by J. D. Barker
“If he plans to hurt me, he’ll hurt me,” Emory shot back. “I’m not going to sit around and wait for him to make a move.”
She shuffled forward, her toes growing numb with each step.
Was the concrete getting colder?
“He’s not going to let me die, not until he’s done with me. He kept the girls in the news alive at least a week before he killed them. I’ve only been down here a day at the most. He still needs me.”
I suppose there’s something to that, but there are so many things he could do to you, so many unpleasant things, things that wouldn’t kill you. He already took your ear. You know your eyes are next. Would that be so bad, though? I mean, you can’t see now, right? Honestly, I would be more worried about losing my tongue. You can always fumble around in the dark, but to lose the ability to speak? Oh my, that would be rough. You’ve always been such a talker.
Emory listened. She was close now, only a few more feet at best.
A rat scurried over her toes, and she let out a shriek, nearly falling back over the gurney.
She forced herself to take a deep breath. She had to stay calm. Again a pair of little feet ran over her toes. This time when she screamed, her voice was loud; dry throat or not, she didn’t hold back. Her throat felt as if she had vomited glass, and she wanted to stop but the scream kept coming anyway—the scream to end all screams. It wasn’t about the rat anymore or being kidnapped and trapped in this place, it was about her father and the people around her, it was the frustration of homeschooling and the limited number of friends in her life. The pain at her ear, the numbness in her feet, and the vulnerability of being naked in a strange place all came to a head. It was about the unknown eyes on her. It was about the man who took her—a man who could be miles away or inches from her, lost in the dark. It was about her mother dying and leaving her to suffer all of this alone.
When she finally stopped, her throat burned as if she had swallowed hot lead and scraped the residue away with a rusty blade, but she didn’t care. The scream cleared her head. She needed clarity.
She needed to think.
The ringing in her ears was gone.
Emory forced her good ear to listen, past the rushing blood pumping through her other one.
Plop.
At her left came a soft scratching. Nails against concrete. Tiny nails. Digging.
Ignore them, she told herself.
Just ignore them.
She forced herself forward, inching along, first one step, then another. Then an—
Her toe jabbed into something. The surface seemed colder than the concrete. Cold and damp. She kneeled down awkwardly to touch it, her right arm trailing up behind her. She tugged at the gurney, pulling it closer, giving her a little more slack.
A metal plate? That was it, a rather large metal plate. She traced the edge and estimated the plate to be about three feet wide. About every four inches or so, threaded bolts poked through it, securing it to the concrete.
Emory slipped her hand over the surface—damp for sure.
Plop.
This time the drop hit so close that droplets sprayed up at her, sprinkling a fine mist against her skin. She ran her finger over the metal plate and brought it to her lips. Even before she tasted it, she smelled the metal—rust or some kind of residue. She tasted anyway, her brain telling her if she didn’t get water soon, nothing else would matter.
It was awful, but it was wet and she wanted more.
Emory lowered her head toward the metal plate, pulling at the gurney to get a little more slack. When there was no more, she stretched her neck and stuck out her tongue. She might not be able to see, but water was right there, inches away. She sensed it—the tip of her tongue reaching, groping the air, stretching.
She heard the scratching again. Tiny little claws digging at—
I’d put that tongue back in your head, if I were you. Water or not, it seems like a delectable little treat for a big hungry rat, don’t you think? At the very least, you’re making things easy for your host to cut the little bugger right out of your mouth.
Emory pulled back. With her damaged ear, she couldn’t pinpoint the source of the scratching. One moment it sounded like it was right next to her. Then, if she tilted her head, the sound seemed as if it originated across the room.
Plop.
Droplets of water sprayed her hand and cheek.
“Fuck it.” Emory leaned forward again as far as she could, pulling at the handcuffs behind her. She stretched until it seemed her neck would snap under the strain. The metal of the cuffs chewed at her wrist, and she forced herself to ignore the pain, her thoughts on one thing and one thing only—water.
She tugged forward.
Her tongue brushed the surface of the metal plate for a second, only a quick second at best, and the taste of rust found her lips. It happened so fast and the metal was so cold, she couldn’t tell if she had actually gotten any water or simply imagined the cold metal to be water. Certainly it wasn’t enough to quench her thirst. The little sample only made her thirst worse.
She wouldn’t cry. She refused to cry.
She leaned in as far as she could and pulled at the handcuffs with all her strength. The metal cut at her wrist, and she didn’t care. Emory used all her weight to pull forward. Something gave and her face went forward. Her tongue found the water—icy, refreshing, dirty, rusty water pooled at the center of the plate. Her tongue dipped into the puddle for only an instant before the gurney tipped and crashed down on her back, slamming her head against the floor, sending all to an even deeper black.
33
Diary
I located a breakfast tray in the cupboard and loaded it up with a few slices of toast, a banana, orange juice, and a cup of Cheerios (my personal favorite breakfast selection). I wanted to add milk, but when I checked the refrigerator I only found a cup or so left in the carton. Father happened to be fond of milk, and I would never consider crossing him by taking the last of it, knowing full well Mother had not purchased a replacement when she last went to the market.
