The liquid pushed against her, beckoning her to slow down, rest, relax in its hold. It clung to her attacker like a poisonous gel, but seemed to surround her like a salve, soothing her injuries, warm and welcoming. Her arms slowed, her kicks becoming half-hearted. Her mind told her to move, but her body longed to surrender. The women around her never opened their eyes, but their arms seemed to loosen and come to life, a hand caressing the back of her neck, another gently brushing her hair away from her forehead, a body lining up beside her in company, until she no longer feared them, but began to feel like one of them, floating in this healing pool, the liquid moving in and out of her body to cool the burns, repair the tears, a cocoon of womb-like comfort.
She took one of the hands nearby. The fingers closed around hers in a gentle hold. Charlie’s screams had grown desperate and shrill, but farther out, as if the current were taking him the opposite direction. Loreena clung to the hand and closed her eyes. She felt herself sinking, just a little at a time, the liquid inching up her neck. She let it happen, let it take her, let the other women support her with loving hands.
Hey!
The voice startled her. She opened her eyes.
Loreena!
Shawn. In a blistering instant, it all came back to her. The Lake City Bar. Charlie was dead. Shawn had been knocked out. She was still in the room.
Loreena. Wake up!
His voice was warped as if she were underwater. Loreena squeezed her eyes shut, holding tightly to the hands. The other women no longer bobbed around her, but fell still, their bodies curved into the pool like wilted flowers. Loreena sunk deeper. Her chest burned for breath, but when she opened her mouth a rush of air came in with the liquid, a lingering taste of raspberries on her lips. She opened her eyes one last time, for she knew somehow it would be the last; the sky had lost its anger, the red softening into a muted shade of pink. Behind her, the bonsai tree was fading, the green paling to a shimmery silver haze, the trunk taking on a transparent hue, revealing the sky through its bark. She took a deep breath and surrendered.
Loreena?
Her eyes shot open.
Loreena?
Saul?
She let go of the hands. Rose above the surface.
Please. Come back.
The women’s hands touched her body, willing her to stay, but Loreena kicked. The pool had turned to gelatin. Half swimming, half crawling, she moved forward. The hands fell away and the tree flickered, as if it were a candle that would soon burn out.
“Wait!” She tried to stand up and run, but fell back into the pool. Crawling forward again, she sought out the tree.
Get him out of here, a voice said.
Frank!
No. They couldn’t take Saul away again. Not now.
Loreena! he called.
She redoubled her efforts, her breath burning her throat, red slime clinging to her face and neck. Charlie screamed again, but she paid no attention. The other women had him, and he wouldn’t be getting away. Reaching the shoreline, she extended her hand toward the bonsai tree.
And touched linoleum.
“Saul?”
No sound.
“Saul!”
Shrieking his name, she scrambled to her feet. Someone had dressed her—her brother, or Shawn? She stumbled forward, hands out, seeking the door. When she found the knob, she flung it aside and stepped into the hallway.
“Saul!”
“Hold on there!”
Heavy footsteps. Ray.
“Where’s Saul?”
“Loreena?”
Frank.
Rage rose inside her as if the red pool now boiled in her breast. Turning around, she flew at him, hands out.
“Loreena! You okay?” Shawn, from somewhere behind her.
“She’s fine,” Frank said. “Here she is. She’s fine.”
Loreena lunged, found his face with her fingers and squeezed as if she might wrench the skin from his skull. He jerked back and she grabbed for his ears, pulling one down hard until it ripped.
“Where is Saul?” she screamed. “Tell me, you son of a bitch, what did you do with my brother?”
13
In Loreena’s dreams that night she rode with Dominic on Josie, the two of them cantering across the wide valley with the mountains in the distance, Loreena’s hands bare and her arms wrapped around Dominic’s chest as she clung to him, pressed tight against his back. They moved together with the horse’s loping gait, the air fresh with the scent of honeysuckle, until they reached a creek flowing away to the west. There they stopped to set up a picnic lunch by the shore, and Dominic pulled what seemed an endless supply of food and wine from the leather bags behind Josie’s saddle until they had a spread large enough to feed twenty people. Loreena picked the pineapple first, and had just taken a bite of the juicy fruit when Dominic looked at her, smiled, and reached out to take her hand.
