Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-one
“Wasn’t expecting you so soon,” Eric tells Allard.
I am frozen with fear. I’d pictured Allard catching us so many times, and now that it’s happened, I can’t breathe.
I glance at Dane, and he’s staring at me, his face tense with pain and something else.
Regret? Guilt? I badly want him to explain everything, or even say that there’s a logical, reasonable explanation for it all.
But he just purses his lips against the pain, his expression glazed.
Eric, interestingly, is fidgeting where he stands. I’ve only seen him do that in front of our university president. It reminds me of a subservient dog.
“You don’t follow directions,” Allard tells Eric. He looks impassively at Dane, bleeding on the floor. “You assured me you could keep your feelings out of this, and here you are getting jealous.” He tsks.
Eric glares at him. “I was handling it.”
“Not well.” Allard steps over to Dane and me. I recoil. “Give me your phone, Seaver.”
I look at Dane, and he nods his consent. I wrestle his phone out of his pants pocket; the movement feels too intimate for all that’s happened, for both Eric and the monstrous Allard to be standing here watching me do it.
I hand Dane’s phone to Allard. He smashes it on the stone floor and kicks it to Eric, who picks up the shards.
“Now,” Allard says. “What is the fifth puzzle’s solution?”
I look at Dane, trying to decide what to do.
“Tell him,” he murmurs. He takes my hand and squeezes once, wincing tightly like the movement cost him.
I turn to Allard and say, “It’s somewhere near Loch na Sealga, which is a ten-mile hike from a trailhead just up the road.”
“What is the solution?” Allard repeats in a patient, gentle tone. I’m fooled for half a second until I remember what he’s capable of.
“I haven’t figured it out yet,” I say. “We were going to hike out there today. Whatever it is, it’s out there at solar noon tomorrow.”
Allard studies me for a moment, and then he yanks my arm until I’m standing.
“You will show me the way. This is your camping gear?” He picks up the tent and the sleeping bag that Dane packed up this morning, along with Dane’s trail backpack.
“Good. Handy. Thanks, Seaver.” He guides me over to the door.
Dane groans, his eyes widening as though he’s forcing himself to focus, and yells “No!” I’m starting to realize how absolutely screwed I am. Dane is the only one here who might want to help me, and he can’t even stand.
I twist out of Allard’s grip and lunge toward Dane. Dane’s eyes are on mine as he urgently whispers, “It’s not a fling, Zoe. Not to me. Please believe that. I never would have brought you to ProtoDark.”
Allard catches me and pulls me toward the door. I continue to fight him, dragging my feet and making it hard for him to pull me. I go limp. I stumble with the resistance and fall, slamming my knees heavily on the ground. He simply drags me.
I look back at Dane. He is pushing himself to stand, bearing weight on his wounded leg.
He stumbles against the kitchen counter and grips the edge to hold himself up.
Blood seeps around my flimsy tourniquet.
I shove against the brick wall that is Allard with my feet, but he simply pushes me forward.
“For God’s sake, Zoe,” Eric says. “Don’t make it harder on yourself.” He follows us to the door.
But I have to. I can’t go with Allard; the 1982 is after him, and he’ll kill us both.
None of this is how it was supposed to go.
I hang on to the door frame as we leave the house, but Allard grabs the wrist he dislocated in Paris, by accident or on purpose, I don’t know.
The pain explodes like a firework, and I instantly stop fighting. We stumble out of the cottage.
Allard stops and looks back at Eric. “You have created a mess here, Howland. Clean it up.”
Eric looks shocked by this, which irritates me, like he doesn’t know who he’s been working with. “That wasn’t the deal. We’re partners. I need to go to…manage her.”
But Allard smiles nastily. “I will manage Dr. Wilder.”
“Alone?” Eric asks.
Allard gives him a withering look in answer. Even I can see that Allard never had any intention of sharing the win with him.
“But I’m part of this,” Eric says. His face is red with anger, and he’s still fidgeting.
“You never even solved the puzzles,” I point out.
Allard shakes his massive head. “I have to agree with Dr. Wilder.”
