by Penn Gates
The trunk lid is flung open. There’s a sliver of moon in the sky - just enough to see Cindi Lou’s silhouette.
Lisa gulps the fresh air. “Help!” she yells. “Help me!”
A large piece of duct tape is slapped over her mouth.
Cindi grabs the rope again.“You’re coming with me, ginger,” she giggles. “And if you fight me, I’ll tie the rope around your neck and drag you.” She pats Lisa’s cheek and then lightly slaps it. “Choice is yours, of course. More than you gave me.”
Lisa tries to sit up and throw her legs over the edge of the trunk. She groans as her cramped muscles protest.
“Do you remember what happened the last time you moved too slow?” Cindi growls, motivating Lisa with a tug. “I’m standing on gravel. Just think how that would feel on your sweet little face.” She giggles again. “But, hey - at least your freckles would be gone.”
For the first fifty yards or so, Lisa concentrates on staying on her feet as they move across an open field. It must have been cultivated at one time because the earth is bumpy and uneven beneath tall weeds that tear at their clothing. After awhile, she falls into a rhythm and dares to glance around, trying to figure out where they might be.
Above her head, the stars shine brightly in the planetarium of the sky, competing with the light of the sickly moon. Lisa wishes she knew more about astronomy, but all she can remember is the Big Dipper sits in the northern sky. She scans the horizon ahead and to either side. No north star. Does that mean they’re heading south?
Cindi Lou stops so suddenly that Lisa runs into her. She tenses, waiting to be pushed backward, but Cindi is staring into the distance. She tugs at the rope, and when Lisa doesn’t respond, she grips her captive’s arm and pulls her to a spot next to her.
They seem to be on the edge of a second field, lately harvested. Bundles of corn shocks have been neatly placed in long rows. Lisa knows this is how the Amish still do it, but for some reason all she can think of is the straw house that belonged to the first of the three little pigs. She swallows a ragged sob.
“See those lights over there?” Cindi asks in a low voice. “That’s the old St Clair homestead - the one that belongs to me!”
“Mmh,” Lisa says. “Mmh—”
“Exactly!” Cindi giggles. “I’m glad you agree with me. She is a thieving bitch!”
She turns toward her hostage and her bright crow eyes catch the faint moonlight. “Look what I have,” she croons and pulls a hunting knife with a bone handle from somewhere in the folds of her skirt. “From now on, it’s very important that you don’t make a peep.”
She trails the knife point like a whisper across Lisa’s throat. “My darling daughter is sure to have sentries posted - and if you give me away, you’ll bleed out before they can find us in the dark.”
Cindi makes her way across the flat ground, darting from one teepee of corn shocks to the next. When Lisa can’t keep up, she falls forward and Cindi drags her along. Stumps of the cornstalks stick out of the earth, and they poke and stab at Lisa mercilessly. With her arms pulled forward, Lisa tries to bury her face in her shoulder, but there’s nothing she can do to protect her body. By the time they’re at the edge of the cornfield, resting behind the last pile of dried shocks, there’s no part of her that doesn’t throb with pain.
Cindi reaches over and pokes at her. Lisa groans involuntarily.
“Shh,” Cindi hisses. She points to the barn and other outbuildings clustered not far from where they crouch. “See that little one with the windows? That’s the chicken coop.”
She sounds like she’s showing a friend her childhood home, Lisa thinks. Is that what this is? A walk down memory lane - with me as her audience? She watches dully as Cindi Lou pulls one of the dried shocks from the pile.
“This oughta do it,” Cindi mutters. She urges Lisa to her feet and ties the other end of the rope to her own wrist. “Just so you don’t wander away,” she whispers. “I need you close if I decide to slit your throat.”
Standing in front of the chicken coop, Cindi pulls straw loose from a bale and scuffs it into a pile against the wooden wall of the coop. Lisa watches in horror as Cindi pulls a cheap, disposable lighter from her pocket and lights the corn stalk.
She extends it over the straw. “Bombs away,” she giggles.
Cindi doesn’t waste time admiring her work. Lisa is towed along as the old woman slinks into the shadows of the massive barn like a coyote.
