by Jette Harris
With some glittering fluid still clinging to his chin, Rhodes laughed. He clapped a hand on Witt’s shoulder. The boy looked numb and ashamed, staring at Heather’s shuddering back and heaving shoulders.
“Don’t worry,” Rhodes said. “I’ll make her clean it up.”
****
Heather knelt on the floor of her closet, her stomach still not quite right. She repeatedly ran a hand over her face, resisting the urge to spit. Rhodes placed a foot on her back and shoved her farther down. A putty knife scraped over her spine, sending shocks of pain down her back. She heard it sliding over the drywall as he slapped spackling over his patch. Jerking the blade, he slung the excess back on her.
“Hand me the 150-grit.” He held his hand out.
Holding her breath so an exasperated sigh could not escape, Heather peered into the 5-gallon bucket in front of her. A variety of hand tools invited her to stab him with them. But she flipped through the sandpaper instead, and obediently passed him the 150-grit sheet.
“And if you even think,” he warned as he smoothed the spackling, “of damaging this room again”—he paused to crouch down and take her chin in his hand—“I’ll buy an O-ring gag just for you.” He ran his thumb over her lips and smirked.
She didn’t know what that meant, but she didn’t want to find out.
****
“Psst… Trakkie?” Enough time had passed for Witt to believe Rhodes wasn’t in the room. Heather was skeptical and did not reply. “I’m sorry about earlier,” Witt continued despite her silence. “I didn’t know he was going to do that.”
There was a long pause. No one spoke. She didn’t even hear breathing. She sighed. “Yeah, well, none of us knew that he was going to kidnap and rape us, either.”
“No…” Witt replied, then blurted out, “and, personally… I don’t think your face is that bad, either.”
Heather hissed between her teeth. “Witt?” she called.
“Yeah?”
“Go to Hell.”
27
Rhodes clutched Heather’s hands in his, pinning them to the mattress. Sweat dripped from his chest onto her back and rolled down her ribcage. He had found this tactic limited his range of motion, but required fewer stitches. It also distressed Heather far more than any other position. Despite these perks, he was brief. After a few minutes, he grunted with orgasm and released her. She jerked her arms under her body, and rolled onto her side. As soon as Rhodes disappeared into the bathroom, she pulled up the sheet and wrapped it around her shoulders. She thought longingly of every scrap of clothing she had ever taken for granted.
Rhodes was agitated. He emerged from the bathroom, chewing his thumbnail as he crossed to the window. He ran his other hand over his face and hair with jerky movements. He stood at the window, staring into the woods. He made no indication he was ready to return her to the White Room.
Heather had seen his symptoms before: Monica’s step-father, Sean Shatterthwaith, just before his youngest was born, just before Heather’s parents had died. She took a deep breath, collecting her courage—or her recklessness. She held the sheet up to her chin as if it would protect her should he choose he didn’t like the question.
“Do you smoke back home?”
Rhodes smelled his hands. Even at his worst, he smelled like sex and clean sweat. He returned his thumbnail to his mouth. Realizing what had betrayed him, he jerked his hand away.
“No,” he said, inspecting the damage. “I quit after Detroit, but I want a cigarette whenever…” He paused, reconsidering his words. “I want a cigarette today.”
She regretted asking. He had answered so unassumingly, so many other questions gripped her mind, competing for an audience
“What happened in Detroit?”
“I fucked a bunch of people, then murdered them. Well…” He shook his head.
Heather blanched at his casual tone. “When?”
“Uhh…” Rhodes groaned. He beat the cushion of the wicker chair in the corner, then collapsed into it. “2002. No…” He stared into space, counting. “’97. 1997. There, I’ve told you a story. Now, it’s your turn. Distract me.”
“I don’t know any stories.”
“Lies. I listen to you tell stories to the others all the time.”
Heather’s throat tightened.
“Tell me one of those stories—one of the rabbit stories.”
The change in Heather’s expression was subtle, but Rhodes saw it: Her jaw clenched. Her eyes narrowed. She had steeled herself. Rhodes was curious how long she would be able to maintain it. He was already plotting ways to test it.
“Those aren’t for you,” she said.
He scoffed. His hand returned to his mouth. He chewed on the tip of his forefinger before running a hand over his face again. He tugged the hair at the back of his head, then dropped his hand to his knee with a clap!, making her flinch.
“I don’t feel like moving,” he warned her, parsing out his words. “If I have to get back up to come over there…”
Heather turned to the window. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her throat was tight. The thought of sharing her stories with this man made her heart ache. They were for the hurt and the scared, like she had been when she was forced to sleep over at Grandpa’s house, like David when he was so afraid of dogs that he refused to leave the house, like Monica, Witt, and Z...
“You better be searching for inspiration out there.”
Heather jerked her head to meet his hard gaze. “Fuck you,” she said. Rhodes balked. She had not sworn over the several days she had been there. He didn’t know it, but it was the first time she had sworn since her parents died.
