Chapter Twenty-Five
He’s inside the house.
Those horrifying words ran through Teagan’s mind over and over as she watched Bryson leaning against the master bathroom counter after ditching the wheelchair because it was in his way.
He was using duct tape to secure the thick towels that he’d wrapped around her arms. She didn’t ask why.
She knew why. The disorganized killer, the one who’d murdered eight of the Kentucky Ripper’s victims, was quite the fan of knives.
Bryson was using the towels to protect her in case Lowe got past him and came after her next.
As to why he had duct tape in his bathroom, that was a discussion for another day. If they lived another day.
The psychopath in the main room had already tried to get into the bedroom once.
He’d scraped knives underneath the closed door, swiping at Bryson’s feet.
Then Lowe had used his body like a battering ram, screaming obscenities as he tried to crash through the door.
It was only because Bryson had used his own strength against the door that Lowe had given up.
But not for long. He was still out there.
Planning his next assault. Even now she could hear his shoes thumping and squeaking across the floor as he paced back and forth mumbling incoherent words to himself.
Dear God. Please help us.
Bryson tossed the roll of duct tape onto the counter and reached under the sink.
“This is a last resort.” He handed her an aerosol can of deodorant.
“I don’t want you near enough to him to use this.
God willing, when you climb out the bedroom window, he’ll be so busy with me that he won’t get a chance to go after you. ”
She sucked in a breath, fear for both of them making her flush hot and cold.
“But if he gets past me,” he continued, “and he catches up to you, spray his eyes. He won’t expect that.
It will hurt like hell and he’ll be temporarily blinded.
Run past him and go for the truck.” He dug the keys out of his pocket and shoved them into her jeans pocket.
“Drive down the mountain like a bat out of hell. Don’t stop.
Go straight to the police station. You hear me?
Do not stop at some neighbor’s house or a little country store.
If he ends up following you, he could go after you again.
Go straight to the police. It’s almost a straight shot once you reach the bottom of the mountain.
You remember the directions I told you?”
He lightly shook her when she didn’t answer.
“I do. I remember,” she said. “But none of this makes sense. Why don’t you put towels on your arms too? And climb out the window with me?”
He gave her an exasperated look. “I was up all night. My hip never had a chance to recuperate. I’m not running anywhere.
And the towels would make it too hard for me to maneuver in a fight.
This is the way it has to be. He’s already cracked the doorjamb.
The next time he tries to get through the door, he’ll be inside the bedroom.
While I keep him occupied, you’re going to climb out that window and run for the truck. ”
“I don’t want to run away like a coward and leave you. Don’t ask me to do that again.”
He grabbed a small pair of scissors from one of the drawers and set them on top of the counter. Next he grabbed a folded sheet from beneath the cabinet and tucked it under his arm. “You have to leave me. It’s the only way.”
She frantically shook her head and set the can back on the counter. “No. It’s not. Two against one, remember? You and me against the world. He can’t kill both of us. If we attack him together, we’ll defeat him.”
“No, Teagan. You heard his roar of rage earlier. You saw the knives he was shoving under the door. Probably the only reason he didn’t shoot his way through is that he doesn’t want to end his fun that quickly.
He’s a cutter. He wants to enjoy himself first. But if he sees you running for the truck through the front windows, he’ll use the gun.
You can’t outrun a bullet. I have to distract him, try to get the gun to give you a chance. ”
He shoved the can in her hand, grabbed the pair of scissors and pulled her out of the bathroom.
A shoe squeaked against the polished floor outside the bedroom door.
Bryson scowled and dropped the folded sheet on top of the bed. He limped to the window and quietly eased it up. Rather than risk the noise of loosening the screen’s frame and dropping it outside, he used the scissors to cut an opening. He motioned for her to stand in front of the window.
“The truck will detect the key fob in your pocket,” he whispered.
“All you have to do is press the button under the door handle and it will open. The engine’s a push-button start.
You remember, right? You’ve got this.” He framed her face with his hands.
“All you have to do is run, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be okay. ”
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she looked into his beautiful blue eyes. “Bryson, I—”
Another squeak sounded outside the room. Lowe was getting restless, working up his courage for another assault. Then there was another sound, something scraping across the floor. Something heavy. What was that?
