“Protecting our shit,” she said.
“You’re going out there?” he said. “Are you nuts?”
“No, but that asshole is if he thinks he’s taking my Gibson.”
“Ash.” He squeezed her elbow. “It’s just a guitar.”
She shrugged him off and opened the door.
Her pulse thrumming, she stepped outside. She heard Ski-mask rummage through their gear. A hard leather case thudded against the wet blacktop. Could’ve been her guitar or one of the others. Either way, he isn’t getting it.
Her pepper spray cocked and ready, Ash crept toward the red glow of the taillight. Her foot crunched something—the dropped CD cases—and she hopped backward.
Ahead, she heard the psycho pause.
Oh fuck. He’s listening.
Her heart rumbled in her chest. She was breathing heavy now, her lungs sucking in the harsh, dry exhaust fumes. She wanted to retreat but couldn’t—not without squandering her chance to catch the intruder at least somewhat off guard.
Leaning forward, she leveled her shoulder with the door handle. She set her feet, her back heel bouncing anxiously against the pavement. Then, with a nervous lunge, she rounded the taillight, the spray can cocked like a pistol, and depressed the trigger.
Her spray missed his spazzing head. She redirected the nozzle, but a gloved hand smacked the can away. It clattered across wet blacktop.
Cheeto ran out, howling threats. He lunged to tackle the psycho and received a swinging elbow to the face. A snap sounded before he tumbled backward. Cheeto’s ass hit the ground and his head followed, striking the pavement with an awful thud.
“Cheeto!”
He lay there, motionless.
“Help! Somebody help! Somebo—”
The psycho pressed his heel against Cheeto’s throat.
“Wait,” Ash said, her voice small. “Please, don’t.”
Head twitching, the man turned to her. Though it had barely started drizzling, his ski mask was dripping wet, as if he’d just finished bobbing for apples with all his lunatic friends.
“Do what I say,” he snarled in a shaken-up voice. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded red cloth. Ash recognized it—the same red bandanna worn by the asshole who ruined her show. “Stuff this in your mouth.”
The bandanna landed at her feet. Trembling, she picked it up from the blacktop. It was slick with grimy moisture. She wiped it off and crumpled it into her mouth. The oily flavor triggered her gag reflex. She overcame it and closed her lips, glaring at him.
“Now lie on your stomach.”
She dropped to one knee in a cold shallow puddle. Once she leaned forward and lay flat, he lifted his boot off Cheeto’s neck. She felt a small flush of relief.
Then he squatted and lifted Cheeto into his arms. With a grunt, Ski-mask rose to his feet again. “Stay put.”
Her joints stiffened. She wanted to jump to her feet and fight but was too petrified to move. Her opportunity faded as Ski-mask carried Cheeto away behind her. She hated to think where this was leading. Torture crossed her mind. Then rape. Murder.
Her thoughts stopped as something crashed down on her lower back. Something misshapen and heavy. The shock rattled her more than the actual impact. It took a moment before she realized Cheeto’s body had been dropped across her own. Scrawny as he was, his weight pinned her in place.
“Don’t move.”
As Ski-mask climbed inside the van, the overworn shocks squeaked. Instrument cases scraped and thudded. She watched her hardshell guitar case hit the pavement.
He opened it and removed her Gibson.
“Nice ax,” he said, hoisting it. He stepped closer, the wind stirring his baggy jeans. He lowered her guitar to the ground. She lay at eye-level with the volume knob.
Seeing her guitar in his grasp made her want to claw through that mask and rip his face off. The best she could do, however, was stretch her left hand out toward the guitar. Her fingers grazed its solid mahogany body.
“Bet you’re wondering why I’m doing this,” he said, sidestepping her hand. He dropped his shoe against her forearm, pinning it down. “Thing is, I don’t like your music. Not one bit.”
Haters gonna hate, she thought miserably.
“But don’t worry,” he said, tapping her guitar against the pavement. “I’ll let you and your orange-haired friend off easy. Long as you promise me one thing—you’ll never play again.”
Sure, she thought. Deal. Whatever. Anything to shoo away this whack job and spit out his filthy rag.
“Grunt if you agree.”
She grunted.
“Gonna hold you to it. You promise?”
Again she grunted.
“Positive?”
Grunt.
“Okay,” he said, lifting her guitar off the ground. “You promised.”
A white shock of pain blitzed through her hand. She flinched, her eyes snapping shut. Her chin bounced hard off the blacktop. She tasted blood. At first she didn’t understand what had happened. Then she opened her eyes and watched the guitar drop like a guillotine blade across her knuckles.
A scream ripped through her throat. The guitar slammed again and again, striking her hand like a shovel tip against frozen earth. Hot vibrations bolted up her forearm. No matter how much she writhed and roared, she couldn’t pull her arm free from his shoe. Nor could she shake off Cheeto’s weight. Every time she tried to push herself up with her free hand, the next strike dropped her flat.
Tears flooded her eyes. She shut them so she couldn’t watch.
Her fingers exploded one by one. Broken bones poked against the skin containing them. Her thumb got it the worst, or at least it felt that way. Waves of fire spread everywhere.
Soon the pain stopped mattering—the physical pain at least. Fresh misery poured through her as she realized her career was sunk. Left hand was the money hand, and once her bandmates got wind of this, they would desert her in a cocaine heartbeat. Even if they didn’t, what could she possibly look forward to? Certainly not the Deathgrip show. Or any show. Without her hand, she had no identity. She lived her life through her fingers, and if she couldn’t play a riff or create a solo, she’d be lost.
At some point the pounding brutality stopped. The parking lot went silent but for the pattering rain. The pressure on her forearm lifted. It was over.
Before he left, he set her Gibson gently down in front of her. The lower curve of its body bore horrific dents and the neck was crooked, probably cracked.
“Real nice guitar,” he said, turning away. “Hope I didn’t break it.”
5
Static crackled through the patrol car’s two-way radio. Somebody had reported a bear on their property. Here in Hollow Hills. Great. Just what Karl needed when he was three sips into his morning coffee from the Downhill Diner. At his age, he needed twelve steaming ounces to offset the late-November chill. Otherwise the cold ate through his car, his uniform, his skin, everything—including his knees, which didn’t exactly belong to him.
Dispatch gave the address, and Karl’s gut dropped. Candace Lapinski’s house. When Candace called in a bear complaint, it was never about a bear.
He hung up, pulled away from the curb, and made a left at St. Raphael’s Church. He hoped to God that Candace’s call was nothing serious. Normally she didn’t bother him while he was on duty. Not unless it involved the creek or the Traders.