully steered the mustang into the parking lot of a greasy little truck stop three miles out of town, wincing when she heard it scrape concrete. Heart in her throat, she leaped out of the car and hunched in the pouring rain, inspecting the front bumper. Thank God, she hadn't done any damage. If Chris was mad now, she didn't want to tell him she'd scratched his precious car.
Scoping out the occupants of the diner, she changed her mind about asking someone to return Chris' car. Aside from a bored and tired looking waitress, the customers were uniformly male, overweight, and dirty. Five sets of eyes turned in her direction as she shoved open the door; four quickly returned to their dinners.
The waitress sighed and slapped a menu in front of her as she took a stool up front. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please." She scanned the menu while the waitress poured, then passed it back. "Just a cheeseburger. No gravy on the fries, and no pickles or onions on the burger."
The waitress rolled her eyes as though Claire had made a truly taxing request, then hollered into the kitchen, "Hey Pete, cheeseburger fries, no pickle gravy onion."
Only a grunt affirmed the order. Claire hoped Pete had understood. The gravy she could deal with and the onions she could pick off, but she was allergic to pickles.
Her hands shook as she wrapped them around the coffee mug and wondered where she'd go now. This plan had seemed daring and innovative when she'd been lying in bed at Chris' house. Now it seemed a bit crazy. No, scratch that, she thought as one of the other customers wandered in her direction, a lot crazy.
The trucker hawked and spat into a handkerchief. "Thanks Rhona," he muttered, slipping the waitress a ten dollar bill. "Tell Pete I said hi."
"Will do, Jordan. Now you watch out on the road, hear?"
"Sure thing, sweetheart. See you next time I roll through town." He half turned to Claire, a mischievous glint in one eye. "Ma'am," he added, tipping his ball cap. Claire returned his smile in spite of herself as the waitress slapped a plate in front of her.
Amazingly, Pete had gotten everything right, and she tore into the burger hungrily. She hadn't eaten breakfast and it was nearly noon now, although the heavy clouds outside made it much darker. She was very conscious of the other eyes on her as she ate, very happy to have another woman standing behind the counter.
After a few minutes, the door jangled as another man stepped in, and Rhona ran to take his order. The second she'd gone, one of the other men settled himself next to Claire. She was instantly wary. This man didn't have the good-natured teasing expression the first man had worn; he stared at her almost hungrily. "Buy a lady dinner?"
She swallowed. "Thanks, but I've got it."
"Well, I wouldn't feel right about that." He reached for his wallet, but Claire stopped him, laying a hand on his wrist.
"Thanks," she repeated, "but no. I have to get going." Get going how? Get going where? She didn't know and wished the voice in her head would shut up about it.
"That your pretty little car out front?"
"No."
"How'd you get here then?"
"I walked." She wolfed down the last few bites of her burger and reached for her bag.
Quick as a flash, the man's big hand closed over her wrist. Claire looked at it, then up at him. "You might want to move your hand."
"It's raining. If you walked, you need a ride."
She continued to stare him down, weighing her options. She had no intentions of going anywhere with this creep, but she really hoped she could end this confrontation without pulling a knife -- or worse, the .45 magnum -- and attracting everyone's attention. He couldn't really be planning to drag her out of the diner? Surely the others would object? No matter how hard-boiled the waitress seemed, she couldn't just sit there and watch a man drag another customer away.
He grinned, revealing a row of dirty teeth. "Come on, sweetheart. I'll make it worth your while, I promise."
Her nostrils flared. "Do I look like a hooker?"
"Never can tell."
"Get away from me before I call the police." She jerked her hand in an unsuccessful attempt to free herself. "My brother's a cop, did you know that?"
"And my sister's the queen of Spain."
She lowered her voice to a furious hiss. "Let go of me."
"Sister, you're coming for a ride whether you like it or not."
The other customers had carefully averted their eyes. Like it or not, she was going to have to draw the knife and do some damage to this creep before he got her into a bad situation. She had actually drawn her arm back, fingers touching the edge of the blade, when a sickeningly familiar voice from behind her drawled, "She may be going for a ride, but not with you."
The trucker hesitated. Claire took the opportunity to wrench her arm free and swivel on the stool.
Sure enough, Wesker stared down at her, his eyes impenetratable behind his dark glasses. Her head was level with his chest, and he seemed very tall, very large, and very imposing.
"This your woman?" the other man demanded.
Claire bristled. But her jaw dropped completely when Wesker replied, "Yes."
It was too much. "No," she snapped. She glared each of them down in turn. "I'm not anybody's woman."
The trucker snorted and ran a dirty finger across her cheek.
Claire had had enough. With one sweep of her arm, she knocked the coffee mug into his lap. With a screech of horror, he leapt to his feet, shouting incoherently and drawing everyone's attention. Claire took advantage of the moment to lunge for the door. She had her hand on the glass when Wesker seized her from behind, one arm encircling her tightly, pressing her to his side. "What a fuss," he murmured in her ear, and she shuddered. "Let's go, dear heart. I've been waiting for you."
No, she'd been waiting for him -- hadn't she? She shook her head, instinctively struggling against his grip. Their hips bumped, and the magnum brushed against him. "What's this?" he asked, dragging her into the parking lot and disarming her in a single motion. He shook his head, making mock sounds of disapproval. "Do you have a permit for this, young lady?"
"Rot in hell," she returned through gritted teeth. From behind her, angry shouts erupted. She half turned, and Wesker's arm once more clamped around her.
"Time to go." He guided her smoothly through the shadows, ignoring her attempts to resist. She waited until they'd rounded the corner and launched herself forward, throwing her foot out behind her in a rapid kick.
Wesker caught her ankle.
For a moment they stared at one another, and then he smiled and twisted. Claire flew through the air, colliding with the diner wall. She struggled for consciousness, struggled to stay awake, but the darkness circled her and overwhelmed her.
The last thing she saw was Wesker striding towards her.