Then he felt it. Just like thirty years ago. For an instant his skin disappeared, blanketing him with a coldness he’d never known, not even in the worst winters. It might’ve lasted a moment; it might’ve lasted a lifetime. Then came a heavenly sensation as new skin hugged him with cozy, merciful warmth.
The sensation only lasted so long before the icy waters welcomed him back to reality. He splashed free of the creek and flopped onto the muddy bank. Shuddering, he lifted an arm in front of his eyes. In the fading sunlight he saw the cuts were gone.
But his skin tone hadn’t changed.
A nauseating mix of relief and disgust swirled within him. He hated to think he’d gone that far, that he’d lost himself like that, that he’d given into Snare and her twisted, empty promises.
Wind slashed across his bare flesh.
Shivering, he reached blindly for a towel.
When he grabbed one, the towel pulled back.
He looked up.
Above him stood Bill Werner, holding the towel in one hand and Karl’s pistol in the other.
61
Karl shivered under the gun barrel. Werner’s eyes worried him more than the weapon itself. The man stared ahead, almost bored, like he was wiping tables after closing time. No fire, no anger, no life in those eyes. No care either. That terrified Karl. When a man didn’t care, he was capable of anything.
A breeze iced Karl’s wet flesh. He trembled, hugging himself against the chills. His clothes lay near. When he shifted toward them, Werner snatched them up like a tangled pom-pom.
“What you skinny dipping for?” Werner asked in a dead tone. “You trade something?” He eyed Karl’s healed neck. “Your skin?”
Karl shivered. “I need that towel.”
“I need my wife. But she’s at the house. Dead at the house. She cut her own throat. Wanna guess why she did that?”
Karl’s heart lurched. “Bill, listen—”
“Take a guess, Karl.”
“I think I know.”
“Then say it.”
“Because…she lost her eyes.”
“She didn’t lose them.” Werner poked the cold barrel against Karl’s forehead. “Say the real reason.”
Karl held still. “Because Trent and Ashlee drove her outta the zone.”
“That’s right.” Werner sniffled. No telling if it was from the cold weather or sorrow. “I oughta return the favor, ya think? It’s only fair. Someone I love died, so your kids oughta learn what that feels like.”
“Wait! Rosita went blind in the first place because of you. Candace said so yesterday while we were digging. Bill, you gotta look at yourself in the mirror.”
Werner blinked, but his resolved expression didn’t change. “You’re right. I’m in the wrong here too. Think what we’ll do is drive out together.”
“Bill, no, that’s not what I meant!”
Werner tapped the barrel against Karl’s skull. “Get up.”
Karl’s wet, freezing body ached as he rose. Water rolled down his chest, trailing harsh chills. At Werner’s direction he cuffed himself, though he left some slack on each cuff. Werner wasn’t fooled, and he clamped them tight before pocketing the key.
“C’mon,” Werner said, gesturing toward the trail. “Let’s get you outta that wet skin.”
Trent stepped aside and let his sister take the wheel.
After they’d debated back and forth, he’d finally agreed to let her drive Lauren out. There was simply no other way. Ash had a plan: reach the zone’s edge, reverse the car, and back it up so only Lauren crossed the line. Trent hated the idea, and not because it would end with his wife going blind. In his mind she deserved that. What worried him was Ash. Once her ribs started cooking, there was no telling whether she could withstand the heat and finish the drive back. Even if she did manage to finish, she might overshoot the edge and lose her ribcage in the process.
Two days ago, he might’ve shrugged off such an unfortunate scenario. But now, after seeing Ash lay it on the line for Jake, she was family again.
Shutting the door, Ash nodded. “Get moving, Trent.”
“You first.”
She pulled away. Once the taillights vanished from the parking lot, he hobbled toward the trail.
When he reached the edge of the snowy grass, he noticed something strange.
Two people were descending the hill single file, obscured by the shadows cast by the oaks. The person in front wore something that flapped below the knees. For a moment Trent mistook it for a skirt. But it wasn’t a skirt. It was a towel. And the man wearing it was his father.
This makes no sense. Did Dad just trade? Even if he did, why wouldn’t he have dried and dressed?
Then Trent noticed something glinting between Dad’s wrists. Handcuffs. Before Trent could decipher what was happening, Dad caught his toe on something. Trent watched as he staggered downhill and reached forward to break his fall. Behind him stood Bill Werner, clutching a pistol. The bastard clicked the key fob in his other hand and lit up his BMW 3 Series in the lot below. Dad awkwardly stumbled to his feet as Werner yanked him up by the cuffs to continue their downhill march.
The image sent sharp heat through Trent’s chest, as though his heart were pumping out broken glass. He could tell by watching Werner that this was payback—revenge for what had been done to Rosita. Trent needed to safely remove Dad from the line of fire somehow.
But as Trent crept to within twenty feet of the BMW, his leg seized up on him. He fell flat, his cane clattering against the blacktop.
Werner spotted him. “You! Don’t move!”
“Trent?” Dad said, clutching the towel. “Trent, run!”
“No, don’t run!” Werner said. “Stay put. And don’t follow us. Don’t call the cops either. Any of that and I shoot your old man.”
Trent lay there, helpless. Desperate, he yelled, “Rosita’s at your house!”
“I know,” Werner said, shoving Dad toward the BMW’s back door. “She cut her throat. All because you clowns had to have things your way.” He ripped the back door open. “Get in, Karl. Road trip time.”
“Where you taking him?” Trent asked.
“Ten miles out.” Werner kicked Dad’s leg, dropping him to one knee. “Say goodbye to that new skin he just traded for.”
“No, wait—stop! He did nothing to your wife.”
“Exactly.” Werner pressed the barrel to Dad’s back. “And my wife did nothing to you. See how that works?”
“Please—Dad!”
“Finish Snare!” Dad said, ducking inside the car. “If you do, she should let me keep my parts. I can—”
Werner whipped the gun against the side of his head. Dad dropped into the backseat without another word. Werner slammed the door.
“Stop!” Trent shouted. He sprang to his feet, but his leg gave out again. The ground rushed up, slamming his elbows. “Let him fucking go!”
Werner got behind the wheel and drove.
62
When Ash left town, the buzzing started. It felt like she’d swallowed a cocoon of methed-up caterpillars. Uncomfortable, sure, but she could handle ten miles of this shit, no problem. Then, with every passing mile marker, the buzz worsened. Somewhere beyond the fifth mile her ribcage roared. Fiery needles speared her sides, sharper and deeper by the second.