Chapter 46

46

Present Day

Becky dropped the shotgun as if it burned her fingers and cowered in a corner.

Randy and Wylie reached for the weapons at the same time. Wylie grabbed the hatchet, Randy the shotgun. They both brandished their weapons—each waiting for the other to make the first move.

"You killed my parents." Wylie's voice shook so hard she thought she might crack into a thousand pieces. "You beat my brother, strangled him, and hid his body in the barn. You tried to frame him and you kidnapped my best friend. You shot me. Why? I don't understand."

Randy just laughed. Wylie wanted to throw herself at him. Wanted to dig her fingernails into his eyes, to scratch that smug, superior look from his face.

"We're leaving," Wylie said. To Randy, she said, "If you let us leave, we won't hurt you."

Randy turned toward Wylie. She was ready. She wasn't going down without a fight. She thought of Seth, of Becky, and the little girl. She had too much to live for.

She swung the hatchet but only managed to send a glancing blow off Randy's shoulder. He tried to wrench the weapon from Wylie's hands, but she held tight. He let go and she stumbled backward, striking her head against the floor. Dazed, she dizzily tried to get to her feet.

She prepared herself for another attack, but he stepped right past her toward Becky.

Wylie reached for him but missed, instead knocking over the woodpile so that the kindling scattered across the floor. Randy stood in front of Becky as she cowered before him, and then he slammed her into the wall behind her. She crumpled at his feet.

Wylie jumped atop Randy, but he shrugged her away and she hit the floor hard.

Groaning, Wylie pulled herself into a fetal position, trying to protect her head from further attack. She could hear Randy's heavy breaths as he stood over her, deciding what to do next.

He lowered himself down so that he was kneeling beside her. "Relax," he whispered. "It's all going to be over soon." With that, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, lifting her head from the ground and slamming it to the floor. Stars exploded behind her eyes, the pain white-hot and searing.

Wylie felt the world fall away from her, and everything went to black.

Minutes passed or perhaps hours. Wylie forced herself back from the brink. It was like swimming through black tar, but she knew if she didn't stay conscious, she would die. Becky and the little girl would die.

Pain radiated through her skull. Wylie swallowed back the vomit that crept into her throat and concentrated on keeping her breath slow and regular. She didn't need to appear dead, just unconscious. Once she got her bearings, she could fight back.

Wylie hoped that the little girl had made it to the barn, found a hiding place that would buy her some time.

This would be the time to make her move, Wylie thought. To get up and fight back.

Wylie heard footsteps, and then she felt Randy standing over her.

He bent over her, and Wylie could feel the heat of his breath on her face. She tried not to wince at the foul odor. He smelled of garlic and onions and something else. Fear, Wylie decided. Randy was afraid. His perfectly created world had been disrupted. Becky and the girl almost made it out.

Now Wylie was the only one who could help give Becky what she wanted for her daughter. Freedom.

Randy slid his arms beneath her armpits and began to drag her across the floor. He paused to open the door, and the blast of cold air almost made Wylie gasp, but she managed to remain still. He pulled her down the front steps, then he paused.

Wylie knew what was going through his mind. He was going to let her freeze to death out here. He didn't want to waste any more time with her. He wanted the girl. And where was Becky? And Jackson Henley? Had Randy killed them? Had Wylie found her friend only to lose her again?

Randy released her arms and scooped her up against his shoulder as one would a baby. She let her head loll against his neck, trying to make contact with any exposed part of his body. DNA, she kept thinking. Collect as much hair, sweat, cells that she could.

Randy tossed her face-first into the snow, and the shock from the pain nearly caused her to cry out. He came to her side, bent over, and arranged her head so that the side he slammed against the floor was down. The cold was a welcome balm against the fiery pain that radiated through her head.

Wylie didn't know how long he stood there staring down at her, but it seemed to be forever.

Wylie held perfectly still, and finally, Randy stepped away from her, his heavy boots crunching through the crusty snow. He was looking for the girl now. She waited until she heard the creak of the barn door before she stirred. Wylie's head felt like lead. When she staggered to her feet, she looked down on the imprint she left behind—a bloodied halo atop a snow angel.

She zigzagged toward the barn, willing herself to stay on her feet. She had to find a way to overpower Randy, but the world kept tilting. When her hand finally touched the rough wood of the barn, Wylie bent over and vomited. Terrified that Randy heard her retching, Wylie pressed herself against the side of the barn, willing her stomach to settle and the spinning to stop. She had only one chance to get this right.

