Monster by Steve Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

live.
    “Go ahead,” he mumbled.
    “Can I get out?”
    “No,” he said, “I want to take you somewhere.”
    Something in his tone told her that wherever “somewhere” was, she didn’t want to go. Crying as she pulled on her clothes, she blurted out, “I’m not old enough to die. I deserve a chance to live as long as you have.”
    His answer was chilling. “I ain’t that much older than you.” But his anger seemed exhausted.
    “Can I open a window?” she asked and began to reach for the door. His answer was a fist to her face.
    Racked with pain, hardly able to see, she could picture in her mind being taken somewhere to be killed and her body dumped like trash. She knew then that he wasn’t going to let her go ... he’d told her his name, even pointed out the street where he lived as they were driving out of Frisco.
    He started the truck as her tears mixed with the blood on her face. But he drove only a few feet before stopping again. His hands came up to grip his head as he started to mumble. She knew he wasn’t speaking to her. He seemed engaged in some internal struggle. Mumbling. Muttering. Rubbing his head with blood-covered hands.
    “Can I go?” she asked flinching from the blow she expected.
    “Yes, go,” he yelled instead. “Take everything ...” But Mary was already out the door, reaching into the truck’s bed to remove her duffel bag. Then she ran before he could change his mind.
    Her left eye was swollen shut and blood poured over her right. Slipping. Falling. Rising only to fall again. Each time she fell she felt she wouldn’t be able to get up again and the thought crossed her mind to just lie down and give in. The cold was numbing and she could feel it sapping her energy.
    But something within wouldn’t let her give up; she struggled again to her feet, leaving a bright red trail as she staggered through hip-deep snow that lay between her and the nearest dark house. Any moment she expected to feel the hand of her attacker dragging her back ... back to a lonely grave “somewhere.”
    She reached the house, knocked on the door, and screamed for help. The world was a nightmare. Monsters lurked in the black shadows beneath the trees. No one was home.
    Abandoning her duffel bag, she set off through the snow to a house across the road, only to pull up in terror when she noticed a truck in the driveway. Cautiously, she approached and looked in the back; there was no wood, it wasn’t his truck.
    Staggering, she reached the front door but couldn’t raise her hand to knock. Growing dizzy and afraid that she would pass out and freeze to death, she willed herself to try the door handle. It wasn’t locked and gave to the pressure.
    “Help me!” she screamed, entering the house. “Please, someone help me!” She walked a few steps into the living room and fell to the floor.
    Frightened voices called out in the dark. Lights came on. People were around her. She heard voices but it was all a confused jumble. Then very distinctly she heard a woman’s voice cry out, “... third one in a month.”
     
     
    It was 3:30 in the morning when Silverthorne police officer Pam Smith arrived at the scene of a 911 emergency call. She found what appeared to be a young woman—it was difficult to assess the victim’s age because of the blood and disfigurement—lying on the living room floor, sobbing hysterically.
    Smith tried to assure Mary (she was able to get the girl’s name) and gently asked what had happened. “He used a hammer,” the girl cried. “I hurt—I hurt so bad.”
    The ambulance arrived simultaneously with Silverthorne Detective Tom Snyder who assumed the lead in the case. He told Smith to accompany the young woman to the Summit County Medical Center to see if she would say anything about her assailant. On the way to the clinic, a female paramedic began to remove Mary’s shirt but she clutched at the attendant’s hands and, through broken lips, said, “Not with him here.” She