Behind them, Lisa hears panicked voices, and the sound of frantic scuffling. “It’s on fire! Get the hell out!” someone yells.
“Oops,” Cindi snickers. “I guess they don’t keep chickens in there any more.”
More and more voices call to each other. Without turning her head Lisa knows that the fire has spread quickly. The lurid red of the flames now lights Cindi’s way to wherever she’s headed next.
They enter the pitch black interior of a cement block building. Cindi pulls her flashlight from somewhere in her voluminous skirt and shines it at the opposite wall. A large cylindrical tank of stainless steel reflects their distorted images like a funhouse mirror.
“For the milk,” Cindi Lou giggles. She breathes deeply. “Can’t you smell the cow shit? God, how I hated those fuckin’ cows!”
She sweeps the beam back and forth until it comes to rest on two five-gallon gas cans.
“There we go. I knew they’d have a generator out here - and generators need gasoline.” Cindi Lou drags Lisa across the small room. “Go ahead - pick one up,” she urges.
When Lisa is too slow, Cindi slaps her. “Do it - or I’ll excavate your vocal cords.”
As old as she is, she picks up a gas can with no apparent effort. Lisa wonders what drugs she may have found on her journey back. Cocaine? Crystal Meth?
Lisa grunts with the effort of lifting the other one.
“You’re out of shape,” Cindi tells her happily.
As they step back into the open air, Lisa catches sight of the frantic efforts of the guys she’s watched play baseball all summer. They have the headlights of a vehicle aimed at the area on fire. Someone is manning the pump, while another starts the buckets down the human chain of volunteers.
“They ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Cindi Lou sneers. “C’mon, ginger. We got stuff to do.”
Cindi Lou urges Lisa forward. With her hands still tied together, she’s forced to carry the heavy gas container in front of her, and at each step her bruised and bleeding knees bump into unyielding red plastic. She resists the need to cry out in pain. Her oxygen-starved lungs burn as she struggles to keep up the pace. The desire to surrender - to throw herself on the ground and refuse to get up - is almost irresistible. But if there is any certainty left, it’s that Cindi Lou will kill her if she does.
When they finally pause at the bottom of the porch steps, Lisa isn’t certain how they’ve managed to make it to the front of the farmhouse. The place is dark and silent but, somewhere in the distance, voices float on the smell of burning. Cindi drops her own burden and gestures impatiently for her hostage to do the same.
To her horror, Lisa can no longer control her groans of pain. If Cindi Lou wasn’t so busy dragging her hostage up the stairs, the deranged old woman might slit her throat for making noise.
At the top, Cindi ties the rope lead around the porch railing. “You have a good rest while I get the cans,” she croons.
As soon as her tormentor disappears, Lisa bends forward and tries to grasp the edge of the duct tape covering her mouth. Just when her numbed fingers finally get a grip on a tiny corner, she feels the boards beneath her feet shudder. She risks a panicked glance toward the stairs. Cindi Lou is coming, and each time she heaves a gas container up and onto the next step, the porch floor vibrates. Lisa gives the tape a final tug and then stands upright, hoping that Cindi won’t notice the loose corner in the shadows.
Cindi’s head swivels toward Lisa. Satisfied she’s secure, the old woman disappears inside with both gas cans. Lisa frantically
bends forward again and manages to rip the tape from her mouth in one quick tug. How many people are still asleep in this house? And the baby! She’s got to warn them!
“Fire!” she shrieks. “Fire! Get out now!”
There is a blinding pain in the back of her head, and then - nothing.
When she swims back to the surface of her mind, she’s still tied to a railing, but she’s no longer outside in the cool night air. She gags on the overpowering smell of gasoline, and is swept away on a tidal wave of black panic.
A glimmer like a firefly moves toward her in the darkness, and for one delusional moment she hopes for rescue. The light grows larger the closer it gets - and then shines directly into her eyes, blinding her.
“I’m glad you’re awake, ginger. I thought you might miss the big show.”
Lisa shudders at the orgasmic exultation in the voice of this monster. She’s insatiable in her desire to destroy what she can’t ever understand.
