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Desperation Falls

By Rich Bullock

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Prologue


“You’d better step away from that laptop, buster, or I’m gonna have to get my new gun.”
Lena McKinley’s husband, Bobby Blaylock, had grabbed their MacBook the moment he’d come home from the office. It wasn’t like he didn’t spend enough time on his work laptop he carried everywhere.
Bobby raised his hands. “Don’t shoot.” He flashed her his movie-star grin, not a bad imitation for someone not in “the industry.” He might be a Los Angeles assistant district attorney, but he had star qualities in Lena’s eyes.
“I promise I won’t be long, babe.” Bobby’s head dipped in concentration as his fingers flew and clicked. “I just have to copy some files on the office server.”
Lena blew wayward hairs out of her eyes as she placed the bread and salad on the dining room table. She’d been slaving in the kitchen all afternoon, trying not to ruin their special dinner. No easy task, that. As a carpenter and general contractor, she could handle a down-to-the-studs remodel easier than preparing a perfectly timed dinner.
She recognized Bobby’s laser intensity as he slipped back into work mode. Clearly, breaking his focus tonight would take some extra effort. She walked behind the couch and snaked her arms around his neck. Bobby half closed the laptop screen, hiding his work. Something big and secret. Whatever it was, it deepened his worry lines when he didn’t notice her watching him. He turned into her kiss, his lips soft and warm against hers.
“You taste like pasta sauce,” he said, licking his lips as she broke the kiss. He reached an arm around her head and pulled her down until they met again.
“Okay, Mr. Hotshot Attorney,” Lena mumbled against his mouth. “I’m giving you a two-minute warning. I busted my butt on this anniversary dinner. So if you’re not done with work, I’ll have to arrest you.”
Bobby trailed kisses along her jaw toward her ear. “Are you going to use handcuffs?”
He’d reached the sensitive spot on her neck and Lena’s knees went weak. She would have chucked the whole dinner idea right then if she hadn’t heard a splat and sizzle from the other room. Lena put a hand on his chest.
“If I don’t get back to the kitchen, the pasta will boil over and you’ll be cleaning the stove.”
Bobby raised an eyebrow, then released her. “Later then.”
It was a promise Lena would hold him to.
“I’ll be done soon,” Bobby called as she hurried toward the kitchen.
Of all the guys who’d gone gaga over her cable TV persona—including a few memorable nut cases who gave her the creeps—he was the one who had wrangled an introduction by calling in every favor he could with the show’s production people. Lena kidded with her friends that he’d had to fix a thousand parking tickets to win her hand. It was probably true. But she was the lucky one.
For their first date, he’d come to her door not just with flowers but also with a super cool Leatherman Multi-Tool with belt sheath. She almost wore it on the date.
So most of the time Lena didn’t mind that he was tenacious in his work and passionate about his cases. She understood. She was just as bad when it came to tools. Just not tonight.
Lena drained the pasta in a colander, filling the kitchen with white steam. He’d wanted to take her out for their six-month celebration, but with their hectic schedules they already spent too much time in restaurants. Tonight she wanted him all to herself.
Plus, she had a special gift for him. The flat box on the dining table contained her renewed contract—never a sure thing in LA—and she’d had the studio officially change her last name to Blaylock. From now on, it would read that way on the show credits, and allow Bobby to boast all over again to his colleagues that he’d married the sexy carpenter from the Nail It! TV show. She grinned. He’d love it.
Just as she loved the new Paslode Framing Nailer he’d given her this morning. The nail gun, fuel cartridges, and manual sat on the other end of the dining table. She’d read every word, and her fingers itched to try the gun out on some scrap two-by-fours in the garage. But that would have to wait.
Lena clicked on the stereo and Andrea Bocelli serenaded them as she filled two oven-warmed bowls with spaghetti. She ladled on homemade meat sauce, courtesy of their short, round neighbor, Mrs. Lagano—Mamma L to everyone—whose Italian was still better than her English. Lena hand-grated fresh Parmesan over the top, and added sprigs of parsley exactly as she’d practiced with Mamma L. Lena breathed in the melting cheese and sauce, amazed at how much better it smelled than her normal can-based recipe.
Lena sighed. Bobby had said she was “cooking challenged,” right after the first time she’d presented him with scrambled eggs.
But hey, she was a TV star—even if it was only a cable home improvement show—and stars never cooked. It was like a Hollywood rule or something. She picked up the bowls and left the kitchen, snapping off the light switch with her elbow on the way out.
“Okay, Counselor, step away from the computer,” she said, using her best command voice and holding the bowls aloft. “Unless you want to do hard time with hot noodles.”
“All done.” Bobby closed the laptop and rose from the sofa.
Lena was lowering the dishes to the dining table when firecrackers sounded on the street out front. Searing stings slammed into her wrist, shoulder, and leg. She collapsed as the light fixture over the table flashed and sparked like a neon sign above a seedy motel. The bowls of food shattered and landed a foot from where her face hit the new Berber. The white fibers hungrily soaked in the red sauce. She blinked at Bobby towering above her, his body jerking like a macabre marionette, then toppling. Shards of glass, wood, and fabric rained like airborne confetti.
The popping ceased, and tires screeched outside their shattered living room window.
“Bobby!” She had to get to him. Her left wrist wouldn’t work, and something wet kept running into her right eye, but her right leg was fine. The laptop lay between them, its silver surface dotted with bright red. Lena army-crawled over it until she was side by side with her husband, like they had been in bed this morning before rushing off to their busy days.
With her good hand, she gently pushed his long hair off his face. His eyes were open. That was good, wasn’t it?
Their color was what had first attracted her—brown, with beautiful gold flecks that came alive in the sun, and especially when he looked at her.
But Bobby’s eyes weren't looking at her now. And all the gold had vanished.



