Cinder Road (Scorch Series Romance Thriller Book 2) Page 14

  “Dr. Luciano?” The receptionist stood in the doorway. “We’ve really got a lot of people out here.”

  “I’m eating.”

  Erica’s smile faltered. “But…please hurry.”

  Avital threw the rest of the food away, her appetite gone. Dolf was smart. He wouldn’t get himself killed—he’d be too intent on getting her out to make a mistake.

  Her next patient was an elderly woman complaining of insomnia. She had thick glasses and white curly hair cropped close to her head. Coral lipstick set off milky green eyes.

  As she wrote out a script for Ambien, Avital looked up from her pad. “Mrs. Smith, do you know that I’m being held here against my will?”

  The woman startled and glanced around the room. “By whom, dear?”

  “The sheriff and his men. They’ve threatened the life of my brother-in-law if I don’t stay and serve your town.”

  Mrs. Smith’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re lucky to be here. We got food, nice folks. I don’t know why anyone would want to leave.”

  “So you know I’m a prisoner?” Avital tore the prescription off her pad and held it out.

  Mrs. Smith stood up from the examining table, the paper crinkling as she moved. “I know that you’re here because we need you.” She took the script and brushed past Avital, leaving the treatment room.

  Avital sank into her chair. Was the whole town really in on it? How many more people with skills would become their captives?

  At the end of the day, another plate of food was brought by Molly—fried fish, mashed potatoes, and peas. Avital ate alone in her apartment, sitting at the kitchen table in the one chair.

  Her gaze fell on her backpack from the Humvee. She’d kept it packed so she’d be ready when Dolf came, but it probably wouldn’t be tonight. While she wanted him to come, another part of her was so tired that she yearned for a full night’s rest. Judging by Dolf’s injuries, he needed at least a night, if not a week or two to recover. She was fine—fed, clothed, and distracted by work.

  Dolf must know that, he wouldn’t do anything stupid. But she couldn’t help worrying, anyway.

  Avital left her dishes in the sink and pulled a nightgown out of the bag. It was frilly and feminine, a gift from Nando that Avital had never thought suited her—she wasn’t into traditional gender roles.

  She stroked her still-flat stomach. Everything had changed. Not just the plague-ravaged world, or her own widowhood—this baby was the future. She was now the carrier of very precious cargo.

  The baby was just a bundle of cells at this point, but she loved it already. Her child. Nando’s child. Maybe even Dolf’s! But did it matter whose? Because at the end of the day, it was hers.

  Avital burst into tears, overcome by stress and loneliness. She climbed into the bed on the floor and curled around a pillow, suffocating her sobs with it. Dolf would come.

  The third day of Avital’s captivity passed similarly to the one before. Molly brought her breakfast, leaving a plate of biscuits and gravy outside her door with a sweet note “welcoming” her to the town. Molly must feel guilty. No one who cooked with as much butter as Molly could be truly evil.

  Avital worked at the clinic all day and spent her evening alone even though Erica invited her to come have a drink with her and some friends. While she wanted to make everyone believe she was here to stay, that Avital had resigned herself to this fate, she was just too tired.

  After dinner, she brought her backpack into the bedroom and searched through it for another pair of pajamas, something less girly than the nightgown she had on. She dug her hand into the side pocket and felt the smooth edge of a photograph. She pulled the photo out and unfurled the paper.

  She was holding the wedding photo that had sat on their dresser in a silver frame.

  Dolf had packed it for her.

  Her heart squeezed and she sat back onto the mattress, holding the picture to her chest, pressing it against the locket.

  “Oh Nando,” she whispered. “I miss you.” Tears spilled from her closed eyes. “We’re having a baby, honey.” Her voice choked. Avital looked back down at the picture. Nando’s giant grin brought a smile to her face. She kissed the photograph. “Can you believe it? I’m gonna be a mom.” Sharp joy lanced through her. Bliss and suffering skated the same thin line. “Your brother is taking really good care of me.” She laughed, the taste of tears in her mouth. “Well, not at this precise moment. But he’ll be back.”