“There are some who say my ancestors were hung as witches in Salem,” Cindi mumbles. “But hey - you gotta burn witches to do it right.” In the dark, a trill of laughter contrasts obscenely with her words. “You and Nix are both gonna burn for what you did to me!”
The beam of light withdraws. It dances across the floor and lingers on some sort of fluffy substance piled against the baseboards.
“Maybe I need to put more kindling around your feet,” Cindi calls. “What do you think?”
Lisa doesn’t need to see her to know her head is cocked to one side like a bird.
“On second thought - that kinky, flaming hair of yours will do nicely,” Cindi giggles.
Oh God! There is no worse death than by fire! Panic threatens to to turn Lisa into a gibbering, cowering thing ready to beg for its life. No! I will not die that way! Lisa lifts her head and stares defiantly into the darkness behind the flashlight. “Fuck you, you bitch!” she shouts. And then, as loud as she can, she screams one more time, “Fire! Fire! Get out of the house!”
“Too late,” Cindi says. “I’m gonna light my fire.” She almost sings the words, then switches to humming the old Doors song as she bends to—
A shadow suddenly detaches itself from the blackness and charges at Cindi, pinning her against the wall. Lisa hears the sound, muffled, yet unmistakable, of a gunshot. The flashlight in Cindi’s hand turns a graceful cartwheel into the darkness and lands on the wide planks of the floor. It wobbles a little before it stops moving. The beam of light reveals the crumpled heap of Cynthia Louise St Clair in front of a wall splattered with gore - and next to it, a pair of combat boots.
A hand scoops up the flashlight. “Lisa! Where the fuck are you?”
Lisa’s heart thumps painfully in her chest. “Here—” she manages to croak.
She wants to call to Holden again, but she can’t seem to catch her breath. Her eyes close and her head falls forward - until she feels the rope around her wrists loosening. No longer tethered to the railing, she starts to crumple, but strong arms catch her and pick her up.
“I’ve got you, Lisa - you’re safe now,” he says.
Still in shock from her close encounter with a horrible death, she hears, as if from a great distance, that he’s called her by her name. Not ‘doc’, not Terrell - Lisa. She lifts a trembling hand and touches his face with her fingertips to make sure she’s not hallucinating. “Ed - you came for me.” Using his name feels intensely intimate. Like a promise of the future.
“S-stay where you are or I’ll shoot!” a woman says out of the darkness, and another flashlight beam jitters over them.
“Jesus, Brit!” Holden snaps. “Even if you’ve really got a gun, you couldn’t hit the side of a barn as bad as you’re shaking.”
“Ed? What are you doing here?” Brittany’s voice is shrill with relief.
In Lisa’s semi-conscious state, fear smells like gasoline and a female voice saying his name sounds like abandonment.
“Let go of me—” Lisa struggles against Holden’s grip.
His arms tighten. “Round up everybody and get ‘em outside,” he orders over her head, “And keep ‘em out until this mess gets cleaned up!”
Brittany doesn’t move. “What hap—”
“Now - for Christ’sake!”
Lisa struggles again, and Holden gives her a little shake. “Stop it - we’ll go outside right now, okay?” Instead of following Brittany through the kitchen, he turns toward the front of the house. “Don’t look,” he whispers.
But Lisa doesn’t need to see. The gas fumes mixed with the coppery smell of blood reminds her of all that’s happened tonight. She’ll never be free of the memory.
She knows they’re outside when the cool air ruffles her hair. She turns her face toward it and breathes deeply. Without letting go of her, Ed drops onto the porch swing. She feels his arms tighten around her as he holds her close. The swing begins to move - just a little - like a cradle rocking.
“S-she was gonna b-b-burn me alive,” she sobs into his shoulder.
With her head resting against him, Lisa hears his words rumble from somewhere deep in his chest. “Relax - that bitch can never hurt you again.”
It’s tempting to fall into the soft featherbed of nothingness now that she’s safe, but she wants to savor every second of being in his arms. She struggles to hold on to it, but she can’t.
CHAPTER 24: Lost
When Lisa opens her eyes, it’s pitch black and her heart pounds. Is she still in the trunk of a car? She holds her breath, listening for the sound of tires on pavement. All is silent until she shifts her position - and then whatever she’s lying on makes a sort of metallic creaking and pinging. Cash’s words echo in her mind. These four walls have seen their share of illness and death.
