by L. T. Vargus
But she stared into space. A lost girl. Rocking back and forth.
He wanted to tell her that it would be OK. That she would be OK.
He wanted to tell her that she didn’t deserve any of this. That it wasn’t fair. None of this was fucking fair.
And that he was sorry. Sorry that she ever had to deal with this, endure this. Sorry that the world worked this way.
Above all, he wanted to tell her that people can heal. That souls can heal. With time and peace they can heal.
That it was what made life worth living. That it was what made the entire universe make sense in some small way.
His lips parted, moved, but no words came. A lump bobbed in his throat instead.
She looked at him, finally. Their eyes locked. And he knew that she knew. That they didn’t need to talk.
Her hand sought his. Found it. Held it.
And his breath felt wet and heavy coming in now. A soggy blanket between him and the world.
He stood after a while. Stretched. Looked over the scene.
Claire hunched in the corner, head resting against the wooden arm of the chair.
Blood still poured from Mark’s nose, though perhaps it came slower now. He looked small. Pathetic. Defeated. A wounded child feeling sorry for himself.
Even after everything, the awful way he’d treated Claire, Loshak felt a strange sympathy for him. He wanted him locked up, yes. Still wanted to bash his skull in, sure. But he felt a sorrow for the injured creature nonetheless.
He would call it in now — not with his own phone unfortunately. He’d detain Mark until the local police department arrived to cart him off.
And then this night would be over. As much as it ever could be, anyway.
As he cuffed Mark, he wondered what Darger would have to say about all of this, wondered what she was up to tonight. Her evening couldn’t be any worse than this. Could it?
Chapter 56
The hours passed, and sleep helped ease the fear out of Nicole’s body. It didn’t calm her so much as sap the feelings from her, draining them, replacing them with that numb warmth of slumber, a pleasant nothingness.
Stump had come back in the room just one time — a few minutes after he’d dragged Agent Darger out on the tarp — to throw a fresh round of wood into the stove and stoke it back into a roaring fury.
The orange light tinted the front half of him, glowed against the side of his chin and jaw. She thought he might look back at her, even just a quick glance, but no. Once the fire was raging, he was gone. The door closed and the deadbolt clicked into place behind him.
Heat surged into the room. A wave of it engulfing her, like the shimmer that rose perpetually from the desert sand. Soon even the metal of the cuffs and their chains had gone warm to the touch, indistinguishable from the temperature of her palms.
The tremor in her arms and legs abated right away. The hitch and hiccup of her breathing likewise steadied. The heat seemed to salve so many things, to lull her away from the panic so exhaustion was all that was left.
Still, she didn’t go down easy. Sleep settled over her in tiny increments. She fought it at first. Jerking herself back to an alert state over and over, picturing Darger’s body being dragged away, that final blank look in her eyes before she disappeared through the doorway. The agent’s fate seemed to help her focus for a while.
But it didn’t last. After a time, each lolling of her neck lasted longer, each drooping of her eyelids progressed further. The anesthetic of sleep spread from her core, out into her limbs, up into her neck and head.
At last, she slept. Long and deep. She didn’t know for sure how long, but it had to be an hour or more.
She woke now and then. Blinked a few times. Looked around the empty room. Repeated the process.
The raging fire burned down, receding a little each time she woke. The crackle reduced to whispers. Eventually only coals were left, black hunks that flickered orange at random intervals.
Each time she came around, part of her thought Darger would be back at the desk where she’d been. Hurt, perhaps, but alive. Returned. Talking and breathing and moving.
But no.
The desk was empty. The agent was long gone.
Chapter 57
Emily shakes herself out of a half sleep. Startled. Hot breath heaving in and out of her open mouth.
She has to pee. Badly. The sting of it rushing back to her bladder as soon as her consciousness flicks back on. But there’s something more pressing happening.
Something stirring outside the box.
Goose bumps pull her skin into weird tingling patterns that creep over her chest, her back, the nape of her neck. Every pore alive and wriggling.
He’s here. Or someone is.
Metal clatters just on the other side of the wood panel above her. She recognizes the sound, of course — the padlock rattling against the hasp. Those interlocking loops of steel that trap her, seal her in the dark.
She reaches out a hand. Presses her palm flat to the wood. It’s cold against her body heat. Smooth.
The whole world exists beyond this slab of timber. All of the people. All of the best and worst they have to offer. It’s right there. About to open itself to her.
The mix of terror and excitement welling just behind her face is overwhelming. A hot, wet swirl of emotions sloshing about in her skull. Human contact is so close now. It is all she wants and all of her worst fears. Both at the same time.
There’s a final thump, louder than the rest, and then the wood groans. The hinges squawk a little to her left. The door is loose.
And it’s there. The tiniest sliver of light where the lid pulls free of the frame.
So strange.
A beam that runs the length of the box. Slices into the darkness. Spreads over the underside of the lid like a gray puddle.
Somehow light is not how she remembered it. Not quite. All that time in the darkness has warped her memory of it. Distorted her expectations.