She peeked through the narrow opening in the barn door and scanned the dark interior for any sign of the girl or Randy. The storm was dying. The wind had calmed, and night was beginning to fray at the edges. It would be light soon. Did she go inside and confront him? Or should she wait until he came back outside with the girl? No, that was too risky. If she was going to act, it would have to be now.

Wylie crouched down and slipped into the barn, careful not to touch the squeaky door and alert Randy of her presence. From her vantage point, she couldn't see him, but she heard his lumbering footsteps and heavy breathing as he rummaged behind stacks of boxes, searching for the girl.

Wylie ducked down at the rear of the Bronco and looked around for a weapon. Hanging on a hook against the barn wall were a number of lethal-looking tools—lawn rakes, heavy-headed shovels, and bedding forks. All had long handles and could be cumbersome to wield as a weapon. Instead, she set her sights on a warren hoe with a sharp V-shaped blade. Long enough to keep Randy out of arms reach but not so heavy that Wylie couldn't wield it. To reach it, Wylie would have to come out into the open and would most assuredly be spotted by Randy. She'd just have to be faster, smarter.

Before she could move, Randy came into view. He looked upward toward the hayloft. Wylie's heart dropped. If the girl was hiding up there, she was a sitting duck. There was only one way up and one way down. Wylie watched helplessly as Randy made his ascent up the ladder that led to the loft. She prayed that the brittle wooden rungs would snap beneath his weight and send him tumbling to the ground, but they held fast.

Taking a deep breath, Wylie lunged toward the barn wall and reached for the warren hoe. The garden tools clattered together like wind chimes. She half expected him to come back down the ladder, but he continued upward.

God, she wished she had her gun.

Wylie hurried to the ladder. Above her, Wylie could hear the swish and rasp of Randy rustling through the straw. "Come on out now, pumpkin," he said kindly. "Come to Dad. I'm here to help you. I'm going to take you and your mom home now. And you aren't going to believe what's there waiting for you. It was going to be a surprise, but I got you a puppy. Don't you want to go home and see it?"

With the hoe in one hand, Wylie put her foot on the lower rung of the ladder, reached for the rung just above her head, and then hesitated.

One way up, one way down, Wylie thought again. Wylie began the climb upward, trying to move silently, but her boots scraped against the weathered rungs, and her ragged breathing raced up the ladder in front of her.

As she approached the top, Wylie peeked over the landing, expecting to find Randy standing there, waiting. Instead, he was facing away from her, still kicking at the thick straw. He was moving methodically as if walking the grid of a crime scene.

Wylie eased herself over the edge and crept slowly up behind him, raising the hoe above her shoulder as if holding a baseball bat. Just as she was going to swing, Randy's toe connected with something solid. A loud gasp followed, and the girl scrambled out from the straw.

"There you are," Randy said, holding on to his fatherly tone. "What'd your mom do to your hair? You two trying to run away from me? You know better than that. It's time to go home, honey."

Bits of hay clung to the girl's shorn scalp, and her eyes went back and forth between her father and Wylie, who was still behind him. Wylie put one finger to her lips and waved her hand as if to tell her to move away.

The girl slowly crab-walked backward, putting distance between Randy, until she bumped into the broad side of the barn, below the sharp widow's peak, where the loft doors, when released, swung outward. The only thing holding them shut was a simple slide lock.

"I know you're behind me," Randy said, not bothering with a backward glance. He had no fear. Wylie was nothing but an inconvenience, a gnat to flick aside. "You're not making this easy. I have to give you credit for that. You always were a survivor."

The rage that coiled in her chest began to build. Wylie wanted to beat his skull in, wanted to feel the vibration of metal on bone, wanted him to cry out for mercy like she imagined her family had, the way Becky had, but she had to choose the right moment. Instead, she directed her attention to the little girl.

"Stand up," she told the girl. "I want you to go down the ladder. Once you're down, go inside the house and lock the door. Make sure your mom is okay." The girl looked up, fear etched across her face. "Don't worry, I'll be there in a few minutes. I promise." The girl slowly got to her feet.

"Stay put," Randy countered, and she froze. He turned to face Wylie.

Wylie knew that Randy expected her to swing high with the hoe—to aim at his head. Instead, she set her sights low.

"Go now!" Wylie shouted and swung. With a hiss, the metal rod sliced through the icy air and connected with Randy's knee. With a cry, his legs buckled and he dropped to the ground.

Wylie felt the girl brush by her, but she knew that her work wasn't done yet. As long as Randy was moving, they were both in danger.

"So Jackson Henley was innocent all along?" Wylie said, trying to keep his attention away from the girl. "All these years, everyone called him a monster, but it was you. Only you."