The steps leading to the basement seemed steeper since I’d last descended them. I eyed the tall glass of orange juice perched precariously on the tray, the liquid sloshing back and forth, pausing as it reached the lip and racing back to the other side with my next step. If the juice were to find its way up and over the lip of the glass, the resulting spill would surely dampen the toast, and I couldn’t have that. I felt guilty enough for tricking Mrs. Carter last night. I had no intention of compounding that guilt by serving soggy toast.
Mother started up the staircase as I neared the bottom. She was carrying a bucket, a few rags, and a large scrub brush. Her hands were dressed in long plastic yellow gloves that went nearly to her elbows.
“Good morning, Mother.”
She glanced up at me and grinned. “Well, aren’t you a kindhearted little soul! Our guest will be tickled pink when she sees you. She’s been mumbling so. I can only imagine she has a hankering for a nice meal and a little something to moisten her palate.”
As she slipped past me, she took a nibble from one of the toast slices and placed the remainder back on the plate. “Make sure she understands the rules. I’d hate to see her get off on the wrong foot so early in her stay.”
I had to agree.
“Not too many lights, either. We don’t want to aggravate your father with a hefty power bill.”
“Yes, Mother.”
I watched her ascend the stairs, my keen sense of smell taking in the mix of damp copper and bleach hanging in the air.
I spotted Mrs. Carter a moment before she saw me. Mother (or possibly Father) had handcuffed her left hand to the same water pipe her husband had been attached to only hours earlier. Rather than sitting on the floor, she was perched on Father’s old cot. Her right hand was cuffed to the opposite side. He once told me he brought the cot back from the war. It seemed like the rickety old thing had seen its share of fighting in days long past. The thick canvas
was tattered and worn, and there were several holes in the faded green material. The metal legs, no doubt shiny when new, were now dull and covered in rust. The frame creaked under her weight as she shifted slightly to her left.
She was lying down, whether out of comfort or necessity, I couldn’t be sure. There was little light. Mother had extinguished all the bulbs except one, which hung bare from a wire at the center of the basement. Although the air was still, the light swung gently back and forth, casting thick, dancing shadows along the walls and floor.
Mother (or Father) had the foresight to place her on the right side of the pipe, leaving the space on the left previously occupied by Mr. Carter free from obstructions. The bright red blood that flowed so freely last night was now gone, replaced by a dark stain on the concrete. I imagine Mother had scrubbed at the mess with the same enthusiasm she applied while creating it, but blood was a stubborn mistress and not one to release her hold once she got her snarled old hands wrapped around something she liked. I made a mental note to suggest Mother apply cat litter. Not only was litter absorbent, but it would help mask the odor.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Carter recognized the scent of her husband’s blood and sweat.
I nearly dropped the tray when she sat up and stared at me, her eyes bloodshot and large. She cried out from beneath a gag, but I couldn’t make out what she said.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carter. Would you care for some breakfast?”
She struggled to draw breath through her gag. Her nose was no doubt mucked up with snot from all the crying, but I tried not to think about that. Despite enduring what was surely not the best of nights, she was still rather pretty. I could see past the bruises and the right eye that had gone black. Her left seemed better, not yet normal but no longer as swollen as it was only a few hours earlier.
Setting the tray down on the edge of her cot, I considered the headache that welcomed me this morning and imagined her head was most likely worse. Aside from the beating, she’d drunk far more than I, and although she seemed experienced, I seriously doubted she’d escaped without a hangover. “How about some of the dog’s hair?”
Her gaze became puzzled and I realized my error. “I’m sorry, a little hair of the dog?”
She continued to stare at me with bewilderment, her head cocked slightly to the left. At least the screaming had stopped.
“For your headache? Father has bourbon upstairs, and a little sip did wonders for me. I know the time may be early, but there is no reason to spend the day in pain.”
Mrs. Carter shook her head slowly, her eyes fixed on me.
I nodded at the tray. “Left to our own devices, Father and I aren’t the best of cooks. Perhaps tomorrow Mother will prepare something. I’m sure that would prove to be a treat indeed. Would you care to eat?”
She nodded and tried to slide into a more comfortable sitting position. The handcuff tugged at her left wrist. She shot an angry glance at me and mumbled something behind the gag.
I edged closer. “If I remove the gag, do you promise not to scream? I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I would, but it would be fruitless. Honestly, you can never make out the screams upstairs. There’s no way anyone outside would hear you.” I slipped my fingers beneath the edge of the gag and pulled down. There was something about her skin; that quick touch made me feel all tingly. I’m not afraid to say my cheeks may have blushed and my heart pattered.
As the gag dropped around her neck, Mrs. Carter sucked in a deep breath, then let the air out before pulling in another and another after that. I thought she might hyperventilate and considered running upstairs for a paper bag, but then she spoke, her voice muted and raspy, no doubt from a dry throat.
“Screams?”
I cocked my head.
“You said ‘you can barely hear the screams upstairs,’ as in plural. Have your parents done this before?”
