packing. Missy’s punishment began before he’d left the house and he’d promised to continue it when he returned. In the meantime, he’d taken their twin sons away with him, confident that she would never run away without her children.
When we’d first arrived, she hadn’t answered the door. Fearing that Dr. Porter’s escalating abuse had turned homicidal, Gran and I crept around the house trying to get a glimpse inside. We found an open window, shouted Missy’s name again, and heard a woman sobbing.
Right then, I’d seen in Gran’s face that she wished Aunt Lucy was at her side. But Aunt Lucy was home with a broken leg and—no matter that I was nothing more than a gawky adolescent girl with boring brown eyes and chopped-off brown curls—I was her replacement on this rescue. Mostly because, unlike Gran, I could see well enough to drive after dark. I was also undeniably more nimble than Gran. Reluctantly, she agreed that I should crawl inside. Without saying a word, she gave me the big leather handbag that concealed my grandfather’s gun.
I’d found Missy in the kitchen, sitting naked on the stool where her husband had ordered her to stay, urine puddling on the floor beneath her. Horrified and unsure of what to do or say, I ran to the kitchen door and let Gran in. Valuable time passed as she convinced Missy to leave the stool, to escape as planned. Then Gran stood guard on the front porch and I waited inside as Missy got dressed.
We were almost to the foyer when the doorbell rang three times. A warning that Dr. Porter was approaching. Gran’s usual tactic—posing as a neighbor in search of a lost cat—bought us enough time to backtrack to the kitchen. And in that time, Missy lost her nerve.
As her husband bellowed for her from the front of the house, she stood, indecisive, unable to chose between the promise of escape and the certainty of abuse, between the risk of directing her own life and the terror of letting her husband control it. With her children in the balance, the decision was agony. And it was hers alone. In the end—with the sound of her husband’s heavy steps echoing down the hallway toward us—she chose survival.
“Run to the blue van parked down the street,” I whispered just before she bolted out the kitchen door. “I’ll slow him down, give you time to get away.”
I pulled my grandfather’s gun from the handbag.
I waited for the monster to come get me.
Dr. Porter’s cool tone warmed with growing anger.
I flinched at the obscenities he thought he was directing at his helpless wife, used both hands to support the weight of the bulky Smith & Wesson Victory revolver and waited for him. His breath, I was certain, would smell like rotting meat. His face would have flaring nostrils and pointed teeth. His eyes would be reddened by bloodlust and fury. It was the stuff of horror flicks and nightmares and novels by Koontz and King. But it was happening to me.
He screamed as he rushed through the doorway.
“You little bitch! I’ll drag your fuc—”
The sight of me and my gun brought him slamming to a halt.
“Missy’s not home,” I said into the sudden silence.
Between us was the polished granite counter, six empty plastic water bottles and the stool where he’d left his wife sitting for several agonizing hours. He’d compelled her to drink every bottle, then ordered her to remain on the stool until he returned. After years of being battered into submission, she’d done exactly as he’d said.
The revolver trembled in my hands as I pointed it past the water bottles to a spot where a blue silk tie was framed by the V of his gray vest. His light brown eyes stretched wide as his lips formed a moist O surrounded by the short, wiry hairs of his beard.
I returned his stare, as surprised by his appearance as he was by mine. He was ordinary. Absolutely, horrifyingly ordinary. Medium height, slightly pudgy and dressed in a three-piece suit. Mouse-colored hair had receded enough to make his forehead look tall, and his neatly trimmed mustache and beard were shot through with gray. His right shoulder was slightly humped, but not so much that he would stand out in a crowd of other middle-aged, average-looking men.
No matter how he looked, I told myself, he was still a monster. A threat to Missy. And to me.
“Drop the belt,” I said.
He surprised me again by immediately opening his hand and releasing the thick leather strap. Its buckle clattered noisily against the tiled floor, but he didn’t take his eyes from me and the gun I held. The bright spot of the task light above the counter glinted off a string of spittle at the corner of his mouth.
It was then, suddenly, that I realized the monster was terrified. Of me. And that I—Brooke Tyler—was utterly in control.
My hands steadied as my fear was replaced by an awareness of my own power. And the power of the weapon I held. With just the slightest pressure of my right index finger, I could kill this monster who looked human but took pleasure in torture and pain and humiliation. I could keep him from hurting Missy—or any other woman—ever again.
It wouldn’t be murder, wouldn’t be a sin. It would be justice.
Something in my expression told him what I intended.
He raised his hands in front of his face, arms crossed at the wrist and palms faced outward as if they could shield his face from the impact of a .38 caliber bullet. And he whimpered.
Maybe that very human reaction saved his life. Or maybe it was the sound of a horn blaring outside. Three times, then twice again. The signal that Missy was safely inside the van. A reminder of the promise I’d made on the family Bible on my last birthday. With Gran, Aunt Lucy and my seventeen-year-old sister, Katie, as witnesses, I’d placed my hand on the worn leather cover and sworn to protect the Underground. To keep its work secret. To continue our family’s legacy, begun during the Civil War, of aiding the helpless and abused.
Killing Dr. Porter could betray us all.
Missy would surely be blamed for the murder, but a police investigation might expose the Underground, forcing our network of safe houses to shut down. Jeopardizing the women we were supposed to be helping.
In the space of a heartbeat, reason supplanted rage. Or, at least, controlled it. But part of me still lusted for a small measure of revenge. That, as much as the desire to escape town unimpeded by Dr. Porter, inspired me.
I ordered him to strip.
Without the tailoring of his suit coat to hide it, the curve in his back and the hunch in his shoulder were even more obvious. But I felt not a moment of sympathy for this hateful, ordinary man.
There were two large crystal water pitchers in the buffet. I made him fill them before he took Missy’s place on the kitchen stool, then kept my grandfather’s gun pointed squarely at him as I demanded that he drink both pitchers dry. And I watched, unmoved, as he gagged in his haste to please me.
“I’ll be right back,” I said and had no problem matching the menace I’d heard in his voice. I simply imagined the way he’d spoken to Missy hours earlier. “If you move from that stool or if you mess yourself—” I stepped behind him, pressed the tip of the gun against the bare flesh where his spine twisted just below his shoulder blades “—you will be punished. I swear.”
Then I backed out of the kitchen.
The