  She ran her thumb over Nando’s face, wiping away an errant tear. “I’m scared for him. He is so single-minded, and this town is dangerous. I hope he doesn’t get himself killed trying to save me.”

  A shiver ran through her. Better to be alone here in this sick place than have Dolf die.

  She broke down into sobs. She loved them both. It was impossible to love one without the other. They were two halves of a whole. For years, Avital had pretended it wasn’t true—that her marriage was its own island, with only two residents. But Dolf had always been there, a silent partner. At the wedding, he’d stood next to Nando as his best man, his jaw bunched with pain—she’d pretended it was “his way” to be stoic and silent. But she’d known he was in pain. He’d loved them both fiercely—and their marriage had closed him out. He was so alone.

  Wrongs were all around her, though she didn’t know how they could be made right:

  Dolf loving her all these years, and the way she’d ignored it: wrong.

  Nando leaving her to Dolf in his will: wrong.

  Being imprisoned in this creepy town: wrong.

  Scorch Flu destroying the world: wrong.

  “Nando,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m glad that you don’t have to see all this—it’s so horrible. You were my best friend, my lover, my husband. But…” she choked on a sob, needed to get the words out but hating to hear them aloud. “You won’t be the father of my baby.” Avital curled up into a ball on the floor, cradling the photograph to her chest. “Dolf is going to be its father. I love you, but I have to say good-bye.”

  Through her sobbing, Avital heard the familiar cry of sirens. She sat up, holding her breath so that she could hear more clearly.

  Yes, sirens were blaring on the street.

  Dolf was coming for her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dolf

  After resting in a barn through the heat of the day, Dolf walked until he reached a farmhouse. Hidden in a clump of trees outside the immediate yard, he assessed the simple white building with its overgrown lawn and fields of corn and alfalfa.

  No life showed in the windows. An old pickup was parked in the driveway, and a clothesline extended from the back of the house, hung with clothing, including men’s shirts. The shirts were dotted with bird droppings, so probably had been on the line a few days.

  Dolf worked his way through the trees to the back of the house, darted over, and took one of the shirts—a pale blue T-shirt emblazoned with Newton Cares Clinic on the front.

  That might even be where Avital was working.

  A dog barked from inside the house, but it was not the deep bellow of a guard dog—it was the high-pitched yap of a small pet. For some reason, hearing it reminded him of Slash.

  He had to get his cat back.

  Dolf flattened himself against the house, hidden from the windows.

  No one came in response to the dog’s barking. The owners weren’t at home, or they were sick or dead inside. He needed food and weapons, so it was worth taking a few risks.

  Dolf turned the handle of the back door, and it was unlocked. These people were not concerned about security. A little Jack Russell Terrier, white with brown spots, ran out, yapping. The animal saw him and quieted, crouching low in submission. The dog’s ribs showed, and it licked his hand when he extended it. “Everything okay, boy?”

  The dog darted back into the house and turned in the doorway as if inviting Dolf in.

  The cloying smell of decomposition choked his nose as he entered, telling a tale
of what had happened to the owners of the house. Dolf looked through the kitchen cupboards until he found a tin of dog food. He fed the terrier, whose tag identified him as Butch, and refreshed his water. Then, putting on dishwashing gloves and tying a towel over his face, Dolf moved deeper into the house.

  Evidence of serious illness cluttered the upstairs bedroom—piles of sheets, jugs of water, a thermometer, boxes of tissues. The couple lay on the bed, their arms around each other. They’d been dead long enough to swell and attract blow flies.

  Dolf looked away, swallowing bile.

  This house was the ideal base of operations, but there was no way he could function in it with its former owners rotting upstairs. He was going to have to bury those bodies, but first he needed food—he was running on empty.

  Dolf returned to the kitchen and found eggs in the refrigerator, still working because of solar panels he’d glimpsed on the roof. Encouraged by the power, he checked the landline phone, but there was only a busy signal. The couple’s cell phones, neatly plugged in on the sideboard, weren’t picking up a signal either.