The look of outrage on Eric’s face is almost enjoyable. I watch as he tries to sort out his options and finds none. Like me, he is screwed. I see the resignation dawn in his face.
“Don’t hurt her,” he says, which surprises me. I wouldn’t have extended the same courtesy to him, especially not after he shot Dane and set Christine up for destruction.
“We are past that.” Allard yanks my arm hard, and I yelp, visions of my shoulder dislocating like my wrist. He pushes me toward a car parked next to our rental and takes one of my hands. “Make it difficult, and I break things. And by things, I mean your fingers. Then, your arms. Are we clear?”
A small whimper is the only sound I make. His grip on my injured wrist is like a boa constrictor’s, and it makes me want to vomit. I’m sweating and breathless in my panic, but he’s overpowered me with a single hand. I don’t know how I ever managed to get away from him in the first place.
“You’re an absolute bastard,” I say.
Allard ignores me and opens the passenger door of the car.
Eric steps forward with my backpack, as though he’s hoping he can still be of use.
Allard puts me in the car, but I shove his hand back, and he pushes me down, hard.
He reaches in and grabs my hand. Before I can even register what he’s doing, he bends my pinkie and ring fingers until they snap.
I hear it before I feel the pain. When it comes, it is sickeningly sharp.
I don’t scream. I can’t speak. I’m in shock, suspended in the moment.
Tears stream down my cheeks. My fingers throb, and I hold my hand out, unsure what to do, how to move.
Eric has the nerve to look like he might be sick.
“Remember, more bones if you continue fighting,” Allard warns. He goes around to the driver’s side with surprising agility for someone of his size.
Eric hands my backpack to me. I don’t take it, I can’t, so he places it on my lap with a ridiculous gentleness, as though nicely handing me a bag will make up for any of this. He stands back, looking as shocked as I feel, which is just dumb. Play with a snake and get bitten.
“Take Dane to the hospital,” I beg him. “There’s one in Inverness.
Please, Eric. If you care for me at all.
” I remember seeing signs for an A&E as we passed through Inverness on our way here yesterday, and I looked it up on my phone, concerned there wasn’t anything closer to where we were staying (there isn’t).
Inverness is more than an hour from here.
“And please don’t send that email to Christine’s company. ”
Eric says nothing. Allard gets into the driver’s seat and starts the car. Eric shuts my door, and I lower the window.
“Eric! Please. You’re better than this. I’ve seen you with your students. I know you have it in you. Please don’t hurt Christine. Please help Dane.” I hate that I’m begging, hate it with every ounce of my soul, but I have no other option.
Eric looks at my fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“Promise me!” I yell, freely sobbing now, but Allard uses his driver’s-side control to raise my window and then applies the child lock so I can’t lower it again. Eric stands there watching me through the window.
Allard puts on his seat belt as though safety were important to him. “Fighting me is tiresome as well as pointless, Dr. Wilder. As I said, the fingers are a start. It is in the best interest of your bones remaining intact to tell me everything you know.”
“Go north. There’s a small trailhead turnout,” I say, curling into myself.
Allard reverses out of the long gravel drive and navigates onto the road. He smiles grimly. “Eric is an imbecile, but at least he had the foresight to bring me in.”
I am numb.
“Cheer up,” Allard says. “It will all be over soon.”
I don’t reply.
“Where is the turnout?” he asks after several miles.
I say nothing, so he reaches over in the car and grabs my hand, twisting the broken fingers.
I scream. I consider letting myself lose it, let the tears and pain consume me, but I worry there will be more of it, so I point out the trailhead.
He parks in the small dirt space next to it.
I manage to wrangle my hiking hat with the midge net out from my backpack.
He takes the tent and sleeping bags and Dane’s backpack that has food and water filters in it.
I refuse to be grateful for not having to carry those.
I debate telling him the 1982 is coming. I’m not sure if that information is a weapon I can use. I decide not to tell him for now. It all depends on the 1982’s tracking skills, anyway.
“Start walking,” he says. He indicates that I go ahead of him, so I start moving, doing my best to disassociate. It’s a skill I might have to hone while out here. I don’t know if I’ll be coming back.