And the reality is so unexpected — so striking — that it tears a gasp from her throat. Flutters more warmth into her chest and head until she’s almost dizzy with it.
She squirms. Grips two handfuls of her shirt as though bracing herself for some violent impact.
The crease of light grows in fast motion. The lid lifts along the arc of its hinges. Up and over.
And the heavens rip wide open in front of her.
Light.
Everywhere.
Blinding white surrounds her. So bright. Impossible.
Tears flood her eyes. But she holds them open, anyway, if only to slits. And she stares into it. Into the great wide open.
It makes no sense at first. Just a bright blur. Painful.
And then color swells into the world. Fills it. Populates it with shapes and contours. Every line sharpening into focus.
It’s still just the ceiling up there — a wider swath of it now — with the dark frame of her box jutting up in the foreground. And yet, in this moment, it is everything. A vast expanse. Overwhelming.
Her breathing has gone ragged. Choppy snorts and snuffles wracking out of her. Choked sobs mixing in for good measure.
And she feels the cool air of the room swirl over her body all at once, over her skin. Dry and soothing after so long trapped in the box with her sticky breath blowing back on her.
She shakes all over. Her eyelids flex and contort. Her arms and legs quiver like branches in the wind.
Gabby’s voice speaks from somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
Breathe, Em. Remember to breathe. He is near.
She throws her head back. Opens her throat. Invites that cool air into her lungs in a sucking expansion of her ribcage. And she holds it. Holds it. Lets it out slow.
Yes. Better.
Her thoughts still smear together, wet and hot and messy, but not so bad as they did.
After a second deep breath, it occurs to her for the first time that she should sit up. In all the excitement, she’d almost
forgotten this was a possibility.
She wets her lips as she eyes the space beyond the rim of the open box. Reminds herself that the world out there is not merely a fantasy to dream about, a room to watch through the sliver in the lid.
And yet she finds herself hesitant to actually follow through on the impulse.
A shadow flits over her then. A passing darkness.
Her eyelids flutter, flushing the tears away.
She glances everywhere. Seeks that dark shape. The blackened smudge against the ceiling’s eggshell white.
He bobs back into view.
It is him.
Something round in his hands. Something she can’t see.
His voice trills soft and deep. Detached. Almost bored with all of this.
“You can sit up, but if you try anything beyond that, you’ll only cut your wrists up. The chains will keep you where you are.”
Her abdominals contract. Bend her at the waist. Lift her top half.
Her field of vision scans her ascent of that wooden wall which contains her. Slides up it at an angle like an artful shot in a movie.
And then she’s past it. Over it. Looking out at the world outside the box.
Vaguely she recalls this room. This space. Her struggle with Stump here. Fragments of memory rolling over her in waves, not quite sequencing themselves into a coherent narrative.
Her eyes dart over the room. Swiveling. Taking in everything.
Beige carpet. Closely woven. Cropped tight to the floor like short hair.
White walls surround her on all four sides, matching the matte finish of the ceiling.
A single mirror hangs on one wall. A circle of reflective glass encased by a woven wicker border. Angled perpendicular to her so she can’t see herself.
Apart from that, it’s a plain room. Not much to look at.
And he bends. Lowers himself toward her. Not quite looking at her. Extends the rounded object in his hands.
A stainless steel bedpan is placed in the box. Just beyond her feet.
He turns his back, walks a few paces away, and without hesitation, she moves to it. Squats over it to use it.
The release is euphoric. A rapture. She falls into a total surrender to the needs of her bodily function. It is alleviation on a profound level.
Thankful.
Just like that, she is thankful. Not angry. Not rebellious or strident or viciously trying to bite off the hand of her captor. She is thankful. Deeply so. It almost makes her nauseous when she thinks about it.
Their last encounter, she’d tried to bludgeon him. Harbored homicidal rage toward him.
And yet this close to him again, she finds no anger. No violent urges. Her body fills only with fright, watching this dark figure out of the corner of her eye.
She is a scared child when he is near. Scared of him, scared of not knowing what to do, how to get out of here, how to fight him or even stand up to him at all.
When she had the desk leg, it felt like she knew what to do, felt like the physical presence of a weapon — a hard rod of steel — centered all of her hopes, gave her courage. But he took that away. Looking back, it felt like there was little doubt that he’d get the better of their conflict, the outcome always inevitable.
Her lips twitch, twice, three times. She wants to talk, wants to say something to him to defy this feeling in some small way, but her mouth won’t quite obey the command. She is frozen.
What he wants is so much bigger than what she wants. He bulldozes forward no matter what, and it’s hard to make the commitment to stand in his way, even in the smallest sense.
He removes the pan when she’s done and tosses some moist towelette packets into the box, which she tears open and uses.
They smell so clean. The medicinal tang that typically might remind her of a public bathroom or a hospital is now incredibly refreshing. So different from the earthy smell of the sand. Almost miraculous.
She swipes the wet over the skin of her hands in great, greedy strokes, and it almost feels like the flesh absorbs the moisture, soaks it up like a sponge. Thirsty for it.
