The Perfect Plan Read online

  “It’s ready,” Drew called from behind me.

  My father walked past me, his shoulder bumping mine, causing me to spin with him. Without looking back, he laid out the rules.

  “Three rounds. Taped knuckles. Nothing below the belt.”

  8

  The banging finally stops. The silence does something to take the edge off. I am able to breathe as I exit the interstate and wind through familiar neighborhood roads. I drive her Jetta to the back of an apartment complex, pulling up by the access road. I hear her kicking again as I get out and walk quickly to the chain that crosses the entrance. Releasing the clasp, I get back in and, making sure the headlights are off, drive through onto the dirt trail. I have to stop again, jumping out quickly and securing the chain behind the car. With a quick look over my shoulder, I drive off into the woods.

  Slipping deeper into the cover of the forest, I follow the trail more by memory than by sight. After a quarter of a mile or so, I glance in the rearview mirror. None of the lights from the apartment complex are visible, so I switch the headlights on. Though the sun must be rising, the thickness of the woods casts me back into the night. The beams, lower than what I am used to with my truck, pan across the trunks, from dark to light to dark again like silent Morse code.

  Eventually, the trees thin and the sky appears above, cast in deep blue and rose. As I reach the top of a gentle rise, I catch the first sight of the abandoned swim park. I look down at the lake, a darker amoeba spreading across the forest floor below. Platforms rise out of the water, farther than they should, as if the lake is slowly working its way underground. The closest has a ladder running up the side with an exaggerated loop for a handrail. A large metal slide sits in the middle of the water. Even in the faint light, it looks as if rust peels away from the frame like the skin of a leper.

  I chose this place. I have visited it over and over, night and day, stalking like some kind of predator. I know no one ever comes here, even kids. Unlike me, they have the sense to avoid it and all its nightmares.

  I reach the bottom of the hill and the trail runs behind a series of squat, dilapidated buildings. Most are equipment sheds and a pump house but the last two must have been cabins. The one on the right is missing half a wall. A sapling grows through the broken wood, slowly peeling the roof away. The high, narrow windows gape open and the door hangs by a single hinge.

  The one on the left is different. The structure is more or less intact, and dark wood shutters the windows. The door is shut. As the car turns, the lights reflect off what looks like a silver padlock. I put it there. And I boarded up the windows and fixed the door.

  I park the car next to the last building and get out, leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine running. My footsteps echo on the planked decking of the cabin. I remove the padlock and open the door. The air inside is thick and unmoving, with a hint of putridity. I check to make sure everything is still there, that nothing looks disturbed. The water bottles sit in the corner, next to the tarp I used to cover everything else. Otherwise the place is utterly bare. I nod, focusing on my own movement, the next steps, letting the plan guide me.

  When I get back to the car, I stop outside the trunk, waiting. There is nothing but silence. For an instant, I think that maybe I taped her mouth too high, that I obstructed her breathing, and that she’s lying inside dead. That can’t happen. That would ruin everything.

  Gasping for air, I race to the front of the car and hit the release for the trunk latch. The door springs open and I see a leg burst out like it was shot from a gun.

  “Shit,” I hiss.

  In three strides, I am back at the trunk. She’s already out. She stands, looking at me, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. Black streaks run under her glasses and down her cheeks and blood drips from a gash on her right hand. Her head tilts when she looks at me.

  I don’t let her think. Like the old tackling drills we did at high school football practice, I run into her, placing my shoulder into her stomach. She folds over and I thrust upward, lifting her off her feet. Her body hangs limp for a minute, like I knocked the wind out of her, as I carry her away from the car. I rush across the decking and into the house.

  Once inside, she thrashes, lashing out at me, striking me in the chest with her knees. Her elbow drives into my back by the shoulder blade. As I try to put her down, a kick catches me in the groin. I grunt in pain and send her staggering into a corner.

  “Stop,” I shout, as the pain radiates into my stomach.