Chapter 1


Thirteen months later - December

This was her one chance to escape. God help her if she failed.
But Teal Kinshaw hadn’t seen any sign of the deity in this stinking basement.
Grit crunched under her bare foot and she froze mid-step, not daring even a shallow breath until her lungs burned hot and lack of oxygen blackened the edges of her vision. Even then she allowed only the barest trickle of air past her dry tongue, just enough to quiet her throbbing heart.
The man hadn’t stirred from his slumber in the blue velour recliner, the only chair in the room. She’d never learned his true name, but mentally called him Fred, after Freddy Krueger in the Nightmare on Elm Street slasher movies. Fred didn’t have the razor-armed glove of the fictional character, but one thing she knew about this man: he’d kill her sooner or later. Sooner would be a kindness. His chest rose and fell evenly. The three cutouts in the ski mask screamed Serial Killer! It always covered his face and gave away little. The only thing she’d ever noticed was a tiny white scar on his upper lip.
Don’t move, Fred.
He didn’t. She dared another few inches, searching the dark concrete this time before lowering her foot.
A single fluorescent shop light fixture cast stark shadows, its long cord extending to a wall-mounted receptacle. She shuddered at the flowing electricity, and touched her right wrist where Fred always attached the first conducting strap. He took perverse pleasure in explaining the process as he bound her:
“You see, you need a positive and a ground. You always need a good ground…” and how increasing the voltage boosted the current flow, how the salty sweat pouring from her glands was a good thing and improved conductivity.
Fred snorted in his sleep, and she crouched low while he coughed and then finally settled into a restless slumber. Her left leg cramped as she rose—a symptom that had begun after the third shock treatment. She ventured two steps forward, carefully skirting two crumpled beer cans behind the recliner.
Twenty more feet down the narrow room, then up seven plank stairs and through the door at the top. Easy.
Are you locked, Mr. Door? A hundred times she’d asked, staring at it between the bars of her cage. But like always, the door kept its secret.
Another step.
Should she try for a weapon? Strike Fred unconscious? A rough workbench held a 27" television, a VCR and tapes, rags, dozens of dusty canning jars, and stacks of newspapers. A college-sized refrigerator underneath contained his beer and a few bottles of water he doled out to her if she obeyed. A mismatched washer and dryer huddled under layers of grime so thick she marveled how clothes could be cleaned by machines so filthy. She’d never seen him use them. Nothing in the dim light looked substantial enough to bash in a man’s head. Worse case she’d wake him and increase his anger—if that were possible.
One tiny crust of pizza lay on the floor beside the chair, missed from tonight’s dinner—or last night’s. She held her breath and leaned closer to Fred’s arm where it flopped over the chair arm. Heat radiated from the hairy skin to her cheek, and she kept her eyes on his masked profile. She snatched the baked dough and popped it in her mouth, not dwelling on what might have crawled on it—or might still be crawling on it. Any bugs were no doubt cleaner than his fingers and puffy lips.
Too stale to bite without a crunch, she let the hard scrap soak up sparse moisture from her tongue. The pizza box lay askew atop magazines on the table in front of his chair. Her mouth watered at the thought of a slice covered in pepperoni, cheese, and other toppings. But the cardboard lid was closed and she didn’t dare try to open it for the noise it might make. She’d take another dry crust off the floor, but there were none to be had. Besides, she had to keep moving.
