Jasmine and Lisa whimpered behind me, but I held them back.
Westcott Morgan’s face crumbled at my words, but he had a firm grip on that gun. “I didn’t know he was in the bathroom! I swear, I didn’t know, Hal! I was fighting with Gable, and then your uncle was on the floor bleeding and Gable had a hole in his chest the size of a donut! I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt!”
I rose on slow legs, aching and tried from kneeling. “Why did you want the SD card, Westcott? What was on it that you didn’t want anyone to see?”
His shoulders slumped as the wind tore at his curly hair and his eyes went dull. “I was going to dump Kerry that night—maybe in the woods. I wasn’t going to hurt her. I wasn’t going to hurt any of them. I swear it! But Kerry got away. She got out of the trunk of my car. I didn’t give her enough of the sedative. I knew I should have given her more!”
My pulse raced as I decided I didn’t care where we were transported to, as long as we got away from this maniac. If only I could remember the words…
“And she got away from you, didn’t she, Westcott? She ran away and hid in the woods for two days!”
He nodded a sad bob of his head as he steadied the gun. “She ran off…and it was all going to be on that SD card, Hal. All of it. Every single second of me going into the store to get her food while she broke out of the trunk. I was going in there so I could leave her with food, and she ran away!”
The way he said those words, as though I should pity him because he was going to feed his hostage—his victim—made my stomach roll. I’m pretty sure some of that upset had to do with the gunk Hobbs had given me, but I felt like I was on a Tilt-A-Whirl.
“And then what, Westcott? What were you going to do then?”
He shook his head, his eyes wild. “I don’t know!” he moaned. “They didn’t know who I was. The only person who knew was your uncle because when I was fighting with Gable, he pulled up my mask. I was careful, Hal. I was always careful when I brought them food. When I drugged them. I was so careful!”
The wind tore at my jacket, slashing at my face, but I wanted blood. I wanted him to suffer the way he’d allowed their parents and my uncle to suffer.
“And you were going to be the hero, weren’t you, Westcott Morgan?” I sneered his name. “You were going to dump them somewhere and find them, bring them home, and then you could be the hero of the story you created! That’s what you were going to do. You’re repulsive!”
His breathing shifted to almost a pant. “I just wanted a story. A good story. That’s all. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt!”
“And now what, Westcott? What are you going to do with us now? Shoot us?” I asked, baiting him, knowing it would frighten the girls but doing it anyway.
His eyes grew round and wide, filling with the tears of a man in way over his head. “I don’t have a choice, Hal. You’ve left me no choice. Don’t you see? I can’t let you live! You asked too many questions. Too many! You saw Jasmine’s mother. You were at the library today… That’s where I first got the idea for this crazy plan. While I was sitting there with Kerry, just talking about nothing.”
As much as I wanted to stroll down memory lane with him, right now, I only wanted out—and I needed but a moment’s peace to get there. I could have the answers to my questions later.
I leered at him, making my eyes go wide and turning my mouth into a grimace of disgust, hoping to incite him. “So do it, Westcott. Do it, you coward!” I moved closer as he pointed that gun at me under the light of the moon. “Kill us, you sad sack of horse dung! Kill us all!” I screamed, spit flying from my mouth.
The moment of surprise in his eyes was the moment I needed to bellow, “Strength of ten men, draw me near, save me from the thing I fear!”
With those words, words I prayed were right, I ran at Westcott with everything I had, steamrolling him square in the middle of his stomach with the top of my stuffed-up head.
As he doubled over and fell to the ground as though a wrecking ball had rammed into him, and I fell on top of him, I roared, “Run, girls! Run, and don’t stop running until you find help!”
I heard the thunder of feet behind me just as Westcott was recuperating, and I knew, in this vacuum of stress, I had to stop him physically, because a spell was an even riskier proposition than it had been two seconds ago.
He jammed his fingers into my cheekbones, latching onto my face and screaming his rage, throwing me from him. I landed in the snow, hard-packed and like knives in my back.
I had no idea where we were, no earthly idea other than the flash of trees I saw as he tossed me off him.
My head cracked against something hard, leaving me on my side with the wind knocked out of me. Snow pelted my face, the wind ate at my skin, my body ached.
And then I saw Westcott’s hands reaching for the gun, his arms stretching, the grunts of his struggle ringing in my ears.
So look, I don’t know how else to explain this other than I’d just binge-watched Game of Thrones (yes, I know. I was way late to the party. But better late than never), and in my crazy mixed-up panic, I saw Jason Momoa’s character, Khal Drogo, in my head.
That was only seconds before I yelped, my ribs burning from the effort, “Westcott, no!”
He looked to me—and what had once been grit and determination in his gaze was now complete terror.
“How?” he screeched in abject fear.
Again, I don’t know how I did it, but I guess I’d conjured up Khal Drogo’s face instead of a transportation spell.
No, cloaking yourself in someone else’s countenance isn’t even remotely like a transportation spell. I get that. But I worked with what I had and tried not to laugh out loud at the idea of Jason Momoa’s head on my short little body.
Westcott’s disbelief gave me enough time to scramble to my feet and grab the gun. Huffing and puffing, I clung to it and pointed it at his chest. Gasping for air, I managed to order, “Don’t move, or I swear on Daenerys Targaryen, I’ll shoot you!”
“Oh, Kitten. What have you done?” Stiles asked me with a smile.
Sitting on the edge of the ambulance’s backend, I pulled the warm blanket around my shoulders and shrugged. “Let’s just say, I don’t think Westcott’s a fan of Game of Thrones.”
“And can you fix that?” he asked under his breath. “Because he’s carrying on something fierce about, of all things, Jason Momoa.”
I looked up at him, my eyes grainy and tired. “I can, but let me enjoy the moment for just a little longer, will you?”
“I can’t believe you figured it out.”
Shaking my head, I snorted. “And again, I was a day late and a dollar short. I would have preferred to find him, tell you, and avoid being concussed.”
Stiles laughed. “You can’t blame yourself for the fact that he whacked you over the head before you could tell me.”
“You’re right. I did figure it out before he whacked me over the head and drugged me, and I was going to text it all to you so you could arrest him, and instead, I ended up in shackles in some weird half-underground shed in the deepest origins of the woods with a likely concussion and the worst stuffy nose ever.”