“Hmm… hm-hm-hm,” Rhodes began, his humming becoming a staccato chuckle. When he stood, she slid to the opposite side of the bed. He ignored her retreat, going instead to the bedside table and unlocking the top drawer.
“Your throat still hurt, Just Heather?” he asked, pulling out a length of thin white rope. He found the ends and spread his arms, checking the length. It was about six feet long.
You’re about to die. Her throat went dry, muscles tensed. Her heart slowed to a dull throb. She couldn’t breathe. Her head began to swim. Rhodes pursed his lips. Without looking, he folded the rope together and tied a knot with skillful fingers. Heather anticipated a noose, but the result was a simple-looking bowline knot.
“I would ask if you’ve changed your mind at all in the last few seconds, but your stories aren’t for me. Perhaps you will find your audience a bit broader when you have a limited supply of air.”
Heather lowered herself off the edge of the bed. He’s not going to kill you, she realized, with limited relief. He’s just going to torture you—again.
Rhodes climbed onto the bed, the rope dangling from his hand. Despite the small knot, it still looked alarmingly like a noose. “You’re just making things worse for yourself.”
Heather opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She backed against the wall, clutching the sheet around her, tugging the hospital corners loose from the foot of the mattress. He stood on the edge of the bed. Both waited for the other to make the first move. Heather’s eyes darted around the room. She took a deep breath. Rhodes realized his vulnerability just before she jerked the sheet up, yanking his feet out from under him. He toppled to the floor with a cry.
“Cunt!” he roared.
Heather rounded the bed again. Rhodes tore the remaining linens from the mattress and tossed them into the corner. He studied her as he took several deep breaths. He regained his composure. The angry red faded from his face. She flinched when he shot forward and disappeared under the bed. She jumped on top of it. Realizing she might be in a vulnerable position, she stepped onto the bedside table. The drawer was ajar. She slid it open with a toe. The blade of a hunting knife glinted up at her. She crouched to grab it.
The far end of the bed flew up toward her. The bedframe hit vertical and careened over. The headboard slammed into her, knocking her to the floor. The imp
act with the hardwood floor knocked the air from her lungs. The bedframe struck the bedside table and the mattress fell, landing on top of her. The weight shifted as Rhodes walked across it, crushing her thigh, then hip. She screamed, wasting precious air. The weight disappeared.
For a few blissful seconds, the weight of the mattress lessened. Light grew brighter, and she was able to gulp air, but the coarse rope scraped over her face. She began to scream again, but was cut off as the rope tightened. She clawed at the mattress as she was dragged out from under it. The sheet, pinned by the mattress, unraveled, leaving her naked.
Rhodes pulled the rope hand-over-hand, wrapping the excess around his forearm. In a moment of oxygen-deprived euphoria, Heather thought he resembled a genuine cowboy. The moment passed when he fell back into the chair and pulled her between his feet. She stole a few heavenly lungfuls of air as he slipped a hand under her arm and pulled her into a sitting position with her back against the chair. Rhodes tightened the rope, pressing the knot into her neck.
Heather attempted to twist around, flailing to grab the rope and scratch his hands. He lifted his legs and used them to force her back into position.
“Now,” he said, loosening the knot by a finger’s width, “how does the story begin?” She gulped air and began to cough, but did not speak. He pushed the knot tight again. “You’re running out of time, Just Heather. I was tired before we started this game. You don’t want to try my patience now.” He waited for her face to begin turning purple before releasing her.
This time, she managed to croak out a word before another violent coughing fit.
“I didn’t understand you,” he said, threatening to tighten the rope again.
“One—!” she shrieked. “One… one day…”
“That’s better,” Rhodes muttered. He loosened the rope a little more, brushing the hair away from her red face. Some of the capillaries in her eyes had burst, turning her gaze red. He leaned back in the chair.
“One day,” she rasped, “Rabbit was travelling down a lane—No!” He had leaned up to tighten the rope again.
“What about the accent?” he asked.
“I can’t!” Her rasping voice provided evidence.
“And the rabbit—he had a name.”
“Br’er…” She leaned forward, attempting to hide her face, but the rope prevented her. She found unlikely shelter by pressing her face against his leg. She took a few deep breaths.
It was not one of the stories she told the others. Heather cobbled together elements from those stories with a short Mark Twain tale she had read once. This soothed her pride, but it did nothing to alleviate the burning in her throat and around her neck.
Whenever she hesitated to gather her thoughts, Rhodes would tighten the rope. Never as tight as he had earlier, or for as long, but enough to get her attempting to talk again. She twisted around at one point to look at his face, and found him wearing a curious smirk. Her throat constricted without the rope this time: He knew she was cheating.
When she finished the story, he leaned back, snickering. Heather took several deep breaths, flinching every time he moved. He reached up, placing his hand on the knot.
“You forgot the bit about the hillbilly learning how to speak Bird,” he said in a low voice. She dared to meet his eye. His face broke into a broad smile. He removed his legs from her shoulders, pulled the rope loose, and lifted the loop over her head.
Heather began to breathe easier. Scooting away from the chair, she struggled to her feet. She put as much distance between her and Rhodes as the walls would allow.
