He tackles me from behind, and we both fall, rolling off the road into the dirt and pine brush. The taste of earth covers my tongue and I fight, twisting and turning, kicking and screaming.
“Shut the fuck up,” Dixon hisses in my ear, locking his arms around me and crushing my arms to my body. I kick and throw my head back, connecting. I yelp in pain, but so does Dixon. Something wet hits my neck, and my stomach lurches when I realize it must be blood.
It makes him mad. He tightens his grip around me, struggles to stand, and turn so his side is pressed to mine. I can still kick, but now I cannot kick him. I try, but my legs swing through nothing but air. He drags me this way back up the dirt road.
“Why?” I ask, but Dixon doesn’t answer.
I begin to cry.
He drags me to his open truck door, reaches in, and places the soft cloth back over my mouth.
Again.
It happened again.
But now, everything hurts, not just my head. And I’m not moving. I’m not in the truck.
I blink my eyes open. I’m sitting on a floor. I’m propped against a wall and a chair, but I’m outside. Cool air skims my face. Things are coming into focus now. The trees swaying in the breeze, the railing of a porch, the three steps down to solid ground. The porch is surrounded by a semi-circle of twenty-five feet of flat, open land, and then the woods begin. Perhaps the open land continues farther, but from my position I can’t see.
My wrists are duct taped, and so are my ankles.
Dixon is nowhere to be seen, but I can feel him lurking somewhere. Maybe he is watching me, enjoying the show as I wake and try to understand where I am.
The same fire that filled me when I awoke in the truck fills me once more. I refuse to go down without giving it my all. My gaze darts around, trying desperately to see the darkened shapes, find anything sharp I can rub the duct tape across. I just need to free my legs, so I can run.
I scoot a few inches on my bottom, glancing back at the house to see if my movement was noticed. When nothing happens, I do it again. And again, until I’m close to the railing. Now that I’m closer, I see the wood is old, and I’m hoping somewhere along its length will be a jagged piece. My fingers run along, and I keep scooting, desperately hoping to find what I’m looking for. I’m so intent on my task that the metallic slam of the screen door sends a terrified screech up my throat and into the tense night air.
All my hope disappears as I listen to his lazy walk over to me.
“Have to hand it to you, you’re quite the pistol,” Dixon says, gripping under my arms. He pulls me back, but instead of putting me back in the place where I woke up, he leaves me front and center on the porch.
“Get on your knees.”
“No.” I shake my head. He bends down, his face so close to mine I feel the heat of his breath. Blood is dried on his face, and his nose appears to be broken. I lunge at him, taking him by surprise, and try to bite him. He moves in time, and my teeth snap together painfully. He stares at me, lips shaking, and I snarl. I can hardly wrap my head around this primitive, animalistic response. For the first time in my life, I genuinely understand the ferocity of a cornered animal.
Dixon walks in the house and returns quickly. He comes from behind me, where I can’t see him, and slips something over my head. Before I can move, he’s gagged me. His hands work at the back of my head, tying, and some strands of my hair are caught up in the knotted fabric. He stands up, walks away, and the porch light flickers on. I blink against its harshness.
Then he strides over, stands beside me, and says once more, “Get on your knees.”
I shake my head, because getting on my knees feels like the final step to whatever he’s going to do. After that, what will be left?
Dixon lifts his dirt-streaked white T-shirt, and the silver glint of metal peeks out. “Knees, girl. Now.”
Tears streak down my face. How is there nothing left for me to do? The fight is still inside me, but there’s nothing at my disposal. No tools, no implements, no advantage. I’ve never felt so helpless.
I’m left only with what Dixon asks of me. Delaying his plan is my only hope. But what is it I’m even hoping for? Who could possibly know where I am?
Dixon watches me struggle to my knees. I sit back on my heels and stare at the ground.
I think of Wes, and my heart breaks. Wes, with his moody looks and big, capable hands. The smile he reserves for me, the kind of smile most people probably don’t think he’s capable of. The way he charges into a situation and commands it, overly-confident and protective, but on the inside he’s so vulnerable.
Dixon walks away, down the steps and around the side of the house. I watch him go, and for the shortest second, I see what Dixon might have looked like when he was younger, back when Wyatt knew him. He probably had hair that flopped over his forehead, in need of a trim. Maybe he had good in his heart, and his own father’s bad choices made him angry. I tell myself this because I need to see him in a different light. For my own sake, I need to believe he wasn’t always so jealous and malicious.
When he comes back, he’s holding something I don’t fully understand. It looks like a contraption assembled by a child. He takes a knee in front of me, almost like he’s proposing, and looks me in the eye. “Don’t move an inch.” His Adam’s apple bobs, and he wipes a free hand on the front of his jeans. He lifts something up, lowers it down onto me, and secures it to my front with duct tape that he wraps around my body.
“There,” he says proudly. “Let’s see what your boyfriend thinks of that.”
I look down and all the air whooshes out of me. Sounds of protest slip around the fabric, keeping me from talking. Bomb? No. It can’t be. Why is he doing this? I don’t understand. I’m hyperventilating and crying, and trying not to move.
Dixon backs away, sinking down onto the last step and looking at me. He must’ve been holding his breath, because he exhales loudly. The nervousness is replaced by a smug look.
“Now we just wait for your boyfriend to show up. I left something behind in your hotel room. He’ll figure it out.”
I bite the inside of my lip, but I’m shaking so badly I bite harder than intended and taste my own blood.
My eyes drift close and I start going down the list of people I love, people I will probably never see again.
My dad. Abby and the girls.
And Wes.
36
Wes
The clouds have cleared and given us better visibility. Each one of our figures is in shadow, but outlines are all we need.
At Wyatt’s signal, we stop short and get off our horses, tying their reins to trees.
Wyatt steps in, slips Dixon’s pocketknife into my hand, and motions us in to form a tight circle. “His place is that way,” he whispers, pointing northeast with two fingers. Then he looks to me and nods, telling me to take over.
I look into the eyes of my brothers and my dad, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude sweeps through me. “We walk until we see Dixon’s place, then we fan out. We don’t know if he’s alone with Dakota or if there are others, so be aware of any back doors. I’ll take the front door. If any of you get the opportunity for a kill shot, take it. Just not if he’s near Dakota.”