Airel - Aaron Patterson [64]
We drove for a long time, a few hours, which gave me plenty of time to worry about my parents, my best friend Kim, my life, my dreams, prom, homecoming, my trusty little Civic, the paper that was due next week. Most of it was becoming completely worthless except my family and Kim. I alternated between tears of desperation and unbridled anger as my host, my stalker, drove tirelessly on.
I could feel the road winding, rising and falling, and figured we were north of town in the mountains. Eventually I could tell that we turned onto a dirt road. After a brief section of very bumpy terrain and steep inclines we came to a stop. The Yukon still felt like it was moving and my head was swimming. The silence was deafening.
I had tried a few times to wriggle free but found that it was pointless. He was a professional, judging by everything I had seen so far. I figured even if I were able to free myself, it was pointless to make a break for it. What would I do, fight off a professional hitman, carry Michael on my back, and go—where? Up a creek? That’s about the size of it.
The driver’s side door opened—Michael’s side. There, bathed in moonlight, the killer looked at me, expressionless. He began to free Michael from the restraints, checking his pulse. “He’ll be fine. Just a headache in the morning, that’s all.”
I was taken aback by his gentleness. Why would he care if the two people he had kidnapped had a headache in the morning? Was this guy nuts? Was he just one of those creeps that thought he loved his victims, a tear running down his face as he killed them?
He slung Michael over his shoulder as if he weighed no more than a sack of feathers, and turned and walked away. He was gone for quite a while. I took the time to look through the open door, out into thick woods.
Trees and ferns filled the landscape in shades of moonlit gray, the chilly mountain air refreshing and reviving me. I allowed myself to relax, taking it all in, trying not to think of werewolves or anything else otherworldly. I tried not to be anxious about the open door and the fact that I was defenselessly strapped to a chair. I tried not to think about what predators might be stalking the deep woods after midnight, and how I might smell to them.
Without warning, my door opened. I jumped in my restraints, jerking ungracefully. The blond man, unknown to me but awkwardly familiar because of all the times I had seen him, unhooked my restraints. I was free and looked at him dumbly. He backed away, allowing me to climb down out of the SUV by myself.
He looked at me with curiosity and turned, expecting me to follow him. I did, not because I wanted to, but because as I looked around I saw that there was nowhere to run. No lights from nearby cabins or anything else to offer a glimmer of hope, so I followed my captor.
We came to a space in the forest. Not really a clearing, just a small space in the undergrowth, barely noticeable, carpeted in pine needles. In the center of it, as if discarded by some inconsiderate squatter, lay a wooden door with an old brass knob. It was decidedly out of place, but it blended into the forest floor, rotting, the paint peeling. Ahead of me my captor stopped by the door, turned to face me and squatted down, his hand resting on the doorknob.
With a light snick, the doorknob released from the catch and opened upward on silent hinges, standing wide open. Below, as if leading down into a storm cellar, were stone steps lit from within. I could not see the end. Lit by this shaft of light, the forest around us appeared surreal, with