  My hand finds the duct tape in my jacket pocket. She scurries away from me, panic filling her eyes as she looks at me. I follow, grabbing her by the feet. She fights, kicking at me, and my fingers dig into the exposed skin below her calf. As quickly as I can, I unroll the tape around her ankles, pressing them tightly together. When I do a good ten passes, I let her legs fall to the ground. She tries to roll away from me but I am quick. I use my knee to pin her when she is facedown. I hear her trying to scream through the tape. The side of her face, though covered in dust and dirt, looks almost purple.

  It doesn’t matter. I grab her left arm by the wrist. She throws an elbow with her right but she can’t come near me. I hook my other hand between her biceps and her forearm. She fights for a moment as I pull her arms back. Then they go limp and I tape them together at the wrist. Once it’s done, I spring to my feet and take a step back, looking down at her. She doesn’t move, other than her back rising and falling. Half of her hair has pulled free from the ponytail. Lauren Branch moans softly as I watch her. So I turn and burst out of the house.

  I nearly fall off the decking. Stumbling, my feet kicking up gravel from the trail, I lurch toward the woods. My thigh strikes the rear panel of the Jetta and I spin, losing my balance, falling to a knee. One hand braces my fall, small stones cutting into the palm. I try to stand but my legs give out from under me.

  I can’t believe what I have done.

  9

  My father went back to his workshop after it was over. Drew turned his back to me and walked over to the hockey goal across the room. He dragged it back into place, the metal frame scraping along the cold concrete floor. Putting it down, he found the stick he wanted and fished a tennis ball out from under one of his goalie chest protectors. After a couple of touches, he shot it, hard. I could feel the slap of the stick striking the ground. The ball fired across the basement and struck the netting, disappearing in a tangle of red nylon.

  He wouldn’t look at me, not at first. He moved to the net, tapping his stick on the floor over and over again. The sound made every bruise on my body ache. But all I could do was stare at the athletic tape around his knuckles. The tiny dark speckles on the banded white strips.

  At some point, he stopped. Drew turned and looked at me. He watched me as I lay crumpled on the cold floor. I remember his head tilting, just a little. Then he turned and watched the door to my father’s room. Eventually, he walked over and reached out a hand, helping me up.

  “It’s okay, bro,” he whispered with a glance back toward the workshop. “Sorry.”

  I took his hand, the same hand that had bruised my face and body as my father watched. Everything hurt. My head. My stomach. My arms and legs. Worse than all of that, though, was when I looked up at my brother. I saw the same thin-lipped smile that had been on my father’s face as he stood over me.

  When I got to my feet, I let go of his hand. Drew’s eyes narrowed.

  “What? You think I wanted to do that? Stop getting him mad. Do what I do. Figure him out. Give him what he wants. And make him think it’s his idea. Stop frowning all the time, too. I can’t protect you forever.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  His laugh cut me off. “It doesn’t matter. Go upstairs before he comes back out.”

  On shaking legs, I moved to the stairs. I heard his stick striking the concrete—crack, crack, crack. Each time, I flinched, but he must not have seen t
hat. And I didn’t want him to, so I hurried up the steps.

  It had gotten dark and the light was off in the kitchen. I stood at the top of the stairs, catching my breath. Carefully, I touched the side of my face. The skin felt flaming hot and a dull throb ran from my cheek up to my temple.

  I don’t know how long I stood there. I could still hear Drew downstairs, but the sound softened by the distance took on a different feel. Instead of vibrating through my head, I found it comforting, safe. As long as I heard it, it meant I knew where he was. That he wasn’t coming upstairs. I also figured that it meant my father was still in his workshop. Still putting together that damn model.

  At the same time, I felt that feeling again. Exposed, I guess, but that’s not the word I would have used then. Instead, I built a story around it, like a wall rising inside me, protecting me. I was in a jungle, alone and injured. Something big and terrible was hunting me. If I made a sound, it would find me and devour me piece by piece while I screamed.