Then she tears open another packet and rubs a fresh wipe over her face and neck, dislodging grit which sprinkles down around her. All those little shards of sand falling away from her.
The relief of using the bedpan seems to unblock a lot of sensory perceptions — how tired she is comes into focus first.
The sting in her eyes intensifies, as does the sleepy ache that has taken hold in those muscles along her spine, running up and down the fibers of her limbs, the stabbing shards of pain near her temple where she’d now taken a number of blows. She could worry about these things now that soiling herself was no longer a concern, could long for sleep again.
But the smell of the food quickly trumps all of that. The vapor entering her sinuses and taking hold of her there. It smells like meat, she thinks. A little sweet, though. All she can think of is the Mongolian barbecue place her dad used to take her to back in California. It seems like it was decades ago.
“Drink,” he says, the lilt of a tiny smile in his voice.
He hands over a mason jar of water — a quart-sized monster of a jar — and suddenly the food can wait. Forgotten almost at once.
The fluid’s surface lurches and sways as she takes the glass from him, brings it to her lips. And she sees nothing else in the world but that careening liquid, that collection of moisture she needs so badly.
She drinks, long and deep. A bead of water dribbles down her chin.
It’s sweet. Water has never tasted so sweet, so pure, so delicious. It makes her scalp tingle in waves moving from front to back and repeating.
She glugs three-quarters of the jar down in one drink. Feels it tumbling over her gullet to cool her belly.
She stops. Gasps for a few breaths. Finishes it.
Now comes the food.
She hands the empty jar to him, and he exchanges it for a plate that is hot to the touch. Piled with odd shapes that take a moment to make any sense at all.
Chicken nuggets. French fries. A generous dollop of barbecue sauce.
The smell of meat is almost sensual here. A little pungent, yes, but the pleasant notes override the questionable ones.
Again, she doesn’t hesitate. She eats. Dunks anything and everything in the sauce. Smears the caramelized substance over and around the rim of the plate. Wipes at it with her fingers to get every molecule.
The flavor blossoms on her palate. Salty and sweet and savory and tangy. All of these at once. Divine. Immaculate.
The food is all straight from the freezer, she knows. Doesn’t matter. This is the best meal she has ever eaten.
Heavy on protein. Maybe that’s what a hungry person craves most. Maybe that boosts her enjoyment. Enhances it.
When the food is gone, she licks the plate. Leaves it looking clean.
Again, she experiences that blend of gratitude and disgust.
The dark figure responsible for all of this angles away from her. She can make out the silhouette of his square chin in profile, but the rest of his features remain obscure.
He has abducted her, taken her away from her life, from her kids, and yet he could have killed her and hasn’t. Instead he has given her some small version of comfort. Sustenance. He has given her life.
The energy from the food courses through her. An elated post-meal feeling bolstered by a sense of returned strength.
Stump takes the plate. Begins to gather things up. She knows he will leave soon. That she will be sealed once more in the darkness. Alone.
Her eyes dance over his back, over that muscular neck connecting his head and torso.
He is many men, it seems to her. Several different personalities entirely in her imagination. Distinct. All of them at once. All of them unknowable, shrouded in shadows.
He is a shape that never stops shifting, never stops morphing like an image in a dream. His essence always just out of reach.
She chews her bottom lip. She wants to e
ngage him. Wants to speak, but considering it sends a tremor through her chest and arms.
He stands. Holding the plate and bedpan.
“When?” she says, her voice so small.
He stops moving. Body going rigid. She thinks he will turn to look at her before he speaks, but he doesn’t.
“What?”
“When will you do it?”
He takes a breath, in slow and out slower.
“Soon.”
He strides out of the room. Disappears into the hall. The sound of his footsteps trails off into nothing.
She listens to the quiet. To the emptiness of this awful place.
Too tired to sit up any longer, she lies back. Nestles into the cold sand. Feels all of the tension release in her spine. A glorious relief.
And just as the back of her cranium settles to the dirt floor of her enclosure, the words pop into her head:
Stockholm syndrome.
The imprisoned person slowly identifying with their captors, slowly humanizing them and developing something like affection for them.
Is that happening to her? Maybe it would explain the gratitude she feels. This strange psychological phenomenon. Some impulse to project humanity onto the inhuman.
Guys like Stump may feel no empathy for other beings, but she wasn’t like him. She couldn’t turn it off. Even face to face with a murderous monster, she couldn’t turn it off. She looks for humanity in him, and given time, her imagination finds what isn’t there, starts to believe.
When he comes back, they make eye contact for the first time since she went into the box.
She detects something different in the way he looks at her. His eyes open wider than before. The disinterested look has been replaced by an inquisitive one. Perhaps she’s imagining it, but she thinks she sees the faintest glimpse of warmth there.
A curl occupies his lips. Something perfectly between a smile and a blank expression.
He squats next to the box again. Close now. The quiet between them grows intense.
“I knew you were different,” he says at last. “I knew it.”
The detachment has left his voice, some hushed reverence taking its place.