(Part 4) No Place Like Home

Cliff gets me a job at the gas station. I doubt anyone believes the we're-cousins story, but it says a lot about him that no one complains.

My first day is miserable. Cliff drops me off on his way to the farm at 6am. The manager points me to the register and a line of angry customers.

It takes me the better part of the morning to learn to work the register and the lottery machine. People aren't patient at 7am on a work day.

By the time Cliff picks me up that afternoon at 5, I'm ready to pass out. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks sarcastically as I collapse in the truck.

"I have a feeling being shot at was more pleasurable," I reply, touching the gunshot wound in my shoulder.

When we get back to his house, the door is ajar. "Hmm... Thought I locked that," he mumbles as we pass inside. But nothing is out of place.

He heads for the kitchen, to make sandwiches, I know. Since I've been here, they're all the food we've had. I've no right to complain, though.

As he putters around, shouting to ask if I'd like mayo or mustard, I see it. In the corner behind the couch, where my things are piled...

It looks like nothing at first. Just a ball of brown paper. But as I pick it up,I realize it is the same kind of paper that wrapped my package.

I uncrumple it, smooth it on the coffee table. The writing is in the same hand, but the words are different. "Midnight. Lake in the woods."

It is unsigned. "Sorry it's turkey again," Cliff says, entering suddenly. I startle, shove the paper under the couch cushion. "S'all we have."

I try to stay awake for the midnight meeting, but I'm out by seven o'clock. I don't know how much rest I got before the dreams came again.

This time I stand in an office with two men arguing. On the desk is a paperweight I recognize. Earlier today someone threw it at me from a car.

I scoot closer, try to read the name on it. Just as I do, one of the men moves in front of me, blocks my vision. "What do you think, j?"

I look up at him, startled. His face is unfamiliar, handsome though. His black eyes seem to deepen when he smiles. I stammer some reply.

"We do need your opinion," he says, as if my response was coherent. "You're our most valuable asset, after all." He steps closer. "I value you."

The other man is talking again, louder, but the one before me ignores him. He touches my shoulder in a familiar, possessive way.

"Be careful with her, Rick," he says. The man chuckles. Then the whole scene explodes, erupts with flames. My eyes burn with the brightness.

I wake up with a gasp this time, luckily not loud enough to wake Cliff. The clock in the kitchen glows at me. It's eleven fifty-nine.

Moving quietly as possible, I slip outside. The yard is dark this time, clouded. But I can still see the car parked at the end of the drive.

I can't tell if it's the same car that passed us on the street that day. My heart pounds as I walk toward it. A voice calls out.

"That's far enough." I stop dead in my tracks, squint, but I can't see anyone near the car, or in it. "Who are you?" I call back.

"I believe you know that, Lucinda." The tree to my left could be where the voice comes from. "My name is j," I reply. "You've made a mistake."

They laugh, at least two people. The speaker is a man, that much I can tell. "I don't know who you are, but you've got the wrong person."

"Your gunshot scar's visible from here, darling," says a new voice. "Did that break make you dumb, or do you really think we're that slow?"

I touch my shoulder reflexively. In my tank top, the scar is revealed, true. I didn't know I should be hiding it. "What do you want?"

"We want to know where the kid is. And don't play dumb or try to run for it, or we'll take it out on your friend in there. Not that you care."

I close my eyes, try to remember. Kid. What kid? I don't have stretch marks - I'm pretty sure I have no children.

"You have until the count of ten. Rory?" The second person stepped forward. He was male too, but shorter, as if... No. I shivered.

It was just a kid. Twelve, maybe thirteen at most. But in his right hand was a gun, trained on me, and in his left a small, round object...

"Ten. Nine." "Wait! What's in his hand?" I shout. "Eight. Seven." The kid raises the object to his mouth, bites down on something above it.

"Six. Five." A pin, I realize. It's a grenade. "Four." I don't wait to hear the rest--I sprint for the house. "Three." Shots fire, miss me.

I dive through the open door. "Cliff!" I can't hear the counting in here, but I don't pause to try. I run for his bedroom. "Cliff, please!"