  It had been worth a try to get through to JT again, to let him know they were delayed.

  Dolf cooked up scrambled eggs with cheese, and gave a portion to the begging Butch. He ate it outside, away from the stench that haunted the farmhouse.

  After the meal, Butch at his heels, Dolf went to the barn looking for a shovel and ended up discovering a small Caterpillar mini excavator parked there. He used it to dig a deep, wide grave.

  He moved the bodies downstairs one at a time, wrapping them in shower curtains. It was a memory he wished he didn’t have to keep. The little dog never left his side throughout the whole ordeal.

  After the burial, Dolf searched the house and barn thoroughly, assembling everything that could be used as a weapon. By the end of his assessment, there was an arsenal on the kitchen table: two Remington shotguns; one double-barreled, the other a distance rifle; several boxes of shells for both; a Colt .45 revolver with accompanying boxes of ammo; a flamethrower, complete with a backpack fuel source, likely used by the farmer to burn weeds along the roadside; and a small box of dynamite, with a few rods left over. Dolf had spied a few craters out back, where the farmer had blown up stumps and stones.

  A huge buck knife with a serrated back in a scabbard went straight onto the belt he lifted from the farmer’s closet.

  Dolf breathed easier with the knife strapped on.

  He was exhausted, the bruises from the beating draining his strength. There was nothing to be done but to eat again, take a shower, and crash on the downstairs couch to wait for the next day.

  Somewhat restored in the morning, especially after his first cup of coffee in days and several aspirin, Dolf was ready for a recon trip into Newton.

  The farmer’s name was Adam Paxton, according to the mail he found on the kitchen counter. Dolf guessed he was probably pretty recognizable to the people of Newton, especially in his old pickup, so Dolf dressed carefully in the man’s clothes and pulled Paxton’s green ball cap, emblazoned with the Caterpillar logo, low on his forehead.

  The keys were in the ignition of the old Ford truck in the driveway, and Dolf found a pair of aviator shades in the glove box and put them on. Turning on the battered white pickup, he hoped he would pass inspection, at least from a distance. This trip was to assess the town’s defenses, and figure out where Avital was being held.

  Butch whimpered and begged, jumping up and down outside the driver’s side door. Dolf let the little animal up into the cab with him. He rolled down the passenger side window, and Butch stood with his forepaws on the edge of the window frame like that was his usual spot.

  Dolf set one of the loaded Remingtons in the wheel well and the Colt in his lap, a reassuring weight, before putting the truck in gear.

  It took twenty minutes to get back into Newton. Dolf slowed the pickup, driving carefully at the speed limit, his eyes scanning from side to side as he observed the peaceful town. A group of six men were working on a fence that looked like it would eventually surround the municipality. Three men dug holes and sank posts, and three more nailed up sections of pre-fabricated, ten-foot-high cedar fencing. Progress appeared to be rapid.

  Dolf was getting Avital out just in time. But where was she?

  His shirt advertised Newton Cares Clinic, so all he had to do was drive until he found it.

  Dolf lifted a hand to wave in a reserved way at those who waved at him. As he watched in the rearview mirror, he could tell that they thought he was the farmer, and the little white dog’s happy face in the window of the passenger side certainly helped.

  People saw what they expected to see.

  Dolf drove around the town square. His stomach plummeted as he recognized the spot where the Humvee had been parked. It was gone. He wasn’t really surprised. It was a valuable vehicle, even if they didn’t discover the gold. Hopefully the cash in the glove box threw them off from looking further.

  A few older women were walking their dogs along the meandering cement path around the square, like it was any other day of the week, like they weren’t holding Avital prisoner. This town was doing a good job of pretending the apocalypse hadn’t happened.

  Dolf braked as he approached a stop sign, his eyes scanning for Slash. He whistled low under his breath, a sound that Slash would recognize. A honk came behind him, and he had to move on.