Am I dying! Is that why they stuck me in the library? Another sound - a door creaking open. A lantern seems to float across the room and stop next to her. She can just make out the shadow holding it. She retreats, pressing herself against the wall on the other side of the narrow little bed. “Don’t - please don’t—” she quavers.
“Do not trouble yourself,” a soft voice says. “I am here to make sure you are not needing anything.”
Margaret. Lisa slumps against the wall. “So thirsty,” she croaks.
Margaret and the lantern move toward the scarred oak desk. A pitcher of water sits on one corner.
Lisa takes the glass Margaret offers and drinks greedily. And feels like she might not be dying after all. “Is everyone safe?” she whispers hoarsely.
Why am I worried someone’s hurt? I can’t remember. Lisa explores her head gently with her fingertips as if she can discover what’s wrong inside her skull from the outside. The pain when she touches her left temple is unbearable and she quickly pulls her hand away. “What happened to me? Did I fall?”
“Everyone is fine. And you are, too. You need not worry,” Margaret says, her voice reassuring. Warm like fresh-baked bread. “Go back to sleep now, Lisa. It is not yet morning.”
Lisa wants to ask Margaret when she’d started calling her Lisa, but she can’t hold on to the words. For a moment they all jumble together before falling into place again and forming a coherent thought: Maybe she’ll just be Lisa to everybody from now on and she can stop carrying the burden. Her thoughts start to drift apart again, and she falls asleep wondering what burden she carries.
The next time she wakes up, there’s a sliver of gray light seeping through a crack in the curtains. She yawns and is immediately sorry. Her jaw hasn’t hurt so much since she had oral surgery to remove an impacted wisdom tooth. Slowly she raises her hand to the back of her head. She pushes the wild red tangle of hair to one side and feels around for the source of the pain. She sucks in her breath as she discovers some sort of wound. It doesn’t feel very deep, but when she pulls her hand away she sees traces of blood. For the first time she notices the angry red welts on her wrist. Dragged over rough ground - wrists burning from the friction of rope against her flesh. Burning! Panic threatens to ove
rwhelms her, and she squeezes her eyes shut. It’s not real! It’s not real! She touches the cool plaster of the wall behind the narrow little bed. I am safe, she tells herself. I am in the library of the St Clair farmhouse. She opens her eyes and stares at the bookcases.
There’s a tap on the door, and after a respectful few seconds, Margaret enters to find Lisa shuffling toward the door in her bare feet.
“I am pleased you are awake, Frau Doktor,” the girl says softly, “But I am not sure you should be walking around already.”
Lisa says the first thing that pops into her head. “I thought you were going to call me Lisa.” She shivers, and becomes aware that she’s wearing nothing but a GI issue undershirt and boxer shorts.
“Why aren’t my clothes here with me?” Lisa asks, feeling unreasonably angry. “I want my clothes.”
“Do not worry about such small details. Sleep now.”
“I just woke up,” Lisa complains.
Margaret sighs. “Will you be promising to do nothing while I get some clothes for you?”
Lisa nods, and holds her head to stop it from spinning. “Yes,” she mutters, to make sure Margaret understands her. She sits on the edge of the bed so she won’t drift off again.
Margaret returns and sets Lisa’s army-issue boots in front of her, heels placed precisely together. “I am sorry,” she says. “Your own clothes were torn badly.” She holds out a rather shapeless dress in a faded cotton print. “This was found in the attic. It is old-fashioned, but it will have to do,” Margaret says without a trace of irony. To Lisa it looks exactly like the dresses all the Mennonite girls wear.
While she dresses, Margaret stirs the coals and sets a piece of wood atop them. “It will soon be warmer for you. I will go get you something to eat.”
But Lisa has no intention of staying put. She slips her bare feet into the boots and opens the heavy wooden door. For some reason, she can’t seem to cross the threshold. There’s something about the hallway - her nostrils flare as she sniffs the air like a deer searching for danger. Under the strong smell of bleach is something else - gasoline. Or is she hallucinating?