No!
She awoke to pain in her shoulder. Rolling off it, she groaned as her head throbbed, her brain three times too big for her skull. A dense fog shrouded her mind in flashes of memory and nightmarish dreams—Saul’s fingers touching her wrist, Shawn lying useless on the floor, Charlie flattening her against the wall, the pool of blood, the women’s bodies, her hand grasping Frank’s ear. He had never touched her, from what she could remember. There had been only Ray’s burly body at her back, his grip tight against her neck as he pulled her away from his boss, his forearm pressing on her windpipe until the blackness came.
The throbbing grew worse. Cautiously, she tried moving her arm. It was free. No metal bound her hands. This brought her more awake and she moved again, checking her body for damage. A piece of gauze covered her cheek, tape stretched across her nose to the other side of her face. She loosened the end so it tickled her eyelashes. Someone had tended her wounds; Mrs. Markos, most likely. She felt no gratitude for the woman’s ministrations. They were only to repair the damage so Frank’s killing machine might work again.
She had to go to the bathroom. The urge came from down there. Tender tissue burned hot, punishing her with sharp memories she wanted to forget. Wincing, Loreena pulled herself up, and then slid forward on the bed until she was on her feet. Shuffling like an old woman, she approached the door.
It was locked.
The bathroom was down the hall. She had to go. She wiggled the knob again. Waited. Jiggled it back and forth.
“Yvonne!” The voice came from the other side. Footsteps approached, fast, small ones. Loreena knew she should step back, but she couldn’t move. When they opened the door, they would knock her down.
The keys jangled. The knob turned.
“Loreena?” Mrs. Markos hesitated.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” She didn’t recognize her own voice. It hardly spoke at all, but came out as a breathy sound near a whisper.
“Step back, hon, so I can open the door.”
Loreena heard the request, but it was as if she didn’t understand the language.
“Loreena? Step back.”
Back. Eventually, she made her legs obey. Two steps.
The woman squeezed through the door and stepped inside. “John, go down and get some lunch,” she said.
“Frank told me not to leave this door.”
“Frank doesn’t own this house. Unless you want to be involved in lady problems, I suggest you go get some lunch.”
The man didn’t respond.
“There’s pie down there. Blueberry.”
Another moment, and then the staircase creaked with John’s descending footsteps.
“Come on.” Mrs. Markos took her arm, the other hand around her waist, and guided her down the hall. Loreena walked like a hospital patient in bare feet, a long cotton nightgown clinging to her ankles.
“There are some cooling wipes behind the toilet.” Mrs. Markos let go as Loreena’s feet touched the cold tile floor. “They might help.”
Loreena hesitated. Did Mrs. Markos know what had happened? Did everyone know?
Loreena lifted her nightgown and sat down. The urine burned. When it was over, she searched behind her for the wipes, and found the small plastic container on the back of the toilet. Opening it, she pulled one of the sheets out and held it there for a time. After her body warmed it, she used another, and another, until she had left five in the small trashcan behind her. Standing up again, she waited, the water running beside her into the tub.
Mrs. Markos returned, knocked on the door, and when Loreena didn’t respond, entered. Finding Loreena standing, she checked the bath. “We’ll get it nice and hot. You need to soak.” She paused. “Do you want me to help?”
Loreena said nothing. It took all her energy to stand there, rather than collapse to the floor.
Mrs. Markos started to lift the nightgown. When Loreena clamped her arms down, clinging to the material, the woman retrieved a towel. “Here, wrap this around you.” Gently, she replaced one with the other, and then went to work on the bandages. Now clinging to the towel, Loreena let Mrs. Markos examine her wounds. The woman clucked to herself, short strands of ragged hair tickling Loreena’s chin. “What did they do to you?” she mumbled. With one hand on her back, she guided Loreena to the tub. “Step here.” Once Loreena was in, Mrs. Markos removed the towel and handed her a large washcloth. “Do you want your hair washed?”