  I moved through the kitchen, the balls of my bare feet coming down softly on the tile floor. When the floorboard creaked, I froze, listening until I heard the sound of my brother downstairs. Once I did, I took one careful step after another, creeping along the wall and up the carpeted steps to the second floor.

  I must have meant to go to my room. I even remember thinking about building a tent behind my bed. I would get my pocketknife from where I hid it under the bottom drawer of my dresser. Maybe a flashlight. With my back against the wall, I could be ready for anything that came for me.

  Instead, I passed by my bedroom. And Drew’s. My steps grew even more silent and slow. I approached the door at the end of the hallway like it was the tomb of some long-dead pharaoh, expecting every move to set off a series of horrible and deadly traps.

  When my hand touched the doorknob, I thought about turning back. My room was safer. Most likely, no one would look for me. I could be alone. If I went inside, and my father found me there, it would mean trouble. Probably worse than before. But my fingers wrapped around the brass and turned. Though my brain told me to stop, to go back, I opened the door and slipped quietly into my mother’s bedroom.

  Her shades were down. The darkness seemed impossible. Hot air blew against my feet from the vent near the door. The carpet under my toes felt unbelievably soft and warm, like a hug. I took a step and stopped, listening. Just over the sound of the forced air, I heard her breathing, a whisper of hypnotizing life. It drew me forward. I inched closer and closer to the bed.

  Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the dark. I saw the gentle rise and fall of the fat white duvet. The shadowed peaks of my mother’s hair spread across the light pillow like licking black flames. I wanted to touch it, to know it was real, but I didn’t. But I did climb up onto the raised mattress, curling my legs up and facing my sleeping mother. I held my breath, afraid to wake her, until I just couldn’t anymore. When I finally took in air, that floral scent was there, but something else, too. A sour smell tickled my nose, like a faint wisp of dead flowers left in the rain. I believe it was the first time I noticed it. Maybe not. Maybe it was always there. But I don’t think so. Instead, that night, when it filled my nose, I felt so frightened. Somehow the smell seemed wrong, almost dangerous.

  I swallowed my fear, refusing to move. Maybe I just didn’t want to be alone. So I lay in bed beside her, listening to my mother’s breathing, taking in the closeness like a drug. I let it take me away from everything else. I floated above it all, away from them. So much so that when she spoke, it frightened me.

  “Liam?”

  I held my breath again. I was so afraid that she would wake up and realize I shouldn’t be there. She would kick me out.

  “Is that you, baby?” she asked, her voice low and strange.

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  She paused. When she spoke, I knew I had heard her words before, but this time, it was different. They seemed to come from someone else’s voice. Like some horrible beast eating my mother from the inside out.

  “They’re just doing what they need to do to survive,” she slurred. “That doesn’t make them bad.”

  10

  I kidnapped Lauren Branch.

  As I kneel in the gravel, my fingers wrap around the tattoo on my forearm. I squeeze, like I might be able to extract the past, like some viper’s poison. At the same time, my teeth grind together. I push back the feelings, the pain and the disgust, and I lock onto the plan. The steps I’ve laid out. They are all that matter now. Once begun, the game can’t be stopped.

  I’m a monster. I remind myself of that simple fact. I have abducted a young woman this morning. She went to the gym, starting her day as she always did. And I threw her into the trunk of her own car. Now she’s inside this abandoned cabin, her arms and legs taped together. Her mouth taped shut. On the floor, just feet away from that abomination. She’s someone’s daughter. And I did that.

  With a hand on the rim of the Jetta’s open trunk, I pull myself up from the ground, absently brushing small stones off my knee. My eye catches her gym bag. I grab it before turning away from the cabin. Slowly, I walk out to the edge of the water. The gravel at the bank crunches under my feet. As I look out over the rising sun reflecting off the silver surface of the pond, I don’t realize I am scratching my arm again. When I look down, I see blood on my skin. Not my blood. Someone else’s.