“Done what?”
“This.” She tugged at the handcuffs, causing them to rattle against the water pipe.
“Oh.” My gaze fell back to the breakfast tray. “I don’t know.”
She frowned. “You don’t know if your parents have ever chained a woman up in their basement before?”
I reached for the orange juice. “You must be parched. This juice is delightful, like sunshine in a glass.”
“I don’t want any juice, I want you to let me go. Please, just let me go.”
“How about a banana, then? I think I may eat one myself. We bought them two days ago, and they’re right at that stage between green and yellow, with a little tang of unripeness, just enough to put a pucker on your lips.”
“Let me go!” Mrs. Carter bellowed, the words scratching at her dry throat. “Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!”
I sighed. “I’m going to replace your gag for a second while I explain the rules to you. I’m sorry, Mrs. Carter.”
She tried to pull away, but I was ready for her. I grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged her head back sharply. I didn’t want to hurt her, but she left me little choice. My knife was tiny, a Ranger buck knife I easily concealed in my right palm. I had it out in an instant, the blade snapping open with a quick flick. I pricked her neck in the blink of an eye and held the bloody tip out in front of her to be sure she could see. It wasn’t a deep wound. I only wished to draw blood and help her understand I could do significantly more damage should I desire to do so.
Mrs. Carter whimpered, her eyes on the blade.
With my free hand, I maneuvered the gag back into place and released her. It was all over so fast, but I had made my point (pardon my silly little pun). With another flick of my wrist, the blade slipped back inside the sheath and out of sight as I dropped the knife into my shirt pocket. “The rules are simple, Mrs. Carter. They’ll only take a minute to explain, then I can leave you to your breakfast. I’m sure you’re famished.”
Her face grew red with anger.
“Do you promise to behave while I explain the rules?”
“Fuck you!” she shouted from behind the gag.
I was taken aback. I mean, how rude! Wasn’t I trying to help her?
“We don’t tolerate that kind of language in our house, Lisa. Not even from our guests,” Father’s voice boomed at my back.
I turned to find him standing at the base of the stairs, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He stepped closer. “It starts with language like that. Such talk is quickly followed by rudeness, then anger and hate . . . There is simply no need for it in a civilized society. Before you know it, we’re all running naked in the streets, swinging axes. We can’t have that, can we? We’re trying to raise our boy right. He looks up to the adults around him. He learns from the adults around him.” He stepped forward and ruffled my hair. “This little guy is growing up quickly, and he picks up on things like a sponge. His mother and I want to be sure we instill the best values in him before we release him out into this big, nasty, beautiful world of ours. That’s where the rules come into play.”
“The rules come from the three monkeys.” I said. I couldn’t help but clap my hands with excitement. “Some people call them the three mystical monkeys but there was actually a fourth. He was called—”
“Slow down, son. When you tell a joke, do you skip to the punch line?”
I shook my head.
“Of course not,” he continued. “The same is true of a good story. First you begin with a little backstory, some history if appropriate, then you get to the nut of the tale, and finally you finish with a neat little bow to tie the package all off. You mustn’t rush. You should savor the telling like you would a good steak or sweet cone of your favorite ice cream.”
Father was right, of course. He always was. I had a tendency to be a little impatient, a fault I fully intended to work on. “Why don’t you tell her, Father? You tell the story so much better than me.”
“Than I, son. Than I.”
“Sorry. Than I.”
“If our guest promises to behave, I’m sure I could spe
nd a few minutes with the two of you and run through it. After all, it’s best she understands the rules from the start, don’t you agree?”
I nodded.
Mrs. Carter stared at us both, stonefaced, her cheeks red behind the black and blue reminders of the previous night.
Father pulled over an upside-down bucket and sat beside me, setting his coffee down on the concrete floor. A little spilled over the side and sank deep into the bloodstain. “The wise monkeys are depicted in a carving above the door to the famous Tosho-gu Shrine in Nikko, Japan. They were carved by Hidari Jingoro in the seventeenth century and are believed to depict man’s life cycle . . . well, all the panels depict the life cycle, only the second one includes the wise monkeys. The life cycle is based on the teachings of Confucius.”
“Not the one from fortune cookies—the real Confucius,” I blurted out. “The real one was a Chinese teacher, editor, politician, and philosopher. He lived somewhere between 551 BC and 479 BC.”
“Very good, son!” Father said, beaming. “He authored some of the most influential of Chinese texts and codes of conduct still utilized today, not only in China but in much of the modern world. He was a wise man indeed. Some people also say the idea of the monkeys came to Japan from a Sendai Buddhist legend. If you ask me, nobody knows for sure. Such a strong proverb simply endures. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day we learned both Japan and China obtained the wisdom from an even more ancient source, and perhaps that source got it from something older still. The wise monkeys may date back to the dawn of man.”
Mrs. Carter continued to stare as Father went on. “The life cycle carving at the Tosho-gu Shrine is made up of eight panels in all. The monkeys appear in the second panel. Can anyone tell me their names?”