Page 53 of Devil to Pay: Cutter

While he’s going at his jeans, daydreaming about giving it to me hard, I grab the long, thin handle and use everything in me to swing it up between my legs to hit him in the junk as hard as I can. He grunts and shoves me away, bending over. This is my only chance. I whip around to crack him upside the head with the stick and I keep doing it over and over until he drops to his knees then falls backward, cracking his head on the ground. Blood dribbles from his ear.

I take the sharp, broken end, lift it high and bring it down, piercing his flesh. There’s blood everywhere. I take off, leaving the handle sticking in his shoulder while I run to what looks like an old office with a broken-out window.

There’s an old roller chair that I move under the window and climb up on. Wherever the other men are, I don’t see them out back. Just a chain-link fence with a portion folded back, as if people used that hole to enter and exit the property.

When I climb out the window, I don’t see the small, jagged piece of glass. I don’t see it, but I feel it as it tears through my skin along my torso. That stings like a son of a bitch. It stings even more when my body jolts from landing on the hard-packed ground beneath the window. Despite the pain, I look around once more to check for movement and then make a dash toward the hole in the fence. My shirt snags on one of the exposed ends of the chain. It scratches down my arm. Still, I take the extra two seconds to remove the traces of blood and my shirt to keep them from tracking me down too quickly.

Fingers crossed.

I’m in so much pain running for my life. At least this far north in Ohio, I’m not running into cliffs—at least I assume I’m still in Ohio. It’s flat farmer’s land as far as I can see. That’s when I decide to head for the corn. It might take me longer to move through it, but with the corn higher than me, I have much less chance of being spotted.

God, it hurts. It hurts so badly.

The corn stalks whip at my face and arms. I don’t stop running. Not for anything. There’s a stitch in my side and the cut on my torso burns. My blouse is stained with blood. I’m a mess. Still, I keep pushing myself. God only knows when the rest of the men will spread out looking for me.

Eventually, I emerge on the complete other side of the cornfield. The land opens up to a yard with an old farmhouse. Half the clapboard siding is falling off and the roof has collapsed in one spot. There’s a rusted, metal swing set in the yard that looks like it hasn’t been used in decades. I don’t know if I’m far enough away from the men who took me and I don’t know if they’ll look here because it’s an abandoned property, but I do know I can’t go on. Not now. I have to stop and rest at least for a few minutes.

Just climbing the steps to the dilapidated porch tests my ability to trust. Trust that the wood won’t give way when I step on it. The old door opens surprisingly easy. There’re a few old pieces of furniture left over, including a wooden rocking chair. That’s where I head, giving it a good rock a few times to make sure it’s stable enough to hold me. That old-time construction doesn’t let me down. I sit. It hurts like a mother when I bend, reopening some of the wound that started to scab over.

What am I supposed to do now? Stuck in a farmhouse only God knows where. No phone. No purse. It’s all back with my truck at the Waffle House.

“This is why I shouldn’t have you,” I say to my belly. “Do you see what kind of mom I’ll be? Though I would never have let a man hurt you. And I’d never have chosen a man over you, like my mom did. But it’s probably for the best that you don’t come into my messed-up life.”

It doesn’t take much to cry myself to sleep. When I wake the house is pitch black. I’m starting to feel feverish on top of all my other injuries. One or all of my wounds have probably gotten infected.

My side burns even more than it did earlier. If I don’t get help, I’m going to die.

“You can do this, Aja,” I whisper as I push up from the rocking chair, wincing from the pain. Thank goodness there weren’t any holes in the floorboards while I stumble in the direction I think the door is in.

I hit a wall, feeling around until I definitely touch a wooden door, then move my hand until connecting with the knob, twisting it. A little light filters in from the stars in the sky, allowing me to see where I’m stepping, and I move swiftly although cautiously down the steps and take off toward the old road that ends at the property.

It feels like I’ve been walking forever when more houses start to pepper the area. It’s still dark, but it looks like people are up, getting into their cars. They must be heading to work.

Cautiously, I approach the first person. A woman. She has her hair pulled back in a bun and is wearing dress slacks.

She turns when she hears me. “Oh, my god!”

And I start crying.

“David!” she shouts. “David, come quick!” A man, presumably David, with short hair, a tidy beard, and business slacks comes running out of the house.

“I was injured,” I whisper.

“I’m calling 911,” David says as he pulls his phone from his pants pocket. The woman helps me to sit and I cry out again because sitting on the ground hurts worse than sitting down in that chair did.

“Is there anyone we can call for you?” the woman asks.

“What time is it?” I ask and she looks at me puzzlingly, checking her phone. “It’s ten to seven.”

The only phone number I know is my work number. But Betty will be at the office now. Dusty might be there too, if I’m lucky. I rattle off the number and the woman calls it.

“Hello,” she says into the line. “My name is Kristy Jacobson. I have an injured woman here with me. She told me to call this number.” She pauses and looks at me. “What’s your name?”

“Aja.”

“She says her name is Aja.” She pauses again. “Yes. We have an ambulance coming. No. I don’t know.” After one more pause she says, “We live just outside Ada, Ohio.”

Then she hands the phone to me. “Hello?” I say weakly into the receiver.

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