Randy gave a little shrug and staggered to his feet. "It was a happy accident that you two happened to show up on his property and when the dog found the rag with Becky's blood on it. Well, that was just perfect."

"But you had a family. You had a wife and a son. Where did you keep her? How did you keep her hidden for all these years?" Wylie shook her head. "It was a miracle that you pulled it off."

Randy scoffed. "My marriage was over, thank God. And my son hated me. I had plenty of time to plan and prepare the old Richter house. I set up the hog confine there and started fixing up the house and its basement. And with everyone pointing fingers at Jackson Henley, I was in the clear."

"You're sick," Wylie said with disgust. "Evil and sick. And now you plan on killing us all. Finish what you started."

Randy gave a sly smile. "Just you and Henley. The police will think he killed you to finish what he started, and Jackson, well, he'll just disappear. I'm good at that. Making people disappear."

Wylie thought about what might happen to Becky and her daughter if she let Randy walk out of the barn alive. With a guttural scream, she struck Randy again. This time she thrust the sharp, pointed blade forward, slicing through his thick parka and piercing his shoulder.

Randy roared with pain and grasped the shaft of the warren hoe, and for a moment, they were lodged in a surreal game of tug-of-war. It didn't last long. Despite the injury to his shoulder, Randy was bigger and stronger than Wylie and easily pulled it from her grasp.

Relieved of her only weapon, Wylie knew she had to get out of there. The girl was gone and hopefully made it to the house. She glanced at the hayloft door. As children, Wylie and Ethan had spent countless hours swinging from the door's rope to the ground below. She mentally measured the distance to the door and, in a split second, knew that she'd never get past Randy. Her only way out was down the ladder.

Wylie scrambled toward the ladder, her feet slipping on the slick straw but managed to swing her legs over the hayloft ledge. With shaking limbs, she skirted down the first few rungs and jumped to the barn floor below. She landed with a bone-rattling crash. From the hayloft, Randy loomed above her, the shadow monster of her childhood, now flesh and blood.

Outside the barn doors was a snowy wasteland. Icy despair flowed over her. She hadn't been able to save her parents or her brother.

But now there was Becky and her daughter. This was her chance to make up for what she couldn't do all those years ago.

"Give it up," Randy called down to her.

Wylie staggered to her feet. Blood flowed down her temple from the gash in her head. Then a thought came to her. The Bronco. It was at the far end of the barn. Wylie started to run toward the vehicle. She leaned against the car and scanned the barn in search of a weapon. At least she could go down fighting, shed as much of Randy's blood as possible. She waited until Randy turned his back in order to begin his descent down the hayloft ladder and then sprang into action. She yanked open the Bronco's door and quickly shut it behind her as she slid into the driver's seat.

She reached into her pants pocket in search of her car keys, all the while watching Randy descend. From the glove box she grabbed a flashlight and set it on the seat next to her.

With shaking hands, she tried to insert the key into the ignition but fumbled and dropped the key ring. "Dammit," she muttered, snaking her hand between the seats, feeling around frantically until her fingers landed on the cold metal.

Wylie took a deep breath and willed her trembling hands to still. She slid the key into the ignition and forced herself to wait. The timing had to be perfect. She clicked her seat belt into place, counted to three, and turned the key. She flipped on the headlights and Randy looked over his shoulder when he heard the roar of the engine coming to life.

Wylie threw the car into gear and stomped on the accelerator. The Bronco surged forward. The scream of metal on metal filled her ears as the speeding vehicle grazed the riding lawn mower pushing the Bronco too far right. Wylie swung the steering wheel to the left and back on course.

Through the windshield, Wylie could see Randy clinging to the ladder trying to decide what to do. He hesitated a split second too long. And for one brief moment, their eyes locked, and Wylie saw the fear in Randy's eyes.

She imagined it was the same terror that her mother and father felt before he shot and killed them. The terror that Ethan felt when Randy wrapped his gloved hands around his neck and squeezed, the terror that thirteen-year-old Becky felt when he stole her away from her family and subjected her to the unspeakable. And the terror the girl felt growing up with a monster.

Wylie gripped the steering wheel more tightly, preparing for impact. The Bronco struck Randy squarely in the legs and he screamed. Later, Wylie would wonder if it was the snap of the ladder or Randy's legs that she heard just before he flipped over the hood and bounced across the roof of the car.

Wylie slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. She careened into the barn wall. The crack of splintering wood filled her ears, the crunch of metal and the shatter of glass as she came face-to-face with a wall of white.