Bryson pressed a quick, hard kiss against her lips. “You can do this,” he whispered next to her ear. “Don’t let me down.”
Her pulse was rushing in her ears so loudly that she almost couldn’t hear him. She grasped the windowsill. It was awkward with the ridiculous towels wrapped around her arms. But she managed.
Grabbing the sheet off the bed, he shook it out, quickly rolling and twisting it, holding it in both hands like a length of rope.
It shook her to her core when she realized what he was doing: planning to use the sheet to defend himself against the knives.
Her heart slammed in her chest so hard she marveled that it didn’t crack one of her ribs.
She hated this, hated the thought of abandoning him. And yet, if she stayed, she’d be a distraction that could get him killed. All she could do now was follow his instructions and pray he was able to defeat Lowe.
With a concussion.
A bum hip.
Stitches both inside him and outside. Bruises all over.
With nothing but a sheet to defend himself against a madman with butcher knives and a pistol likely in his pocket.
This was insane.
A thump sounded against the door.
Get ready, he mouthed.
She clutched the stupid can of deodorant and prayed that a better plan would come to her than leaving him here to his likely death. But what could she do? How could she help?
Something heavy crashed against the door.
The already cracked frame exploded in a hail of wooden shards as a side table from the family room flew through the ruined opening.
Bryson ducked, then lunged forward, arms outstretched with the sheet between them as he grappled with Lowe.
Both men moved backward into the family room, a flurry of flashing knives and billowing cloth as Bryson ducked and weaved and wielded his sheet in an effort to avoid being diced into pieces.
“Now, Teagan,” he yelled, furiously fighting Lowe’s flailing arms. “Go!”
She let out a sob and jumped.
WITH TEAGAN SAFELY away, Bryson focused his undivided attention on the psychopath trying to hack him to death with a knife in each hand.
Bryson wrenched his left arm up, using the sheet to deflect yet another blow.
This time he twisted the sheet, then wrenched it back.
The butcher knife in Lowe’s right hand flew across the family room, skittering onto the floor with a metallic twang.
Lowe dropped to the floor. Without his weight as a counterbalance, Bryson’s hip gave out.
He crashed down on top of Lowe. A sickening scrape sounded and white-hot pain lanced through his side.
Lowe’s mouth curved in a delighted smile as he grabbed the knife now embedded beneath Bryson’s ribs and yanked it out.
Bryson gasped, fighting for air now as he twisted and rolled with Lowe, desperately trying to gain control of the knife.
He grabbed Lowe’s wrist, muscles burning and shaking as he slowly won the tug of war, turning the man’s hand.
Bryson swiped the blade across the man’s neck.
A thin red line immediately formed. But it was only superficial.
Lowe didn’t even blink. He kept straining against Bryson, trying to turn the knife the other way.
Muscles bunched and cramped as Bryson fought back.
The floor turned slippery with sweat and blood.
They rolled like two alligators in a death roll, each struggling to get the upper hand.
Lowe was strong, and big, but he still wouldn’t have been that difficult for a man Bryson’s size to defeat.
Except that Bryson had begun this match in a much-weakened state.
And Lowe’s knife had done considerable damage.
His lifeblood was seeping from his side.
A cold numbness spread across his middle, making him shiver.
If he didn’t end this, soon, it would be lights out. For him.
He threw everything he had left into fighting back. But his muscles ached. Weakness crept relentlessly through his body. It was a struggle just to hold up his arms.
Lowe gave one of his guttural yells, this one of satisfaction and triumph. He was winning. It was almost over. And he knew it.
Taking advantage of Lowe’s distraction, Bryson managed to twist and jerk the man’s knife hand again.
This time he sliced deep into Lowe’s biceps on his right arm.
But before Bryson could follow up with a killing blow, Lowe twisted and rolled on top of him.
Bryson couldn’t get traction on the slippery floor.
Blood saturated the knife handle. Bryson lost his grip.
Lowe plunged the knife deep into Bryson’s side again, and twisted.