Page 77 of Made for You
As I move toward the trees, I have the terrible feeling that I’m never coming back here.
At first I walk slowly, quietly, but once I reach the protection of thicker trees, I break into a jog. Mist hangs in the air like a wet veil.
My only thought is to circle around Bob’s and try to come out where my car is parked. From there, drive as fast as I can, it almost doesn’t matter where, as long as I get out of Dover County. Chicago? But how long could I realistically hole up with Phil and Vanessa? Is there any hope left of finding out who did this to Josh? The only people left on my list are Bob, Eden, and Andy. None of them seem realistic right now, but I guess that doesn’t matter anymore, because there’s a muted cry of “Hey! Over here!” from somewhere behind me.
Adrenaline explodes through me. Bursting forward, I tear through the gloam, arms raised to protect my face as wet branches whip at me. I should have been running flat out from the start. I miscalculated. I can only hope it’s not the last mistake I get to make.
Each breath is a blast of pain in my lungs as I jump over a log, then duck under a tangle of branches. The physical work of running takes over until all I am is a thunder of heartbeat, lungs fighting, legs burning. A sharp stitch slashes at my side. I gulp air. It has a cool, clean edge, like water, except I can’t get enough of it.
Something catches on my ankle, and my palms hit the ground, hard. My purse goes flying. Pain spikes through my left foot and up my leg, and I try to heave myself up, but the second I put my weight on my foot, I crumple. “Aaahh,” I breathe, wincing as I force my foot down again. I lean on it. Try to push into the pain because I can’t afford to retreat. This is not the time to break. If only I could turn off my dampers. I know the science; my body is built to heal. It’s pure programming holding it back, slowing me down.
My palms are wet with mud, my clothes, too. I hobble forward but my ankle gives way again. Stupid. I’ve gone and sprained it. My chances of getting away are pretty much dead. It all happened so fast. They’re going to catch up now, and this pathetic chase behind my house is my grand finale.
I take another limping step, a sob catching in my throat. From my grand entrance into the world, to this. Poor, naive Julia in her sequins and heels. Thinking on Launch Day that she was walking into a magnificent love story.
Wake up, you idiot, I want to tell her. I want to shake her until her teeth rattle in her pretty, stupid head. They’re not going to love you. They’re going to hate you and break you and hunt you down. That’s how this ends. You think this road leads to love, but it leads straight to hell. Run. Run, because I can’t.
My entire body is jerked back so fast I don’t have time to cry out. Something heavy locks around my torso. Just as a scream bubbles up my throat, a hand is over my mouth, meaty, moist, turning my scream into a mouse-sized squeak. A voice, hot and low, says, “Shhh. They’ll lock you up. You don’t want that. Follow me. Quietly.” There’s a second of heavy breathing. “I’m going to take my hand off. Don’t scream.”
The hand is gone, and I’m slugging down sweet air. I turn to face none other than Bob Campini. He’s in a dark gray sweatshirt over camo cargo pants, his white hair pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, his grizzled white beard shot through with rivers of gray.
“Get away from me,” I hiss, taking two lurching steps back and almost falling again.
He extends a large hand. “I’m helping you, Julia.”
In the beat of a single breath, I weigh the threats.
Creepy neighbor? Or certain handcuffs?
I reach out. He closes his rough, calloused fingers around my hand and tugs. “Come on.”
Between a run and a limp, I move behind Bob through the brush and the trees. The back of his barn is soon visible. “My purse,” I suddenly gasp, but he says, “No time.” There are sounds in the woods, men’s voices calling to each other. We hug the side of the barn, moving toward the front. A large sign above the sliding door proclaims BOB’S MEAT PROCESSING in faded lettering. A horrible stench is coming from inside. Something ripe and decaying mixed with machinery oil and bleach.
“In here,” he says as I step into the stink and the gloom. “Hide. Wait.” And then there’s a groaning scrape like a monster yawning as he closes the door, and I’m in total darkness. I hear the drag of a dead bolt followed by the sharp click of a padlock.
Okay. He said to hide. I grope my way forward, hands outstretched. I touch something cold. A table? I work my way around it and sink to the floor, hoping this will hide me if anyone looks in. Then I just breathe. And listen.
The silence is oppressive. My heartbeat seems to mark a distorted time, like hours are hanging between each second. It’s an eternity and an eternity again. In the darkness, my body loses shape. Everything loses shape, like I’ve left the physical world and have entered a world of shadow and nightmare.
Finally, muted voices.
“You found her purse? Sure, I heard some sounds from back there. Figured it was deer.” Bob’s voice. “You’ll hit County Road JJ if you head straight through the woods.”
The answering voices are too low for me to make out the words.
There’s a rough laugh—Bob’s. “Yessir, I’ll be glad when she’s cleared out of here.” Pause. “Have a good night.”
A fresh silence falls. Everything in my body wants to move, every muscle coils to keep running, but I’m trapped. Injured. I reach a tentative hand down to my ankle, hoping it’s improved, and suck back a swear word as the pain lances me again. A dull throbbing in my breasts reminds me I still haven’t pumped. I had a pump in my purse, but that’s gone.
A clicking sound—the padlock. No time to cry about my pain. Is Bob actually helping me? Or did he lure me in here just for the satisfaction of finishing me off himself?
I should try to find a weapon on the off chance that maybe, like Deborah, he hasn’t brushed up on his No Harm knowledge. Anything to give me the advantage. The barn door slides open and suddenly, handcuffs seem like the better option, because Bob is back, and dear God—he’s holding a cleaver.
I’m about to get dismembered by Royce Sullivan’s successor. Will the neighbors hear me scream? Did anyone hear the screams of the twenty-two women as they died? I know from Wikipedia how Sullivan worked. He left them alive for a while. It was a game of hide-and-seek on acres of playground that ended on the stump. The girls weren’t local. They came from all over. Minnesota, California, Massachusetts—he wrote letters to them. They fell in love with his letters, and they came. Trusting the fantasy he spun. Trusting the winning smile in his picture. He sent them all that same picture, of him posing with the axe, and they came, one after the next, so hungry for love they didn’t notice the weapon in his fucking hand as he courted them.
I don’t know if there were any neighbors close enough, back then, when this was all just one piece of lonely farmland. But I can imagine someone, ninety years ago, saying the same thing I said to Mitchell.
No, Officer. It was probably just a fox.