“The man who took you, he has burns over a good part of his body, right? His leg and arms and neck?” Wylie asked still not ready to give up the idea that Becky’s kidnapper was Jackson.
“No,” Becky shook her head. “You need to listen to me. It’s Randy Cutter.” She looked at Wylie, terror in her eyes. “He’s outside right now. I know him. I know his voice, dammit, I’ve heard it nearly every day for the last twenty years.” Wylie stared at Becky and then looked to the little girl for confirmation. She nodded.
“Jesus,” Wylie breathed. Randy Cutter? It didn’t make any sense.
“Hello,” Randy called out. “I came out to check on you and I saw a man creeping around the house.”
Jackson Henley. Oh, God, she had locked him in the toolshed. How had she been so wrong about him? How had everyone been so wrong?
“Maybe he’ll go away,” Wylie whispered.
“He won’t leave,” Becky said dully. “He’ll never let us go.”
“Hey, you’re making me nervous,” Randy called through the door. “I’m worried about you. I’m coming in, okay?” The doorknob rattled and Becky emitted a small squeak of fear.
Wylie felt in her coat pocket for her gun. It wasn’t there. She scanned the floor, searched the couch cushions. Where had it gone? They would be dead without that gun.
They had to arm themselves with something. Wylie thought of the knife and hatchet sitting on the shelf above them. She grabbed them and pressed the knife into Becky’s hands. “It’s all we have right now,” she said.
To the little girl she said, “If I tell you to run, you go out to the barn and hide. It will be cold, but there are lots of hiding spots. I’ll come find you when it’s safe.”
The girl nodded, her face pale. Wylie handed each of them a flashlight. “Keep them off unless you really need it. We don’t want him to know where we are.”
Wylie tiptoed around and turned off each of the flashlights illuminating the room until all that was left was the glow from the fireplace. Wondering if she had just sealed their fate, Wylie poured water over the fire. It hissed and spit, and the room went black.
She checked her watch. It was still an hour until dawn.
“It’s going to be okay,” Wylie whispered. To that, Becky said, “I can’t run. I won’t be able to keep up with you. Please, just take care of my daughter.”
“I’ll take care of both of you,” Wylie promised, clutching Becky’s hand.
“What should we do?” Becky asked.
“We have to separate. Hide in different spots. Remember the little crawl space in my old bedroom?” Wylie asked Becky. “Take her and hide up there. He’ll have a hard time finding you. I’ll stay down here and hide. If he breaks in I’ll be ready.”
“What about Tas?” the girl asked.
“He’ll be okay,” Wylie assured her. He had settled into his dog bed. She didn’t think he would give away her location and considered locking him in the bathroom but decided against it. Maybe Tas would be inspired to protect her if it came to it. “And remember to keep your flashlights off,” Wylie whispered as Becky and the girl rushed up the stairs.
She tried to think of the best spot to hide. Wylie needed to be able to react quickly if Randy broke his way into the house. She wished she had time to search for her gun, but she didn’t dare turn on a flashlight for fear of giving away her location.
Finally, Wylie sat on the floor behind the sofa with the hatchet and waited. She would hear Randy enter the house. She would know where he was; he would have no idea where she was.
The air was bitterly cold and deathly quiet. There was no crackle of flames in the fireplace; the wind outside had died down. Wylie hoped that Jackson Henley was okay and hadn’t frozen to death in the toolshed. She had been terribly wrong about him. The eerie stillness grew up around her like a cocoon.
The minutes ticked by. Wylie counted the seconds in her head. Maybe Randy had given up and just left. He couldn’t stay outside for very long. It was too cold. Wylie quickly dismissed this thought. If Randy Cutter was the one who murdered her family and kidnapped Becky, then he had everything to lose. Becky was right. He would stop at nothing.
How had she not known? Randy Cutter had shot her, chased her into the cornfield, stalked her, and still, Wylie didn’t know who it was. She had doubted her own brother—thought he was capable of slaughtering their parents. I was twelve years old, Wylie reminded herself. But still, anger and guilt swirled through her.