The threadbare La-Z-Boy fell behind, as did the snores. But this was even worse—hearing the snorts but never knowing if he faked sleep while watching, that twisted grin showing gleaming white teeth as he called out, “Where you going, girl?” He’d fooled her before.
She drew even with The Table—the place he carried out all his “games.”
“We’re going to play a game on The Table today, little girl. Are you ready?” He always asked—as if she had a choice.
Sweat and blood permeated the platform’s rough surface—not all hers—and rust-stained ropes hung from large iron rings along the sides and ends. How many others had felt the hand-hewn boards at their backs, or had their faces pressed against its pungent cracks and fissures? She may not be The Table’s last occupant, but it may very well be the last thing she saw if her escape failed.
Under The Table, nearly hidden behind one of the four-by-four legs, a bit of color shone against the blackened concrete. With shaking fingers, Teal reached for the object, stretching half under the low frame until she could touch it. Its soft threads were cool from its time on the floor. It was the only thing in this room that belonged to her, and she took that as a sign. She wrapped the bracelet tight in her hand and continued her agonizingly slow journey.
Two more steps.
And then, somehow, she’d reached the stairs. She nearly gasped in relief, suddenly aware she’d always assumed failure, expected the man would awake from his slumber, kick forward in the recliner, and snag her wrist before she could…
She shook her head, slowing her breathing. Concentrate. Dizziness washed over her, and she yearned to sit on the old steps and rest. But there’d be no rest if she were caught. She pinched her forearm until the blood welled and pain cleared her brain, then she examined the incline before her.
Cut from the same thick boards as The Table, they appeared too sturdy to squeak, but she knew differently. For weeks, every time Fred descended the stairs, she’d peered through her cage, memorized where he’d placed each booted foot, and listened for which areas were silent or spoke distinctly.
With great care, she set her right foot on the first tread and walked her toes forward for a firm footing. She’d never had the advantage of seeing him ascend—being unconscious and thrown back into her cage after each of his games limited one’s observation skills. She leaned forward and put weight on her foot. No squeak.
Now, left tread edge, then right, then two lefts, another right, and two more lefts. Seven steps—practiced repeatedly in her mind like a tennis pro visualizing his game—and she finally stood at the top, her hand on the doorknob. A twist and the door opened noiselessly. Unlocked.
Teetering on the upper step, she fought for balance. The doorknob slipped from her fingers and slid away. Before she could stop it, the heavy door bumped against the wall, and a sleepy “huh?” sounded from behind her.
Noise no longer mattered. She jumped through the doorway. Speed was everything now.
She sprinted down a narrow hall. The barest of images registered: two closed doors, an open one framing a bathroom vanity gray with grime, a cockeyed painting of some bucolic vineyard hillside, a lone bloody handprint smeared at knee level—not hers. After so long on the cold concrete, the carpeting—dirty as it was—felt heavenly against her feet, and she had the insane desire to pause and wriggle her toes in the soft threads.
At the end of the hallway she spied a slab door painted gaudy salmon so it stood like a beacon. Dents covered its surface as if a hundred shoes had kicked it. But where did it lead?
Behind her, boots thumped across the basement floor.
Please lead outside.
She wrenched the door open.

