Redemption Road

32

He valued the silo because, like him, it had been made for a particular purpose. It did the job day after day, year after year. Nobody thanked it or even noticed. Now, it was broken down and forgotten, the fields around it grown over with trees, the farmhouse little more than a dark spot in the soil. How many years since someone had cared about it?

Seventy?

A hundred?

He’d discovered it as a boy and in all the years since had never seen another soul come near it. Rumor was some paper company in Maine owned the full ten thousand acres that surrounded it. He could find out for sure if he wanted-a deed of some kind would be buried in a courthouse drawer. But, why bother? The woods were deep and still, the clearing as quiet and lonesome as any place he’d ever known. Concrete was crumbling. Steel was rusted through.

But the structure still stood.

He still stood.

Not all the women made it to the silo, but most did: the fighters and strong-willed, those that needed time to soften. A few had been ready to die from almost the moment he took them, as if they’d wished him into existence, or as if some vital part of them shut down at the mere thought of an ending. They were inevitably a disappointment. But weren’t they all?

Yes, in fundamental ways.

Then, why bother?

Slowing where a red oak hung an arm across the road, he turned onto the narrow track at the property’s edge and nudged deeper into the trees, stopping when he got to the gate he’d installed years ago. Out of the car, he opened the big lock and dragged the gate open. The road behind him was empty, but he moved quickly, pushing the car deeper into the trees, then sliding the gate closed. Once inside, he considered the question again. Why bother at all?

Because failures built one upon the other.

Because all roads led to Elizabeth.

“It is in suffering that we are withdrawn from the sway of time and mere things, and find ourselves in the presence of profounder truth.”

It was one of his favorite quotes.

“Profounder truth…”

“The sway of time and mere things…”

The car bounced through the scrub, and he felt hope’s fitful rise. He loved Elizabeth, and Elizabeth loved the girl. He thought this one would work and in the shadow of the silo felt more convinced than ever.

“The sway of time and mere things…”

Out of the car, he studied the tree line and the clearing. Nothing moved; no one was there. Opening the car, he removed the tarp, the bucket, and ten gallons of water. He’d prefer to give this one another day in the silo, but things were moving fast and would end with Elizabeth.

That would happen soon.

He felt it.

He dreaded it.

Fishing out the stun gun, he closed the door and threw another glance around the clearing. It was small in the trees, a slash of grass and weed and old machines rusted solid.

He looked at the silo, the lock on the chain.

The key made a lump in his pocket.

Channing thought he would never come. After hours on the ladder, her muscles were burning, her tongue, dry and swollen. She hadn’t counted on the heat, the constant strain. She was eight feet up, but thought she’d be invisible when the small door opened.

Bright light outside.

Constricted pupils.

Most people would be blind when they stepped into the dark, and she was counting on that, praying quietly as engine noises rose beyond the wall. She told herself this was not the basement. She wasn’t tied up and wasn’t the same person. But, it was a hard line to hold.

He was here.

He’d come.

She heard a chassis bottom out, the grind of an engine, and how it ticked in the stillness, after. He would expect to find her tied and helpless, worn down by heat and fear. But, that’s not how it was going to happen. The broken rung was rusted, yes, but still steel, still solid in places. He’d come in headfirst, blinking.

She held her breath as the chain clattered through the handles, and her legs started shaking. She couldn’t help it.

Oh, God, oh, God…

Who was she kidding? He would drag her off the ladder as if she were nothing. He would drag her down and rape her and kill her. She saw it as if it had already happened, because in so many horrible, unforgettable ways it already had.

“Elizabeth…”

The chain made a final scrape.

He was coming.

When the door opened, she saw his shadow, sensed his movement. He stooped beyond the door, but nothing happened for twenty seconds, a minute. Then a flashlight clicked on and shot a spear of light into the silo. It brushed the far wall, then touched bits of plastic and settled there. After a few seconds, the light disappeared. “Are you on the ladder, child?”

No…

“I had a young lady fall off the ladder, once. Don’t know how high she was when it happened. High enough to break her neck, at any rate. Did you make it all the way to the roof? It’s a pretty view from up there.”

Channing started crying for real.

“In the wintertime, you can see the old church across the valley, like a smudge on the hillside.” He turned on the flashlight, swept the interior a second time. “Do you like a church? I like a church.”

The light clicked off.

“Why don’t you come on down?”

His clothing rustled.

“I can lock the door and let you cook, if you like. It wouldn’t be pleasant, I promise. You still with me up there?”

Channing scrubbed the tears away.

Gripped the rung tighter.

He wasn’t bothered in the slightest. Some got out of their restraints, and some didn’t. Those that did usually found the ladder; and that was part of it, too: the will to overcome darkness and fear, then the realization that the roof, too, was a trap. It was a difficult combination for most: the ladder in blackness, then fresh air and sunshine, a world of hope, and then the loss of it. Some got clever, and that was fine, too.

It wasn’t just the heat that broke them.

Channing forced herself to stop crying. She couldn’t go up the ladder and couldn’t stay where she was.

That left down.

“If you make me lock this door again, I might have to let you cook in there for a good long time.” Channing didn’t move. “Three days. Four days. I’m not sure when I can make it back, and I’d rather you not die pointless and overhot.”

“Okay, okay.” Her voice shook and cracked. “Don’t lock the door. I’m coming down.” She moved one foot, then another; made it to the bottom rung. That left six feet to the ground. She sensed him in the door. “I don’t think I can do it.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

She’d have one chance. She needed him close. “I hurt my ankle.”

“‘Profounder truth,’” he said, and she had no idea what he meant. He stayed where he was, hunched in the door and watching. If she lowered herself gently, he’d see the rung in her hand, so Channing stepped out and dropped. She kept the bar close and folded at the waist to hide it, steel ripping skin from her stomach as she landed. She cried out, but that was okay.

She needed him close.

“Oh, God…” She curled in the dirt, praying he’d think it was her ankle, that he wouldn’t see the blood. She felt it though, hot on her stomach, and soaking the shirt. She rocked onto her hands and knees. He was through the door.

Coming.

“It’s my ankle…”

His shadow moved closer. Hair swung across her face, and when he touched her, she swung the rod with everything she had. It struck something hard. A shoulder. An arm. She didn’t know, didn’t care. She felt the shock and saw a slash of red in the gloom. She hit him again, stumbling once and falling toward the door. His hand caught her ankle, and she fell facedown, the door just there, light burning her eyes as she pulled herself through, kicking back twice, hitting some part of him as she fell out into the grass, smelling it, feeling it tear beneath her fingers. She dragged herself faster, finding her feet and falling again as the car rose in front of her and seemed to spin. She was dizzy, her legs not right as she lurched at the car thinking, Keys, road, escape. Halfway there, she risked a look back.

He was coming fast.

She wasn’t going to make it, falling against the car as she left a smear of blood and ran for the door on the other side. She heard a thump and saw him on the hood, sheet metal buckling as he leapt and caught her and tried to drag her down. She shrugged out of the shirt, felt the bloodstain slide across her face, and ran for the trees. It was what she had, shadows and hope and desperation.

He had the speed.

He caught her three steps into the woods, cupped the back of her head, and slammed her face into the trunk of a tree. Something burst; she tasted blood. He did it again, flung her down; and though his face was swollen and stained with blood of his own, it was the eyes that sucked all the heat from the day.

They were that dark and empty.

That terribly unforgiving.