  Frantic, I brush at it. Willing it to disappear. And it does. Just like that, and I realize it was all in my head. Everything is in my head. And I need to control it. So I stand there, looking out over the large pond as my fingers claw at the legs of my jeans to keep them away from the tattoo.

  “Make sure the tape is secure,” I say to myself. “Lock the door. Get into the Jetta, and take Limestone to McKennans Church to 48 to Kirkwood. Ninety-five northbound back to the city.”

  My forearm burns. But the muscles in my arms loosen and I let my hands dangle at my sides as the list continues. I need to focus on the plan. Only the plan. It keeps me centered. Moves me forward, instead of letting me look back at what I’ve done.

  I need to ditch her car. But first, I have to go back into the cabin. I need to make sure that she’s secure before I leave. So once I’ve gotten through the last few steps, I walk up the decking and back inside. I find the idea revolting. I have no desire to see her cowering in a corner. To watch as her eyes avert in fear, maybe submission. I do it anyway, pushing open the door and stepping back inside.

  Lauren is in the corner where I left her. She is still bound. Still crumpled on the dirty floor. After a quick glance at the tarp, and the bulge underneath it, I see her eyes. She doesn’t look away. Instead, she stares right back at me. Defiance, maybe. Or something different. I can’t be sure.

  Uneasy, I take a step closer to her. Her expression questions me. I hear her voice in my head. Why would you do this to me? Why me? I imagine going to her. Taking the tape off. Would she plead with me? Beg for her life? Would I like that?

  Instead, I stay where I am. I watch her with a flat, hard expression on my face.

  “I’m going to take your car back to the city,” I say. “Then I am coming back here. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  I watch her for a second. Then I glance back at the tarp. I don’t mean to, but it calls to me. Or what is under it does. It’s not time for that, though. So I place her bag carefully on the ground by the door. As I turn to leave her, I hear her phone. I spin back and snatch the bag up. Digging through it, I find it. When I look at the screen, I see a text message from some girl I don’t know. I had half expected it to be my brother. He’d do something like that. Text her from his phone, right under his wife’s nose.

  I laugh and shake my head, but my knuckles turn white as I squeeze the phone. It’s smarter to take it with me. It’s better if they find me, not her. So I slip it into a pocket, thinking of my brother. And Patsy. For the first time, I want to hurt Lauren. I want
to embarrass her. Make her feel weak and powerless. Like the entire world is staring at her and laughing. I want to dig into her skull and drive her as crazy as I feel.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” I repeat instead.

  And leave her behind, alone and bound in duct tape.

  11

  What was that look on her face?

  The thought vibrates inside my head. I’ve decided that she thinks I’m an idiot for returning her car to the city. She probably wonders why in the hell I’d do that. Why not just leave it at the cabin, hidden. But she’s the stupid one. She doesn’t know even a part of the truth.

  I shake my head and grip the steering wheel even tighter. Rush-hour traffic filters into the city. Every time I have to hit the brake, I feel the skin of my face burning hotter and hotter.

  I should have left the car at the cabin. I know that. But that’s not what I’m going to do. As I turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue, inching behind a particularly annoying white pickup, way nicer and newer than mine, I glance over at the gym parking lot. I could turn in and leave it there, too. That would make sense, even to Lauren. But I keep driving, a tight smile pinching the corners of my eyes.

  I crawl down Pennsylvania, getting more and more annoyed by the truck in front of me. When I get the chance, I veer into the left lane. Nearly hitting a black BMW, I swerve back after passing the truck. I hit my brakes and watch as he jerks to a stop. I see his arms go up. I see his mouth open comically wide. And I laugh, more to myself than out loud.

  She’s gotten under my skin. Without saying a word. I understand this, logically, but I can’t stop it. Instead, I picture her back in the cabin. She must be scared out of her mind. She must be wondering what I’m going to do to her. I can’t imagine what that must be like. Maybe she is scratching and clawing, bending her body, painfully, trying to find a way to escape. That thought sets me even more afire. I lean forward, barely noticing the guy in the truck behind me. Even though he’s about an inch off my bumper.