The water felt hot on her skin. She didn’t say anything. The woman knelt by the tub, poured shampoo into her hands, and lathered up Loreena’s hair, gathering the strands onto the top of her head until they were all soapy, using another cloth to keep her forehead dry. The woman’s fingers were surprisingly strong, massaging deep into the scalp. Loreena closed her eyes. To rinse, Mrs. Markos used a cup and tipped her head back. Over and over again the water ran down through her hair. After a time the woman paused, and when Loreena didn’t move, she continued, rinsing until the water grew cool.
After the bath, Mrs. Markos bandaged her again. Loreena wondered if she’d been a nurse at one time, or if she’d learned how to dress wounds as a consequence of living in Frank’s world. When she was done, Mrs. Markos wrapped her up in the towel and stole her back into her room, where she found her a warm pair of sweat pants, a cotton T-shirt, fuzzy socks, and slippers. When Loreena was dressed, Mrs. Markos sat her on the edge of the bed.
“Does that feel better?”
Loreena stared blankly into the distance, and then, as she realized she had been asked a question, did her best to nod.
“Good. Let’s get you something to eat.”
Mrs. Markos left. Five minutes later, she returned. Loreena hadn’t moved.
“There’s Al’s tea table over here. That might work better than the bed.” Mrs. Markos set something down on the little table in the far corner of the room, and then came and took Loreena’s arm and guided her to where she wanted her, sitting her down in the child’s chair. Her knees came up to her chin and her body barely fit between the wooden armrests.
Standing back, Mrs. Markos hummed to herself. “This just won’t do.” She moved to the door. “John.” No answer. “John!”
“Eating your pie!”
“I’m bringing the girl down.”
“Frank said she stays in that room.”
“She can’t eat in here, and if she doesn’t eat, she dies. Do you think that’s what Frank wants?”
John came to the foot of the stairs. “You bring her out, I call him. That’s how it works.”
Mrs. Markos sighed. Loreena waited in the tiny chair, hugging herself. She smelled tea.
“Get that card table from the closet by the kitchen and bring it up, you hear?”
“I’m not done yet.”
Mrs. Markos came back across the room, muttering, “What an idiot” and “all you care about is stuffing your face.” She paced back and forth five times and still the man hadn’t come. She cursed under her breath. “I’ll be right back.”
Warm from the bath, Loreena closed her eyes.
When the door opened again, it woke her up. Two sets of footsteps came in.
“Over here,” Mrs. Markos said. They set the table down and slid the legs out, each one locking into place with a tinny click. “Much better. Can you manage a couple chairs?”
Soon the table and chairs were set up at the foot of the bed, taking up most of the space in the room.
“Wait here, dear. I’ll bring lunch.”
Mrs. Markos returned alone. The smell of chicken soup filled the room. Loreena felt her appetite stir. She hadn’t thought of chicken soup.
Mrs. Markos helped her up and into the full-sized chair, and then slid the soup in front of her. It smelled good, but Loreena couldn’t bring herself to lift her arm to take up the spoon. It would only make Frank happy for her to eat, get better, and return to work.
Mrs. Markos waited a few moments, and then slid her chair around, picked up the spoon, dipped it in the soup, and held it in front of Loreena’s lips. “You give up, he wins.”
Steam condensed on the tip of her nose.
“You have to survive. You have to fight.” Mrs. Markos moved the spoon closer.
The aroma stirred a dim memory. Had her mother once fed her chicken soup?
Mrs. Markos removed the spoon. “Frank told me to tell you that your brother is still alive. He’s moved on to his next assignment. There’s still a chance you’ll see him again.”
Loreena kept quiet.
“Saul is his name, right?”
Her hand twitched with the memory of Saul’s fingers.
“Frank wanted me to tell you.” Mrs. Markos stirred the soup. “He needs you, Loreena. As long as that’s the case, he’s going to keep hold of the only thing he has over you.”
