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She makes a break for it as Marge still kneels on the floor, heading toward the nearest exit.
The French doors.
Charlie jackrabbits toward them, hoping they’re unlocked, prepared to smash through them if they’re not. When she slams into them, the doors rattle but don’t open. She rams a shoulder into them. A pane of glass pops out and shatters to the ground outside.
Through the open square it left behind, Charlie sees a stone walkway, a drained swimming pool, lounge chairs stacked like firewood. She doesn’t know if the walkway leads to another part of the lodge, but she doesn’t care. Anywhere is better than here.
Charlie tries to throw herself into the door again, but Marge is upon her before she gets the chance. She tugs on the collar of Charlie’s coat, pulling her backward, yanking her to the floor.
A slap of pain hits Charlie as her head bounces off the canvas-covered floor. White spots float across her vision, obscuring the sight of Marge climbing on top of her, surprisingly strong and shockingly heavy.
Through the white spots, Charlie sees Marge tip the chloroform bottle against the rag before clamping it over her nose and mouth.
More white spots.
Gathering.
Growing.
Soon Charlie can see nothing but white as the chloroform casts its spell. Marge doesn’t keep the cloth over her face long enough to knock her out completely. It only makes her weak. A rag doll being dragged across the floor.
Charlie feels her body being lifted into the chair. More rope is wound around her torso and the back of the chair, holding her in place. The white spots start to fade one by one, like stars at dawn. By the time Charlie can see clearly again, she’s been completely bound to the chair.
Marge stands in front of her, the pistol replaced by the pliers.
Fear spreads like lava in Charlie’s chest.
“Who are you, and why are you doing this?”
“I told you,” Marge says. “We’re here to talk.”
“About what?”
Marge lowers herself onto the stool in front of Charlie. There’s a hardness to her that goes beyond her spindly body. It’s in the set of her jaw and the frown etched on her lips and the darkness of her eyes.
“I want to talk,” she says, “about mygranddaughter.”
TWO A.M.
INT. GRAND AM—NIGHT
Driving—honest-to-goodness driving—has taken a toll on him. He’s a sweaty, pain-wracked mess by the time he reaches the entrance to the Mountain Oasis Lodge. Sitting in the car next to the sign with the missing “O,” he wants nothing more than a warm bed, a cold beer, and a couple of Extra Strength Tylenol.
He resumes driving because he doesn’t like the situation. Marge told him all she wanted to do with Charlie was talk. Well, you don’t need to bring someone to an abandoned hotel in the Poconos to talk. They could have done that in the diner.
Even if it was easier to talk in another location, there’s no good reason that Charlie’s boyfriend felt the need to surreptitiously follow them there. The Volvo passed the sign a minute ago, going slow, its headlights out to keep Marge from noticing it.
Something else is going on here, and he feels the need to check it out.
He owes it to Charlie.
She wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for his lies and tricks and half-truths. None of which he’s proud of. It was all part of thejob. At least, that’s what he told himself when trying to justify it. But the truth is that none of it was kosher. He knew that but ignored it.
Because the job was simple.
That’s what Marge told him when they spoke on the phone. She had called him out of the blue, saying she got his name from a friend whose brother is a cop in Scranton and that he came highly recommended.
“Never let a man get away from me yet,” he said.