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He shook his head and pointed at our feet. “Take your shoes off.”
I understood immediately and slipped them off. Most of the floors had carpet or rugs, but most of the house had dark hardwood floors or marble tile. In just socks, we could move almost silently through the building. Would Owen do the same? Somehow I didn’t think so.
Drake led me to the gymnasium first. It was a bit smaller than the old one but still large enough to make life a living hell for anyone trapped inside. After searching the showers and locker room, we moved on. Every second grew with intensity. Each room we checked without finding him sent my anxiety higher. After the music room, and the movie room, and several others, we double back again, inspecting the doll bedrooms.
“Are you sure he didn’t run?” I asked, putting my mouth to Drake’s ear.
“He didn’t run. He knows this is his best chance to take us out. We’ve fucked up everything else for him. He won’t let this chance go. He’s coming for us. Somehow, someway, this ends tonight.”
“Okay,” I said.
Drake knew Owen better than I did. Though, part of me knew he was right. Everything that had happened tonight, from the moment I set foot on that party back at the college, had the distinct feel of fate coming full circle. Here I was back where everything had started. What could I do but follow it until the end?
The two of us stepped back into the dining room, glancing around but finding nothing. The plates from the food we’d eaten from earlier still sat, the leftovers drying out like old paint.
“The kitchen,” Drake whispered, pointing with his chair leg.
Stepping inside, the old lingering smells of cooked food made me nauseous. Drake stood behind me as we walked. We managed to get to the long flat grill cooktop before we heard it. A faint, but distinct thud-thud-thud of running feet.
“Down!” Drake screamed and shoved me to the floor.
A gunshot rang out from behind us, and a perfect hole appeared in the wall, right where I’d been standing only a few moments before. Had Drake not shoved me down, my brains would have been splattered across that wall. A second shot rang out, and the tile beside me, three inches from my face, shattered in a burst of dust and shrapnel.
Leaping to my hands and knees, I scurried behind an oven, and Drake collapsed beside me just as a third shot ricocheted off the industrial dishwasher.
“Got you, you motherfuckers,” Owen screamed. From the strange lilt in his voice, he sounded like he’d gone completely mad.
“Are you okay?” I gasped, looking at Drake.
“I’m fine. Here,” he said, pulling the gun from his waistband and handing it to me. “I’m going to draw his fire. When I do, you shoot that fucker.”
“No, don’t?—”
Bang, another shot exploded, and a bullet thudded into the oven. I could feel the impact of it through my whole body.
“Don’t argue,” he said, and then he was gone, rolling away, staying low.
“Stand still, Drake,” Owen shouted. “I don’t want to kill you. I just want to shoot your god damned dick off. You can’t die until I’ve made you watch me ruin your pretty little girlfriend.”
Bang, bang, bang. I flinched at each shot, sure it would be the one to take Drake down, but he surprised me. I could see him bobbing and weaving through the dozen or so racks of food. A huge sack of flour exploded with one shot, a big can of tomato sauce erupted with another, and all the while he stayed alive, forcing Owen to turn farther and farther from me. I had to do something. Soon. Drake wouldn’t be that lucky for long.
I lowered myself to my stomach, and peered under the oven. It sat on legs, and there was a space about ten inches high that allowed me to see across the kitchen. I couldn’t see Owen, but I could see his feet, clad in sneakers, inching across the kitchen, trying to get a better shot at Drake. My breath heaving and my hands clammy with sweat, I put my hands under the oven, holding the gun clasped in both of them. I aimed and waited for him to stop moving.
Owen sent another bullet at Drake, then I heard the dry snap of the trigger but no explosion.
“Now, Dahlia,” Drake screamed, and I heard him running toward Owen. Owen cursed as he tried to reload his pistol.
I sucked in a breath and pulled the trigger five times in quick succession. The first bullet slammed into the tile in front of Owen, then the second tore apart his left ankle, the next three hit his left calf, the wall behind him, and his left foot. Blood and bone exploded out of his shoes and pants, and he let out a scream that sounded more angry than painful and tumbled to the ground. Before I could get up from my hiding place, Drake was on him, raining fists on his face.
Hurrying to join him, I found Owen unconscious and Drake breathing heavily atop him. Standing there, gaping down at him, I had a hard time believing this man had been the one to have tormented us for so long. He looked so…inconsequential. A man, roughly Drake’s age, well-built but not with the powerful muscles Drake had. He was nothing but a normal man, easily broken once you had the upper hand.
“Help me. Grab his left leg,” Drake said, bending to grab his right.
Ten minutes later, we had Owen strapped down to a chair in the torture room, stripped naked, and tied. His head still hung limp, his broken nose and the bullet wounds in his legs and feet oozing blood in a slow trickle.
Drake’s hand lashed out, slapping Owen. The man’s head rocked back, and his eyes snapped open, glazed and barely conscious. Drake slapped him again, and full alert understanding returned. He took a few deep breaths, and his gaze bounced back and forth from Drake to me. Only a few seconds lapsed before a resigned bitterness creased his expression.
“Go on,” he said. “Fucking do it. Kill me.”
