“Want to count to three and shoot each other?” Hobbs drawled.
Ethan fired, aiming right above Hobbs’s head. The bullet hit the shed’s overhanging roof. “Where is she?” he yelled.
Hobbs, who’d disappeared behind the shed, didn’t answer.
Ethan dropped the rifle and jumped down the steps into the yard. He raced around to the other side of the shed and grabbed Hobbs by the legs as he was trying to run into the woods. They both went down hard in the dirt. Hobbs’s gun spun out of his hand and landed out of his reach.
Hobbs kicked at Ethan’s chest but Ethan held on, hauling himself up along Hobbs’s body until he was astride him. He pushed Hobbs’s face into the dirt.
“That kid from the gas station found her—Wade,” Hobbs gasped. “Said she hit her head, passed out cold, then woke up cross-eyed and saying my name.” He gave a kick and then lay still. “The stupid little prick brought her here. She always caused more trouble than she was worth, so I did what I had to do. Shit, man, that hurts!”
“You have no idea what hurts means,” Ethan said. “Where is Rose McCord?”
Hobbs started to laugh—a wild, unhinged laugh that sent chills down Ethan’s spine. “I threw her damn body in the cellar,” he said.
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92
A pit opened in Ethan’s stomach. Her body? He got up and yanked Hobbs by the belt until he was standing.
The man reeled, coughing and cackling. “She deserved it,” Hobbs said, rubbing the dirt from his face with his shirt.
If Ethan hadn’t dropped the rifle back by the steps, he would’ve shot Hobbs for real. “Take me to her now.”
Hobbs straightened up. “If you say so.”
Dread and fear made Ethan detach; he felt like he was watching himself walk through the yard behind Hobbs, who was still laughing softly but maniacally. Ethan saw himself pick up the fallen gun as Hobbs went to the cellar doors and heaved them open.
“Have at it,” Hobbs said.
“You go in first,” Ethan heard himself say.
Hobbs cursed and descended the ladder. Ethan followed close behind him, keeping the tip of the rifle aimed between Hobbs’s shoulder blades.
The ceiling was low, and Ethan couldn’t see anything. “Light,” he said.
He heard Hobbs fumbling around, and then a flashlight clicked on. The beam was weak and flickering. It swept the perimeter of the room, revealing dirt, piles of gravel, and debris.
Then finally the beam found a human form. AnnieLee was curled in a corner, her hands and feet tied. Her eyes were closed and there was tape over her mouth.
“AnnieLee,” Ethan gasped.
Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified.
Ethan felt himself slam back into his body, back into reality. Dear God, he thought, she’s alive. His knees almost buckled.
But they didn’t. He turned toward Hobbs, who was heading for the ladder. Ethan grabbed him by the collar and spun him around. Hobbs went to swing at him with the heavy flashlight, but Ethan ducked. Low and at close range, Ethan threw a vicious uppercut, tightening his fist right on impact. His knuckles slammed into Hobbs’s chin with a sickening crack. Hobbs’s head snapped back and hit the ladder. Then Hobbs careened sideways and dropped, unconscious. The flashlight hit the ground and went out.
Ethan didn’t bother to hunt for it in the dark. He just crawled to AnnieLee, calling her name over and over, even though she couldn’t answer. When he got to her, his desperate hands found her face and then her shoulders, and he pulled her to a sitting position, pulled her against his wildly pounding heart. His eyes stung and he wiped at them—he was crying. “You’re okay, you’re okay. Tell me you’re okay,” he begged as he tugged the tape from her mouth.
“Ow,” AnnieLee said as the tape came away. She leaned forward as he struggled to unbind her wrists. Her hair was damp; she smelled like sweat and fear. “I’m okay,” she said, her voice cracked and raw. “But I’ve sure as shit been better.”
Ethan nearly shouted in relief. Then the knots were undone and her hands were free. He helped her to stand, and she stumbled toward the ladder. He sent up a prayer of thanks as he followed her out of the cellar, just as the sun began to rise in the sky.
Chapter
93
Two hours later, AnnieLee Keyes—née Rose McCord—was sitting in a small-town police station, wrapped inside one of Ethan’s flannel shirts and looking tired, pale, and angry. Ethan was standing and sipping from a Styrofoam cup full of weak Folgers and watching as the police chief, a paunchy, mustached good ol’ boy by the name of Anderson, tried to coax out the story of what had happened to her.