  He circled the town square again, pulling up to that same stop sign. Dolf resisted the urge to park and go looking for the old tomcat. If he were caught it wouldn’t do the cat, him, or Avital any good.

  Butch barked, and the grizzled old tom, crooked tail waving, appeared from a nearby alley. He trotted straight up to the truck with an accusing mew. Dolf threw the truck in park, jumped out and scooped him up, putting him in the passenger seat next to Butch.

  The two animals assessed each other in silence as Dolf put the truck back into gear and kept moving, his heart thumping hard against his bruised ribs.

  One down. Two more to go.

  He continued to drive slowly, looking for the Humvee. Up and down the streets he went. He was so intent on finding his vehicle that he almost passed the medical clinic—but there it was, a modest storefront marked with Newton Cares Clinic on a lighted sign in front.

  Dolf navigated around the block and discovered that an alley ran behind the commercial buildings. He parked the truck out of sight. Slash protested when Dolf opened his door. Butch nuzzled the old tom, who was not amused. “Sorry buddy,” Dolf said. “It’s his truck.”

  Pulling down his billed cap, Dolf walked around to the main street and strolled slowly past the clinic’s entrance, his eyes on the picture window that gave a view into the packed waiting room.

  He could see a light in a window above the storefront. Perhaps the clinic had a living area above. Back in the alley, he used the truck’s tire iron to pop the back door open. Inside, a hall led toward the sound of voices that marked the clinic. Directly on his right was a flight of stairs. Dolf took the stairs, two at a time, as quietly as he could.

  He found a doorway and stepped inside an apartment. The living room was empty except for a couch, but on the floor was a mug. He picked it up and sniffed. Chamomile tea. He smiled, picturing Avi curled up on that couch, making the best of her situation. She was downstairs saving lives right now. God, he wanted to see her, but he needed to keep moving.

  Dolf found the bedroom. Avital’s backpack leaned against the wall beside a mattress on the floor, which meant she had her things from the Humvee.

  They’d stashed his vehicle somewhere. He could only hope the gold was still undetected and that he’d be able to return for it someday with his brothers and a shitload of firepower. But for now, Avital was his priority.

  He picked up her pillow and inhaled her scent—vanilla, woman, and that hint of something clean…antiseptic, perhaps. He pressed his face into the smell and almost couldn’t bear to set it back down. Was there some way to let her know he had
been here?

  It was too dangerous, the element of surprise in taking on the armed townspeople too vital. It was better just to show up and get her however he could.

  Dolf drove into Newton in the soft gray dusk of early evening.

  Butch and Slash were back at the farmhouse, with the windows open—if he didn’t return, they could escape.

  The Caterpillar ball cap was pulled low over his eyes as he scanned the street. The Colt was holstered on one side of his waist, the buck knife on the other, and an ammo belt crossed his chest. The Remington double barrel rested in the wheel well, and the passenger seat was loaded with the rest of his arsenal.

  He navigated the town straight to the large white colonial where he’d been held. Parking the truck a few blocks away, he backtracked to the mansion, passing no one.

  The night was his cloak as he approached, laden with destruction.

  Male laughter floated to him on the night air. The leader he’d punched whose name he’d never heard, sat at a round table in the dining room, along with the sheriff and several others he recognized even without their police uniforms.

  They were playing poker, and it would be their last game.

  He placed a stick of dynamite under the windowsill, the light inside reflecting off the glass and protecting him from being spotted. He was a voyeur, watching them laugh and drink as he placed a second stick under the next sill, uniting the two with a long twist of fuse.

  A third went under the kitchen window. Dolf was glad to see that the kitchen was empty. If there had been anyone else there, a wife perhaps, his conscience might have stopped him from the method of execution he’d chosen. He lit the fuse with his father’s lighter, the orange flame dancing as it traveled in the warm breeze.

  Dolf jogged back toward the truck as the explosion shook the night. He turned back for just a moment, and the shattering scream of the windows blowing out made him smile as plumes of black smoke engulfed the grand old home.