28
Heather searched every inch of her closet for weaknesses. Since Rhodes had reinforced the slats, she could not find any. She knew now she could not tear through the walls; The closets were cages lined with drywall. She attempted to pull the doorframe away from the wall around the door, but only succeeded in creating a paper-thin gap and breaking the remainder of her nails.
She did, however, find a crack in the sill sweep at the bottom of the door, where a screw had split the metal. Bending it back and forth, she managed to pry away a pliant, nine-inch strip of aluminum. Sliding it between the door and frame, she attempted to unlatch the door. The strip was ragged and broken on one side and bit into her hand, leaving pricks and delicate red lines across her palm. After an hour, she manipulated it enough to press in the latch.
She waited a long time, holding her breath. Rhodes had taken Z and Monica out together. There was no telling where he could be. After a long silence, she pushed the door open and peered about. When she wasn’t assaulted, she padded over to the outer door. The sill sweep was too flimsy to make a useful weapon, but she held it as if it were. Slowly, she turned the knob.
It was locked.
A door opened and closed somewhere within the house. Trying to be as quiet as possible, Heather shot back into her closet and pulled the door shut. It clicked much louder than she would have liked.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Witt hissed.
Heather hushed him. The door opened, driving them both to silence. She could hear Monica sniffling as she was returned to her closet.
Realizing the sill sweep was still in her hand, Heather crammed it into the crack between the door frame and the wall. It wasn’t entirely concealed; She prayed Rhodes would never be in the position to find it.
29
July, 2003
Heather ran until her lungs ached. She had attempted to keep pace with her teammates, but she could feel them glancing at her. She didn’t want their pity, or their glances. Breaking into a sprint, she out-stripped them all.
The only times Heather ever felt free was when she was running. She imagined herself flying. If she was competing, she visualized running from some beast chomping on her heels. She tried to describe her method to the others once, but they had looked at her like she was crazy. She had learned to keep her thoughts to herself, or risk losing the few friends she had.
Not knowing where else to go, Heather ran to the school, where their training runs took them. She ran to the middle of the practice field, then let herself collapse. One-by-one, the others fell on the grass around her.
Heather had no doubt this rescue mission had been orchestrated by the former captain of the track team, a girl named Charli. She had graduated less than a month ago. Already her hair was a vivid shade of blue and half-cropped—an unnatural style banned by the school district. As soon as Heather was flat on her back, Charli laid her head on her torso and took her hand. They lay in silence. Heather preferred this to the concerned expressions and shoulder-stroking she had received all week.
“Footballers,” Kyle warned, bringing up the rear and falling into the pile.
At the far end of the field, the junior varsity team was milling about in their purple and white gear. They glared at the track team, talking among themselves, but they did not take the field.
When one player was shoved forward, Charli laughed. “Looks like someone got the shit end of the stick.”
No one recognized him as he came closer.
“Hey,” he called as he approached the team. “We need the field.” He glanced over the group as if they were a pride of lions. “For practice.”
“Well, ain’t that berries,” Charli sneered, responding more to his Yankee accent than his request.
“Call ‘em ‘Trakkies’!” Witt’s voice was undeniable.
“Suck our cocks!” Charli yelled back.
The strange boy lifted his feet high to step around the bodies. He hovered over Heather and Charli, standing in the sun so they could see him. Lord, he was cute. His green eyes looked gold when he met Heather’s gaze.
“Your name’s Heather, right?”
She heaved a sigh, knowing what was coming next. She nodded.
“I’m sorry about your parents.” Without another word, he made his way back over the bodies. He was surrendering the field to her.
“Wait!” She leaned up, forcing Charli up as well. The boy paused.
“What’s your name?”
“Zachariah.”
30
May, 2006
Z lay on the floor of his closet. As time went on, he adjusted to the strange schedule of the house. His bruises were beginning to fade. His exhausted muscles were recovering from the constant stream of adrenaline that hit him every time a door opened or closed. Rhodes had returned Witt to his closet not long ago. Z was able to convince himself they were safe, at least for the next few hours.
Witt was sniffling in the closet opposite. Z felt sorry for him. He had cried as well, but he managed to compose himself—at least the sounds he made—before being returned to the others. For some reason, Witt was having a harder time of it: He cried quietly or sniffled, even if hours had passed and they had not heard from Rhodes.
“You OK, bro?” Z had asked as soon as the outer door closed.
“I’m fine,” Witt replied. He made an effort to control his sniffling for a few minutes, but failed.
“I know how you feel.”
“You really don’t,” Witt snapped.
Confused by what Witt could possibly mean—and even a little angry—Z fell silent.
The silence was broken again after an hour. Witt had controlled his sniffling, but let out a deep, shuddering sigh. Z was about to speak again, but Monica beat him to it.
“Did he hurt you, Witt?” she asked. “I mean… did he beat you? Are you bleeding or anything?”
Of course! Z thought, ashamed. He could seriously be injured over there. Why didn’t you think of that?