Bastard.
Mrs. Markos lifted the spoon again. The heat from the steam warmed Loreena’s lips. In the back of her mind, she heard the echoes of Saul’s voice calling her back from the bloody pool.
Please. Come back.
She opened her mouth.
Loreena remembered little from the next few days, other than the feel of the lace edging on the bed sheets. Always the lace was under her fingers when she woke up, and she would play with the holes in the material, poking the end of her pinkie through and pulling it back out as she lay there, awake, until Mrs. Markos came and insisted she get up at least long enough to bathe and eat. When she finished, Loreena always went back to bed, the lace sheets tucked up underneath her chin.
Sometimes she heard voices outside the door, and once she heard Mrs. Markos mention Shawn’s name. She pulled the blankets up over her head at these times, hoping no one would come in. Part of her was glad to know Shawn was okay, but it was a small part. A much bigger part was angry he had ever let it happen, that he ever went along with any of it. Mercifully, the ghosts stayed out of her dreams and she slept undisturbed.
A few nights of deep slumber added to Mrs. Markos’s insistence on daily hot baths and chicken soup slowly restored her strength. Initially, she would go right back to sleep after eating, but within a few days she was lying awake for longer periods of time. She often moved to the edge of the bed to feel the soft light of the sun shining through the drapes over the window. Her thoughts were few, as her mind seemed dead as a hollow tree, but when she did think it was of Dominic, of his happy gait walking next to her, the sound of his voice saying her name, and the smell of the pine trees on his jacket. She still cried when she thought of him, but he remained a blissful escape for her, what was left of her spirit glowing when she lost herself in his memory. Reliving every detail in her mind, she grew practiced at surviving in a fantasy world with Dominic at her side, and began to drift away from her reality.
Mrs. Markos seemed to notice. Where she had allowed Loreena to sleep as much as she wanted initially, she now tried to get her up. She had John haul a record player upstairs. Once it was hoo
ked up, she read out titles from her collection, and when Loreena didn’t respond, she chose one at random. Loreena let it play through, knowing at least as long as the record lasted the woman wouldn’t return.
When the music failed to get Loreena out of bed, Mrs. Markos tried reading to her. She would sit at the card table with one of her romance stories, the only books she had in the house. That went okay for a while, until she got to a love scene. Too embarrassed to read it out loud, she closed the book and left the room. Loreena was grateful, as any mention of male anatomy took her back to the Lake City Bar and that dreadful room at the end of the hallway. Whenever that happened, she brought up the memory of the bloody pool, and satisfied herself with the thought that Charlie was probably still there.
A week or more had passed—she lost track of the days—when she heard voices again outside the door. One of them was Shawn’s. She lay awake in the bed, listening, fingering the lace sheets. Mrs. Markos had already taken her through her daily ritual of bathing and eating, and though she’d tried to get her interested in a game of checkers—she could feel the placement of the pieces, she said—Loreena only crawled back in bed, drawing the blankets up over her ears.
“She’s not coming around,” Mrs. Markos said from outside the door. “I don’t know what you all did to her, but she’s barely eating, she’s losing weight, and she refuses to do anything but lie in that bed all day long. I’ve removed all the sharp things from the room, but I worry she’s going to do something. Frank wants me to take care of her, but I’m telling you, if she dies here it won’t be my fault.”
Quick footsteps descended the staircase. Loreena stiffened.
A knock. “Loreena? It’s Shawn. Can I come in?”
If she didn’t answer, he would enter anyway. The thought of him seeing her in her sweats filled her with anxiety. She slipped out of bed.
“Wait.”
Hands in front of her, she felt her way to the closet, stubbing her toe on the card table as she passed. The first thing she touched were the cotton pants, the ones she had worn to the bar. She pulled them from the hanger and threw them across the room. Passing her hands over the other clothes, she felt skirts, blouses, sweaters. No and no. One by one she yanked each item off the hanger and hurled it away from her, until little remained in the closet but Al’s clothes.
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