Chapter 44

44

Present Day

There was a knock at the door, and Wylie and Becky went silent. The girl looked up at them anxiously.

"Please don't answer it," Becky begged. "Please. It's him—he has so many friends. He always told us no matter how far we ran, he'd find a way to get us back."

"You're safe. I locked him in the shed. I think I should answer it," Wylie said, getting to her feet. "I know you're scared but we need to get the police here, and we need to get you to a hospital. We can't stay here any longer. We need to leave."

There was more knocking on the door. "Hey," a voice called out. "Everything okay in there?"

"It's him," Becky said, holding her daughter close and pulling her as far back into the closet as she could. "He's come for us."

"Stay here, I'll go check," Wylie said.

"No, no, don't leave us," Becky begged.

"I'm not going anywhere. Just hold on," Wylie went to the front window and pulled aside the curtains. "It's Randy Cutter again," she said with relief, letting the curtain drop. "He was here earlier. He said he would come back. He can help us."

"No, it's him," Becky whispered. "He's the one. It's Randy."

"Randy Cutter?" Wylie asked in confusion. "It can't be. I told you, it's Jackson Henley. All they really had on him was the cloth with your blood on it. But it wasn't enough."

"Blood?" Becky asked. "What blood?"

"A search dog found a rag covered in your blood near the Henley property, but it just wasn't enough. But don't worry, he'll never hurt you again."

"I know who took me," Becky insisted, panic rising in her voice. "Josie, it was Randy Cutter."

For a moment, Wylie couldn't speak. No one had called her Josie in years. "But it had to be Jackson," Wylie said. Her grandparents had told her that a few days after the murder, Jackson Henley had been arrested on weapons charges. She had confirmed it when she was researching the book. He had been badly burned during the arrest and spent several months in a burn unit in Des Moines, and when he was well enough he was sent to the men's prison in Anamosa for eighteen months.

"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.

The room was growing colder with each passing moment. Her fingers stiffened, and she released the hatchet to rub her hands together to try and warm them up.

Wylie cocked her ear. Had she heard something? A soft shuffling sound?

She waited to see if the sound came again and relaxed when it didn't.

That's when a terrible thought struck Wylie. The broken window in the back door. He could easily remove the cardboard and reach inside and unlock the door.

Wylie sensed Randy's presence before hearing or seeing him. She froze in her spot behind the couch and tightened her fingers around the shaft of the hatchet. She held her breath knowing that he was only a few steps away from her.

There was a soft click, and suddenly the room was cast in a ghostly light.

"Josie, Becky," Randy sing-songed. "I know you're in here."

Wylie pressed her fingers to her mouth to hold back the scream that rose in her throat.

His shadow crawled across the wall. He was getting closer. "Come on," he called out. "Did you really think I would let you leave? You know better than that. You belong to me."

Then he was standing over her, staring down. He raised the shotgun and pointed it directly at Wylie's head. "And you," he said ruefully. "I wish I would have done this the last time I tried," he said and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. He looked down at his weapon, perplexed, and Wylie leaped up, swinging the hatchet. She struck him on the shoulder, his thick parka taking the brunt of the blow. It was enough to throw him off balance and the shotgun tumbled from his hands, striking the floor.

The hatchet slipped from Wylie's fingers and skidded across the floor and out of sight. As Randy and Wylie fought to find the weapons, there was the thunderous sound of footsteps on the stairs, and Becky stepped into the beam of light. She pounced on the shotgun, picked it up, and aimed it at Wylie and Randy as they struggled on the floor.

"Stop," Becky screamed. "Stop!" Randy released Wylie and they both staggered to their feet.

"Run," Wylie said to the little girl. "Run and hide. Now."

The girl didn't move.

"Go now," Wylie said.

The girl shook her head defiantly. Wylie and Becky exchanged a look. "Run," Becky said. "Go now."

"Chamber's jammed," Randy said with confidence. "Nothing will happen if you pull the trigger."

"You don't know that," Wylie said. She moved slowly toward the girl while Becky kept the shotgun trained on Randy. Wylie snatched the girl into her arms, carried her across the floor, and opened the front door. Tas slipped past them and out the door as Wylie set the girl on the front porch. "Do what I told you, now. Run and hide. It's going to be okay, I promise." Wylie closed the door hoping the girl would run to the barn and take cover.

Becky kept the shotgun pinned on Randy Cutter, who was slowly inching toward her. "Stay put," Becky ordered, and Randy froze.

Wylie couldn't make any sense of what was happening. Over the years, she had made an uneasy peace with the truth. Knowing that Jackson Henley had killed her family, had taken Becky, and had gotten away with it. Now the real killer was standing right in front of her. Wylie remembered the day after the murders when Randy Cutter had walked into the barn. The slick knot of fear that had filled her chest.

"Give me the gun, Becky," Randy said in a low, soothing voice. "I know you don't want to hurt me. I love you."

Becky's hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold on to the shotgun.

"Hand me the gun," Wylie said. "I can do it."

"Don't listen to her, Becky," Randy said. "Who's taken care of you all this time? Who gave you a baby? I did. No one else was there for you. Just me. No one even cared that you were gone."

Becky's face went slack. She's giving up , Wylie thought. She's going to give him the gun.

"Don't listen to him, Becky," Wylie snapped. "He doesn't love you. He killed my parents and my brother. He shot me. He stole you. Everyone looked for you. The entire town. For years. Your mom has never given up. Never."

"Becky, honey," Randy said, taking a small step toward her.

Becky pulled the trigger. The wall behind Randy exploded, sending shards of plaster in the air. Becky pulled the trigger again, this time striking the ceiling. Both Randy and Wylie shielded their heads from the falling debris. Becky pulled the trigger again and again until the chamber was empty.