* * *

“Admit it, Blaylock,” Lena mumbled to herself, “you’re in love.” She shivered in delight as rain dripped off the back of her ball cap and ran rivulets inside her shirt. She hadn’t felt like this since…well, since Bobby.
Even the gathering December twilight couldn’t dampen her soaring spirits. Before her was the future. She just wished Bobby were here to share it. Absently, she rubbed the scar on her wrist where one of the bullets had passed through. They said she’d been lucky.
“I take it you like what you’ve seen so far?” Roger Trollen’s voice came from behind, obsequious and hopeful as the wind dislodged fat droplets off the shielding oak leaves above.
Lena dropped her wrist. Maybe her luck was changing.
Yes, she more than liked what she saw. Perfect came to mind, but she didn’t want to tip her hand. Realtor Roger could suffer a while longer. He was clearly doing his best, playing his assigned role even in the face of rapidly deteriorating weather. Lena strode from beneath the branches and headed for the stairs of the third cabin along the lakeshore. They’d already seen the two other waterfront cabins, and two more up the hill—all part of an old resort compound on the shore of Storm Lake. Buying the whole property would be a massive bite out of her finances.
“It’s almost dark. I don’t think there’s much to see in there,” Roger called, then followed her from the tree’s meager protection from the heavy downpour. “It’s just like the others.”
Lena stepped over one of the streamlets rounding the side of the cabin. The mini-river rushed downhill toward the lake, carrying leaves and twigs in an ever-widening flow. She covered a smile as the realtor hopped over the deepening ditch, only to land in a hole on the other side. Water sloshed over the tops of his leather loafers as he scurried out onto higher—though no less muddy—ground. He shook first one foot, then the other, but his dance did little to dislodge the sticky clumps of black adobe for which California’s central coast was famous.
Lena shook her head. Who wore loafers out here? Her ten-inch work boots repelled the water and crud as she mounted the steps to the porch. Without waiting for the realtor, she twisted the doorknob and hip-bumped the stuck door. Lena added the door to her mental list of repairs.
Roger was correct that the layout was generally the same as the other cabins. A small living room to the right consisted of scarred hardwood flooring, walls that might have once been beige, and a potbelly woodstove with its door hanging by one hinge. Black soot spread across the ceiling above the stove, and the windows were framed with red-checked scraps that might have once been curtains. Straight ahead, a hallway led to the back of the house, but with the light failing and no electricity to the property, she couldn’t make out details. The bathroom was undoubtedly as much a disaster as the others.
Lena switched on the tiny penlight she kept attached to her key ring. It was good for finding the keyhole in the dark, but not much else. She played the light around the dining area to the left of the door. A square card table sat forlornly, listing on a bent leg. A single folding chair lay on a pile of rubble under the front window…a window that would have a another fantastic view of Storm Lake on a sunny day. Cha-ching! More rental dollars.
Lena shone the light into the galley kitchen’s open refrigerator. Dirty, but no mold. If it worked, that was one less appliance she’d have to buy.
“I hate to rush you, Ms. Blaylock, but with this rain, the creek crossing will be getting deeper. We don’t—”
Lena held up a hand in acknowledgement as she pirouetted, surveying the serviceable countertops, cupboards, filthy gas stove, and single sink beneath a six-paned window. She could work with it all. The rain thrummed against the roof, and she pointed the light at the ceiling. Too dark to look for leaks, but she was certain there were some. She couldn’t wait to get started.
“All right, Roger, I’ve seen enough. It really is quite a mess.” Lena gave her best dramatic sigh, one she’d learned from her mother, and was gratified as Roger’s hopeful countenance sagged a little. “Let’s head back to your office and discuss this…opportunity.” She shook her head in disappointment, hoping it wasn’t over the top. Sometimes her television training came in pretty handy.
With his own sigh—of relief, probably—Roger nearly sprinted out of the cabin and pranced his way through mud and water back to his gold Lexus. Most realtors showing their own listing would be excited about not having to split the commission on a sale, but Roger was clearly a fair-weather agent. Probably too many episodes of Selling New York. Lena ducked into the passenger seat. Mud covered the floor mats. He’d probably have to get the car detailed after this trip. Perfect.
The sedan slid sideways on the dirt road, and Roger let out a little squeak before he got it corrected. Lena couldn’t wait to get her Jeep Wrangler up here and throw it into four-wheel drive.
She was counting on today’s rain and mud to work in her favor, especially if they tracked said mud onto the white carpet in Roger’s immaculate office in Mission Peak. If he resisted her lowball offer, she’d suggest another visit tomorrow, the last day of her visit, when the heaviest rain was predicted. One thing her dad had taught her about real estate: never reject a first offer too quickly; you might not get another. Lena hoped Realtor Roger knew that maxim.
Wet blowing leaves splattered the Lexus’s windshield as Roger squinted at the dark, constantly searching for the road. Lena smiled with each pothole, each stretch of pooling water that caused the car to hydroplane just enough to cause Roger to slow. The weather was a gift from God, and right now she could use a little good fortune.
Please, God.

* * *

Please, God!
She had to get away.
Thick, misty fog had swirled around her the moment she left the house. Little light came from the sky, and Teal couldn’t tell if it was sunrise or sunset. If the former, she’d be in trouble.
Within minutes, each ragged breath seared her throat as she hurdled basketball-size rocks and dodged menacing trees. She winced and hopped as something sharp speared her bare foot, but she clamped her teeth against the pain and used it for speed. She cast a fleeting search over her shoulder, raking the billowing gray for a ski-masked face. And his voice. Fred.
She couldn’t hear him over the drumming of her heart, but she knew he was back there. He’d never let her go, not after marking her. If he caught her… That shuddering possibility, the memory of what he’d done to her body, propelled her forward into what she recognized as the deepening night.
A sapling branch slapped her face and sent her spinning to the ground. She rolled to a stop and sat up, wiping the stinging tears away with the back of her hand. Every bone ached as she pushed to her feet and turned in a circle. Which way had she come? Which way had she been going? A wrong choice would be deadly.
In the murky light, she located the offending low-hanging branch and saw the scattered leaves where she’d sprawled. Her body begged to lie down and rest. Instead, she shoved past a prickly bush and hurled down a slope as fast as she dared.

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